by John Hoban
she was buried at sea.
I too was dying, from starvation and sickness,
by the time our ship anchored,
at the Isle of Gross Ille.
Separated from my children,
confined to the island.
I died and was buried,
on the sacred new land.
I ask now that our graves,
be rightfully honoured,
please sing my song,
so all may understand.
This is my story,
a terrible story,
starvation midst plenty,
denied dignity or hope,
thanks to the people of Quebec and Canada
for adopting our children,
giving them a good home.
The last words I speak you,
they come from a coffin ship,
spoken by a crayture from Erris at home.
You have heard our sighs sometimes at night,
we are your famine dead.
Notes on the song:
In 1992, I first went to Windsor, Ontario, in Canada, to teach and to play music for a group of people who lived there. They called themselves The Irish Canadian Cultural Club – nothing to George O’Dowd’s band in London, The Culture Club. I made friends with a lot of the people there. I became especially good friends with Vincent McGrath and his family. Agnes is his good wife. Vince and I shared a very deep, common interest in the Famine, or the Drochshaol (bad life) in Ireland in 1800 and 1847-1850. So, between the jigs and the reels, after many’s the long hour and day speaking and walking, Vince recalled listening to stories about the Famine from his neighbour, an elderly woman. We took these memories and put them into song, from the Island of Gross Ille. Saol fada, Vince agus Agnes, agus freisin do bhur gclann ’s bhur gcairde (long life to you and to your family and friends).
Chapter 3
NATIONAL SCHOOL – CHOIR AND MARCHING BAND
Back through the Glen, I rode again
but my heart with grief was sore.
For I’d parted then with gallant men
I never would see no more.
To and fro in my dreams I go
I kneel and I pray for you.
For slavery fled, O glorious dead
when you fell in the foggy dew.
(‘The Foggy Dew’, Peadar Kearney)
National school, St. Patrick’s, was a proper jungle. I was clever, intelligent and to some degree streetwise from working from a very young age (against my will I may add – I only wanted to play football and to hang out on The Mall) in my father’s grocery shop. I was grateful for this work experience in later life. I felt, in school, that I was always dodgin’ the bullets, anticipating danger, and seeking refuge in the spirit world of music and prayer. From the grocery trade you got a good grounding in manners, people-pleasing and being what was known as a grand gasúr (good kid).
In school, big rough De La Salle brothers, mostly from Munster, tried to break our spirits. I hear them still, “Clé-deis-clé-deis” (left, right, left, right). Some of the brothers were sound enough, others were not so sound by a long shot.
My first ever solo music job was singing for a Christmas concert in the school hall, eight years of age. I sang two songs, ‘The Foggy Dew’ and ‘The Old Woman from Wexford’. I believe I went down well as I never heard otherwise from the critics, of which there were many. Brother Augustus Caesar stood in the wings as I sang, in case I made a bags of it or in case I made a bolt for the door.
Performing and singing in public came naturally to me. I would have been quite introverted as a young lad but I vividly recall my first public solo singing event. I felt completely at home on stage, as if I belonged there. I loved the songs and the singing so much that I felt real and creative. Later, in secondary school, this really came to the fore in the operas. I loved the whole world of acting. I felt like a natural actor, but as soon as I left the stage I felt awkward and watched. The songs and singing have always been an integral part of me. When I am performing, I feel that I am passing my songs on, letting them go. I feel that I was born to do two things, sing and kick football. Everything else, bar prayer and meditation, was, and sometimes still is, a real trial. Life is not easy, but to sing and play it out of me seems to be the path to the deep reality, Nirvana, who knows?
Once, the Clancy Brothers (different class of brothers, rock stars really) got conferred with the freedom of the town of Castlebar. We were all there to hear them shout out ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ and ‘Brannen on the Moor’ at the courthouse. It seemed like they were Yanks because of their attire and their attitude. They hung out in Greenwich Village with Bob Dylan, Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan in the White Horse Inn on Hudson Street. Good luck to them all.
I didn’t identify with the raucous, rough stage Irishy nature of their music, but I still liked some of it. I listened close as I felt it was part of a bigger thing. It was more than just the Clancy Brothers, it was their connections to theatre and the Beat Poets in Greenwich Village (whom I loved), Tipperary, and, of course, the world of Irish America and emigration. A whole world of music and life was opening up in me and I was soaking it all up, listening and learning as if my life depended on it. I feel the same way today. I was also realising three things: music was my first language; it is was an inside job; it was also guiding, directing, teaching and comforting me on this path to God-knows-where.
The school band episode was a disaster. The selector, Brother Augustus (again), decided I had not got it in me to be a fifer, so I ended up on the bass drum. I, of course, believed his decision had something to do with my stout physique. A major resentment was carried and nursed by me for decades as I recalled the pain of parading like an eejit around McHale Park football pitch on Connacht final day. I will never forget it, Galway (three-in-a-row men, they had won the Connacht final three years running) versus Mayo (Jinkin’ Joe and Co. – the team). I remember the tunes, ‘Step Together’ and ‘The Mountains of Pomeroy’ (two of my favourite marches). It was through this music that I began to feel a sense of closeness to Tyrone people, and to Northern people in general.
