by John Hoban
Irish language and culture, including music, were lost to me in school, mainly due to the brutal method of teaching these subjects. In fact, it was so brutal that I dodged them as much as I could while in school. The main effect of this poor teaching was that as children, we (and me for sure), were completely turned away from the study or love of our culture, the language in particular. We received no encouragement or support from our teachers to enable us to see, or even vaguely understand, how much Irish could enrich our souls. It was awful. Fortunately this all changed for me when I met ‘The Connemaras’, the real deal, while in exile in Camden Town. These men gave me master classes in the language throughout the ’70s, on building sites, in cafés and of course, in the tavern – the university of my life.
I couldn’t wait to get away from the torture of school, both national and secondary. So for sure, only for music and the endless kicking of a football, I would have gone stone mad, or done some serious damage. Meeting up with the native Irish speakers in London gave me back a part of myself that I had lost or had learned to despise. I love the Irish language, and I came back to it through the jigs and the reels, the slides and polkas, the slow airs and the hornpipes I heard after I hit London town.
After all my great education in Mayo and Galway, isn’t it hilarious to report that I learned Irish music and Irish language deep in the heart of London town. So much for Bullaí Mháirtain agus Dialann Deoraí, two dull books we were given to study in secondary school.
In Jarlath’s, I had a great friend, Michael Duignan, who introduced me to Jimi Hendrix, ‘Hey Joe’, ‘Purple Haze’, ‘Astral Weeks’, and Chuck Berry.
Mickey D was his name, twelve bar blues was his game.
He never did achieve the fame.
As in his native land, it was riddled with c & w
so he fecked off to Iran to live. C’est la Vie.
(‘Mickey Dee’, John Hoban)
Onwards and downwards we went, what with football, prayer, cheap altar wine and dreamtime, Dunmore McHales, tatie hokin’, duckin’ and divin’, yes Father, no Father, when I grow up Father, I don’t know Father.
There came a stage when I couldn’t wait for my life to begin. This period came after both my parents had passed on after their time on earth. God be good to them. I hadn’t yet started to play guitar or any instrument at this stage, that came as soon as I left school in 1970.
One night in particular stands out in my memory of secondary school. I was somehow selected as lead vocalist in a rock’n’roll outfit in a concert. Lead, bass, drums, and me. Creedence Clearwater Revival and, thankfully, ‘Johnny B. Goode’ helped me. This concert had a huge effect on me. I don’t remember any other gig in school; this was a once-off event. On the whole, secondary school was a time for football, and a lonely sort of a feeling that we were somehow isolated from the rest of the universe.
A great friend of mine during all those times was a fior Ghaeil (a true Irish man), Colm or Colman or Ted as he called himself, Lame Deer (Colm came from a place called Tír an Fhia, the land of the deer), corner-back, hard as nails, bright as any star in heaven. We shook hands on the last day of school, and hit for John Bull, Blighty, the mines in Wales and the squats of North London. Many moons later, we met once again in Galway. I was busking on a banjo in Shop Street, trying to hustle up the ‘entrance fee’ (street slang for having enough money to sit in a pub or club and buy a drink, or maybe something to eat, to show respect for the bean an tí – woman of the house, and to continue playing indoors). A tenner, sterling, fluttered into the ‘hata’, I looked up and saw my mate, Colm. Off we went to a fleadh cheoil (music festival) in Woodford, East Galway, for days of fun, gallons of porter, and sean-nós, old style songs. We then went our separate ways, never again to meet, in this world anyway.
Colm’s first language was Irish. He sometimes spoke to me in his native tongue. I understood him and he understood where I was at. I recall seeing him sitting on a bridge in Woodford during the time of the fleadh cheoil, eyes closed, listening to Pat, Peter and Vincent Broderick play pipes and flute, and me on bouzouki, Patsy Tuohy’s and John Doran’s music. It was the last time I met my mate Colm. Wherever you’ve gone to, a chara (my friend), it’s a better place than before you docked. I learned a lot beside you, and I often thank God our names fell next to each other in that vulgar system known as seniority.