I have always felt like a traveller in the word of Irish traditional music, visiting sacred sites all around the country. The common language of music makes me feel at home everywhere. When the song in the heart stopped, or the set dance was finished, I always seemed to take to the road. Sometime long ago, in the eighth or ninth-century (maybe later, who knows?), I think I may have lived in County Tyrone and played music there. I may also have lived in Belfast and left from there for to sail the Seven Seas. Songs and traditional music make me feel that this is my truth.
My involvement in the church choir was important for me. I received great musical training and experience under the direction of Fr. Thomas. My natural spiritual way could be expressed through music, which is as good as it gets. As my friend James used to say, “Sing for High Mass, Low Mass or no Mass at all.” Sing out and walk on.
I sang in the choir to learn about harmony, singing with tenors, bass, sopranos and altos. ‘How Beautiful upon the Mountain’, ‘The Diadem’, and the High Latin Mass for the dead were the best of all. I could feel the vibes, the blues. A community of song, a sacred noise, as it should be.
I was introduced to street singing, busking and beggin’ while singing with the choir. I remember standing on New Line (near where my mother hailed from, Sruthan – underground stream), twenty or thirty voices singing on a freezing cold December night, between the public houses, with the smell of porter and Woodbines and the hum of conversation. All the music – four-part harmony – was taught to us ‘by ear’ as they say. The priest, Fr. Tom, or the organist, Seán, played the phrase on the organ, and each part of the choir learned their line. It was a great introduction to singing and making music with others. It was also very well received and well respected by audiences. I loved it totally.
Castlebar in the late ’50s and the early ’60s was a much quieter place in which to grow up;
there were not so many cars, and there was a lot less hustle and bustle compared to today. I recall hearing people, tradesmen especially, whistling beautifully as they went about their daily business. Whistling a Buddy Holly song, ‘Peggy Sue’ maybe, or ‘Rose of Mooncoin’, or ‘La Paloma’. These were the songs our fathers would have loved. Beautiful, bird-like whistling. You don’t hear them at it anymore. Is mór an trua é (It’s a great pity). The auld stock could do it for sure.
We sang all over the town and, on Christmas day, we sang our hearts out in ‘The Mental’ and in the workhouse, to those sacred hearts who lived there, some under lock and key. ‘Hosanna in the Highest, Hosanna in the Highest’.
CHRISTY WAS A COVIE
(John Hoban)
Christy was a Covie,
make no mistake about it.
Grew up in Carrabán,
served his time to the grocery trade.
He lived a while in Glasgow,
in the Gorbals in the ’30s.
Returned to the ‘old sod’,
when he felt he had it made.
The kids grew up right on the edge,
they were neither town nor country.
They played Gaelic for the Emmet’s,
soccer for Celtic on the sly.
They played handball in ‘The Mental’,
with the patients and their keepers,
played hurling on Lough Lannagh,
it frozen solid, I recall.
(Chorus)
Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin
There’s no hearth like your own hearth.
Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin,
all aboard the mystery train.
Each Sunday after chicken dinner,
they’d load up the silver wagon,
like cowboys, pilgrims, pioneers,
they’d head West out to The Reek.
They’d sing, they’d argue,
they’d listen to the radio,
Micheál Ó hEithir would announce to all,
‘Dia daoibh, a chairde go léir.’
They’d cross the creek into town,
they’d greet all Christy’s cronies,
Brodie, lived on Shop Street,
played snooker in the town hall.
The big treat was ten ice creams,
from B. Hyland on this wooden tray.
Then on to visit Sally,
saying the rosary all the way.
Dada Hodie read ‘the truth in the news’.
Sarah came from Coisloch,
on the day of the famous ambush,
they were burned out by the Tans.
The old people spoke in whispers,
about the Battle of the Pound.
The dreaded Houston clearances,
and the Sheaffry headless hound.
Next we went to visit by The Quay,
the kindly people who lived there.
Tea, cakes and then outside,
Tommy taught us how to play.
He starred for Connacht in both codes,
The Railway Cup as they used to say.
The Quay was a homely spot,
by the shores of dear Clew Bay.
Garland Friday they climbed The Reek,
served Mass on top, so to speak,
visited the graves at Aughvale,
then home to Castlebar.
Sin é an scéal fadó, fadó.
The story of a Sunday in West Mayo.
Christy was a Covie,
make no mistake about it.
Notes on the song:
Christy, my father, died when I was young, sixteen years of age. We got on well, still do. He loved Westport, he was a ‘Covie’ (local slang for a native of Westpor. Every Thursday and Sunday he went there to visit and to ‘do jobs’. This song, which is quite recent, is from an eleven-year-old ladeen’s viewpoint. A good, humorous, honest recalling of a Sunday, every Sunday, boiled chicken and peas, the rosary, the radio, on tour in our wagon, the whole clann. A bit like a rock band, a road trip.
THE WESTPORT SONG – HE CAN’T TURN IT LIKE ME
(John Hoban)
I wonder what class of a day it’ll be?
I’ll saunter up James Street to see who I’ll see.