Nowadays, as is often the case when I sing or play, I call on those people and those times to help me, to walk alongside the flowing river, by my side. When I am playing or singing, I often imagine a whole slua (‘slew’), a communion of saints and sinners or a choir singing, playing and dancing their hearts out to the sound of the music. The music which I always do my best to give away to others.
My heart is full of gratitude for the great gift of music. My experience in the operas helped me to live, to survive the hard times, and it also prepared me, in no small way, for a life of music. For the ‘Ministry of Music’, my home.
He never learned to read or write too well,
but he could play the guitar
just like ringing a bell.
(‘Johnny B. Good’, Chuck Berry)
SLÁN LE VAN
(John Hoban)
Junior Wells opened the show,
decked out in a purple suit.
He sang and leapt around the stage,
the man didn’t give a hoot.
The Chicago sound of rhythm and brass,
blew me right away,
‘Good morning little school girl,’
from Sonny Boy showed the way.
Van came out like a full force Gael,
asked ‘did you get the feeling?’
I got it alright, down to my soul,
I was back on the old sod kneeling.
St. Jarlath’s College, Tuam,
at that time,
was a pretty rough old station.
On bread and water we lived five years,
not one of us had a vocation.
Then one night we heard ‘Moondance’,
it took away all the pain.
We listened close to the radio,
nothing was ever the same.
School shut down, we were on the road.
Met Madame George on the Appian Way,
squatted in London in ’73,
’til I woke to a brand new day.
All through the ’70s and ’80s,
all through the darkest days,
Tupelo Honey and Domino,
lightened up our ways.
I once took a train from Dublin town,
right up to the Sandy Row.
Cried on Cypress Avenue,
‘Baby, please don’t go.’
Back in San Francisco,
December ’93,
Van is singing with Junior Wells,
another homecoming for me.
Jimmy Witherspoon, Georgie Fame.
The band are really having a blast.
We’re on our feet screaming Gloria,
right now there is no past.
There is no future, no tomorrow,
it’s always been right now.
Thanks my friend for being around,
too late to stop now!
Notes on the song:
December 1993, I found myself on tour in the USA. I had finished my work teaching and playing in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. I had also made a few trips across the border to Detroit, to meet and play with the friendly sons and daughters of Erin, Michigan, Lebanon and all other points. Easy-wandering around Motown always turned me on musically. Detroit, was one helluva town and very significant in my life, as was San Francisco. So, here I am busking outside the Masonic Temple on Nob Hill, greeting a crowd of Van Morrison fans (who is to do a concert ‘idithin’ – inside). After playing my jigs, reels and singing ‘Cypress Avenue’ and ‘Oh! The Water’, in I go, having made a fair few bucks. I could not believe my luck, or the music I was hearing.
One of my heroes in music at this time was
Junior Wells. There he was up on the stage, backed by an eight-piece band of Chicago heads, decked out in an exquisite purple suit, eighty-plus years of age, belting out some of the finest music I have ever heard. The man, Van, came on afterwards and he too was wonderful. I had flashbacks to the early ’70s in Dublin, Belfast and London, listening to his latest records. They helped me limp along through good times, hard times and blank times. For this, I was grateful to Van Morrison, his songs, and once more to the gift of music itself.
The next day, I was strolling around The Mission District of San Francisco when a real beauty of a melody came together with a song in my head. I went into a music instrument shop (a sort of pawn shop for guitars), and pretended to buy a guitar as I worked out my ‘Slán (farewell) to Van’. I hope he’s keeping well and healed – ‘It’s too late to stop now...’ I always dedicate ‘Slán Le Van’ to my good friend Sharon Shannon. Our paths crossed in 1988, I believe, and we are still trudgin’ the broad highway. She continues to be a true friend, a wonderful musician, and a connection through sound and music that makes sense when nothing else does. Wherever she is, it’s really only a song or a tune away. Same as a thought or a prayer, or a shadow running across the Diamond Mountain in spring.
AS GOOD AS IT GETS
(John Hoban)
There’s just no way to say all that I feel,
for you, in this song.
Then again this love makes us both feel as one, so real,
so incredibly true.
Time passing by leaves a tear in the eye,
as I sit here at home missing you.
I’m so glad that I lived, glad that I felt,
every single second loving you.
We know what it’s like to love and be loved,
in this life, that’s as good as it gets.
It’s real hard to let go,
but as always you show that our love
is as good as it gets.
Now you’ve moved on, your spirit is free,
like an eagle to shine and to soar.
Of course, I miss madly a thousand things about you,
your presence standing at my door.
Now we’re together for ever and ever,
hearts heal with timeless wonder.
Each day I keep finding deeper reminders,
of loving you, a ghrá, precious you.
Notes on the song:
Written in Mount Melleray, a Cistercian abbey in Waterford, Ireland. 2008. A friend’s husband passed away and I wanted to write a song from her perspective, but it could also be the other way around. Eternal love.
Chapter 5
EXILE, DUBLIN, THE ’70S
If ever you go to Dublin town
In a hundred years or so,
Inquire for me in Baggot Street
And what I was like to know…
(Patrick Kavanagh)
In the ’60s, with no sense, I went on holiday to Dublin, staying with my eldest sister, Anne, in her flat on Waterloo Road. Compared to the demanding work in the shop back home in Castlebar, the few days in Dublin were a breeze. Dublin was a much quieter, less hostile, place in the ’60s. I had no bother walking around on my own, even though I was only ten years of age. While Anne worked all day, I ‘hoofed’ it into town or took the number 10 bus (top deck of course) and thoroughly explored the areas around Baggot Street, the Grand Canal and Stephen’s Green.
This was the era of The Beatles. I spent days listening to, and learning from, Rubber Soul and of course, Revolver. I loved the early stuff with Lennon singing rock’n’roll. Then Sgt Pepper’s came out and it literally blew my mind.
I read the news today, oh! boy!
About a lucky man who made the grade…
(‘A day in the life’, Lennon & McCartney)
Luke Kelly was in Dublin around this time. Later in life, I met him in a pub once, and he sang a few songs for the company. It was down in Sheriff Street and I remember him singing ‘Monto’, ‘The Streams of Bunclody’ and other songs with his mates. I felt blessed when I heard him sing live.
Just like the music showing up out of nowhere, the poetry and the person of Patrick Kavanagh got a hold of me early on in my life. They somehow found me without me looking for them. I love the poetry and writing of Rainer Maria Rilke, William Blake, Rabindranath Tagore, Albert Camus, all the Blasket Island writers, but Patrick Kavanagh tops them all.
Patrick Kavanagh lived near my sister’s flat. One day, a man pointed him out to me. Kavanagh was leaning over Baggot Street Bridge, looking into the green, mossy canal. He was wearing a big long tweed coat and a hat on his head. I was only a young boy so I didn’t say hello. My man said to me, “There is the best poet in Ireland.” He is that to me for sure.
Sometime in the mid-’70s, I found myself standing in the Phoenix Bar in Dundalk, not quite sure how I got there or what I was doing there. Two ladies were behind the bar, Rita and her mother Katie. I can’t remember how the conversation began, but in no time there were two main topics, Patrick Kavanagh and Clare Island, County Mayo. Katie Winters came from Clare Island, and Rita knew Kavanagh very well and said it was very sad that he and I had never met. She felt we would have got on famously. Some weeks later, Rita introduced me to Kavanagh’s hometown of Iniskeen, County Monaghan. We took a trip out there on a cold December day, walked around for a while, and stopped to play a bit of music. This journey also brought us to Kelly’s in Essexford where, I believe, Paddy was always made welcome. We watched the older men play a game of pitch and toss, and even joined in for a while.
In school, a few months after returning from my holiday with my sister in Dublin, our English teacher came pounding into class and announced “Poor Paddy Kavanagh is dead.” I remember it was a wet November day, 1967. We all read and listened to his poetry in the days that followed.
You flung a ditch on my vision
Of beauty, love and truth.
O stony grey soil of Monaghan,
You burgled my bank of youth!
(‘Stony Grey Soil’, Patrick Kavanagh)
In Dublin, my sister showed me the art galleries, the Abbey Theatre and the Focus Theatre. I remember seeing Ibsen’s ‘A Doll’s House’ and a Chekov play whose title I don’t recall. I loved Stanislavski’s Method style of acting. I felt that I too was living life on stage and becoming a real actor myself, in my own life.