The horse show is on in Lord Sligo today.
There’ll be crowds from Liscarney and further away.
Women are better than men on a horse.
I’ll look into Sargey, he’s open of course.
There’s music tonight up with John McGing.
The people of High Street and John’s Row can sing.
Pat Friel is playing in Clarke’s all day,
P.T. Malynn is humming away.
Here comes Mr. Hoban his banjo in tow,
it’s too early yet to knock up the show.
A glass of stout and a pipe of tobacco,
will do us no harm if we leave it at that.
There’s rain on The Reek, a storm in Clew Bay.
I’ll drop into The West for a strong cup of tae.
There’s Norm, Malcolm, John Fadgin ‘idithin’,
Padraic and Toebar have gone for a spin.
Timber and turf make a great blaze.
The women of Ireland are going through a phase,
we can say ‘Hello, how’s the going?’
But there never can be any mixing with them,
you’re better off single and fancy free,
than married for life in Renvyle by the sea.
Here come a few French, they are not great at the talk,
more from Clare Island, I know by their walk.
You surely heard Billy, he’s tops on the box.
Have you seen Connie singing the ‘Little Red Fox’?
It’s five past eleven, I’m homeless once more.
I’ve broken the curfew, the bolt’s on the door.
‘You’re always welcome’ sez Barbara and Anne,
Sticks Geraghty’s house is a far better plan!
A day in a life in County Mayo,
where they say all are welcome,
the friend and the foe.
As long as we’re spared to sing out our song,
the day of the capóg
might not be gone.
Experiencin’ life in County Mayo,
where merchants and serpents,
come and they go.
There’s one who’s outstanding,
no matter what’s said,
he wears his cap the left side of his head.
Notes on the song:
The man I wrote this song about is one James O’Malley. A great friend and musician. I wrote these words in a café in Free-mantle, Western Australia, in 1988. The air I sing this song to is called ‘The Black Rogue’. Each line is a song in itself. As I was writing, I kept hearing James’s words, his philosophy. So, most of the song is made up of sayings and observations he made and shared with me over the years. James wore his cap at such a precarious angle on the left side of his head, that he was known as ‘the man who walks beside his cap’.
Chapter 4
SECONDARY SCHOOL
St. Jarlath’s College, Tuam, at that time,
was a pretty rough old station.
On bread and water we did five years,
not one of us had the vocation.
(‘Slán Le Van’, John Hoban)
As we ‘look back on life’s troubled sea’, St. Jarlath’s years were all about opera, drama, football, sean-nós, rock’n’roll, prayer and friendship – and a fair dash of torture and confusion. My memories from this time bring me Gilbert and Sullivan, light opera, Fr. Tom and Fr. Charles, and great times for me on stage. No bother, free to act and sing. I remember being selected as the leading lady in the opera as there were no ladies to be seen in Jarlath’s. The lassies nearest to us attended the Presentation and Mercy convents, separated from us by the imposing cathedral. So there was I, hitting the high notes, dancing the fandango, showing off and learning all the time. Who’d have though
t I’d be starring as a lady in an opera called The Gondoliers at thirteen years of age?
I recall thinking that opera felt like life itself. I loved the coming together of the drama, theatre, and the sounds of the songs and music. I think of these things as being as natural as a yew tree, or a cut of brown bread and jam for that matter. It is all about natural expression. I love to think about these things.
I don’t really know what my ideas were about music in those days, except that I experienced music as being somehow godlike. Music was the real world. It didn’t matter where it came from or what it was called. What mattered was the feeling of the song and the way I felt listening to it. A lot of the time, I hadn’t a clue what the meaning of the words were, but that didn’t seem to matter to me. I remember listening to Edith Piaf without having one word of French, but loving the music all the same. Miles Davis’s jazz, Séamus Ennis on the pipes, or anything from La Bohème – it all came down to the feeling, the atmosphere it created. Music is my own personal, loving, inspirational sound that understands me. When I look back over my life, I can see with clarity that music has often guided me, helped me to live and love, to transcend the suffering that often arises in life.
The public performances in the town theatre at Christmas were great fun. It was like being at the Oscars in Hollywood. I just knew I was singing to save my life. The school was famous for two things, football, and the yearly opera. I was very fortunate to be good at both, and could more than pass myself with the books, even though I had no real interest in any of the subjects being taught. My passions were music and football. The only subjects I learned anything about were Latin and French because they were taught by a great teacher, Fr.Thomas. He had a love for these languages which helped me to learn. Fr. Thomas was also the director of the operas and this may have influenced my regard for him.
I don’t regret the past, but I sometimes feel that the years spent sitting in classrooms were a total waste of time for me. The only time I felt excited about school was when a teacher shared his own love of learning through a subject close to his own heart. For example, when Fr. Tom taught the French language, he closed the book, and then his eyes, and spoke to us about Albert Camus or Gide or Sartre. I loved watching him take off. It was only then that I truly felt I was learning. It felt like music, belting it out. Every single one of the other so-called teachers was just reading from a book, bored with the subject, trying to pass the time, and showed no interest in who we were or where we were at.