I have always felt very grateful to the people I’ve met along the way who helped me to see my back, or my soul, or a new world. I feel that we each have the ability to unlock doors for one another when we are connected in a spiritual sense. Anne introduced me to the world of art and theatre when I was quite young. This world immediately held my interest, and this interest soon grew to encompass the world of politics, and much more. I was only ten years of age, but I still feel I understood and loved this creative world of the ‘arts’. I’ve never studied art, nor have I ever taken a music lesson, however, my visits to the art galleries in Dublin at this time left an indelible mark on me; this is the world in which I did my learning. The world of the arts came alive for me in the Focus Theatre and while listening to every kind of music available in the ’60s. The arts shone a light into dark corners. I felt alive with a real sense of belonging, and it made me feel connected to a power much greater than me. Music, in particular, has become the filter through which I sift all information passing between my inner and outer realities, and the lens through which I see the world.
Sometimes, I feel quite certain that I have lived other lives, in other times. For example, I feel sure I lived as a musician in Efes in Turkey, a convict in Australia, a troubadour in Spain, a Cajun or maybe even a shrimp in Louisiana, and I think it is quite possible that I died in the Famine on Achill Island. I kind of know that I have lived many, many more lives besides. So there we are.
‘C’est la vie’, say the old folks.
Goes to show you never can tell!
(‘C’est la Vie’, Chuck Berry)
Now, it’s early 1970,
I am on the train from the West, sixteen years of age, having finished my education, my schoolin’. It feels like I have no home, ‘Like a Rollin’ Stone’ (like Muddy Waters). It feels, and looks, like exile, emigration. So, I’ll have some beer in the old railway station bar in Athlone before the train leaves Connacht for the East. I feel I’ve set foot on ‘the lost highway’, but it’s all there is left. Precious Lord, walk with me. The story of my life seems to be about having a certain faith in life, shown most clearly to me in music. I can’t recall feeling worry or fear about the future, just going from day to day. Singing, listening and trying to stay awake and out of harm’s way.
Then the bottle came into my life, bringing with it a sense of power which had been mostly missing in my life. My Life was about to take off anytime soon. ‘One of these days I’ll make my move...’
The kindness of my family helped me to live, and to deal somewhat with my sense of grief and loss of my home, my parents, my future, my hope and my emptiness. With the beer in Athlone, I had found a power greater than myself. This newfound power was strong, subtle, savage, cunning and baffling. Ahead of me lay seventeen years full on with this power, no turning back
Soon after arriving in Dublin, a Landola guitar comes to me and I play it until my fingers bleed, ‘Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’ for sure. Songs keep showing up, ‘Suzanne’, ‘Me and Bobby McGee’, ‘Spancil Hill’, ‘Times They Are a-Changin’. Again, strangely but naturally, I feel I don’t really have to learn to play. I just play and I give myself totally to the ceol (music).
I have always known that my voice, singing and speaking, is my first and primary musical instrument. I started strumming the guitar when I was sixteen, but prior to that I had a lifetime of listening to, and learning from, all kinds of sounds, songs, noises, and music. I believe that the word ‘persona’ comes from the Latin ‘personare’, meaning ‘through sound’ (a persona was also used as a mask by players in Greek theatre). I have learned that a person’s voice is like an image in sound, a reflection of a person’s state of being, of their soul – a barometer of the condition of their spirit. This is more apparent to me today as I listen and realise that no two voices are the same. It is so wonderful to listen to one person after another singing, regardless of the quality of the singing. The sound of each person’s voice tells the truth of his or her being. Whether I like it or not, whether they like it or not, c’est vrai (it’s true). I also notice that I am only drawn to a voice that is natural. If it is trained or elocuted, it does not sound true to me, and I can find it almost amusing. When some people sing, I find they can move me emotionally, regardless of what they are singing about. They reach a place within me that nothing else can reach. No instrument can go as deep into the soul as the voice. I have also learned that all instruments aspire to the voice. The sitar, vina, slide guitar, cello, pipes, and even the vuvuzela, all try to imitate the human voice.
