From the Plain of the Yew Tree

by John Hoban

  I remember, some time ago, hearing a late night radio discussion about singers. The discussion was held between half a dozen eminent vocalists, each one expounding their opinions on who they thought was the greatest singer of all time. I thought it was sheer, daft madness. However, the last person to give an opinion (someone whom I like to listen to singing) came out with an original statement which I will never forget. He said, “Well, you know, I’m the best singer I’ve ever heard.” It sounded so humorous and true.

  The Hindus of ancient times said that singing was the first art, playing music the second, and dancing the third. All the great prophets of the Hindus were singers, like Narada and Tumbara. Finally, a person once told me that inspiration chooses its own voice. So, I never doubted that my primary musical instrument was, and is, my natural voice. I guess I’ll be singing till the last breath is drawn, singing till the last trumpet sounds, singing my way back home.

  Dublin in the early ’70s seemed to be very rich with music to this boy from the West. I began my internal trudge on a twisted path from music to music, from Sweeney’s Men to Rory Gallagher to the Swamp Folk Club to Alan Stivell to Johnny Moynihan, and from Joni Mitchell to Granny’s Intentions, to Liam Weldon and Séamus Ennis. I was totally immersed in live music of all kinds. I heard all these people, and many others, play live. I especially loved the folk clubs, The Universal in Parnell Square, The Swamp in Rathmines, The Coffee Kitchen, and the one in The Central in Aungier Street where I heard Liam Weldon sing ‘Dark Horse on the Wind’. I used to go to hear Rory Gallagher in The Boxing Stadium and, of course, he opened the door for me to explore Blind Boy Fuller, Howlin’ Wolf and Elmore James – the blues.

  The Traditional Music Club in Slattery’s held great nights for the culchies and Dubs alike. The likes of Geordie Hanna, Tony McMahon, Joe Ryan and John Kelly also caught my fancy. I felt my whole being was just about music in those days. Learning, listening, and developing a way of living in music. It was a very exciting and creative time for me. The world of music at this time seemed to be more individual and unique, more of an intense personal experience. This changed as the 1970s rolled on. Music was becoming more of an industry, more about bands and gigs, money-making on a grand scale and, of course, it was all about who you knew. I remember feeling that the world of music was at some sort of beginning (and maybe some kind of end), or at a crossroads in 1970/1971.

  My days were spent between listening to records – my friends would come back from England with all sorts of new music LPs for me – and playing the guitar and harmonica. At night, I would go to pubs, folk clubs, concerts and plain whoopee parties, singing my songs and listening and learning from the great music all around the city. I also spent a good deal of time playing tennis and football in the park. A simple life, living with my sisters until I moved in with the hippies in Rathmines.

  I got a pound or two together from singing on Mary Street and I hitched off for Sliabh Luachra (the poor mountain of the rushes). Although I always loved the city vibe, any city (Dublin was great, playing football in the park, the Dandelion Market, films I saw, especially Easy Rider – saw it six times in a row – Woodstock, Citizen Kane etc.), I also longed to set off for the hills, the South of Ireland first, to the music I heard of Padraic O’Keefe and his pupils. Off with me to the countryside.

  I slept out in a sleeping bag, me, the guitar and the book I brought, Suzuki’s Beginner’s Mind, real cool. I also read all about the Beat Poets, Kerouac, Snyder, Gregory Corso and Ginsberg, which led me on to listen to the music of that era, Coltrane, Miles, Diz, Prez and Bird. I was living my own ‘on the road’ experience, dozing off under the stars in Knock-na-Gree with the fiddles of Padraic, Denis ‘the Weaver’, Julia Clifford (whom I was later to meet in London) playing in my head and in my soul. ‘Rocking the Cradle’ and Ballydesmond Polkas. Mind you, I woke up feeling not great, the usual when the party’s over, cold and thirsty. Ná bac leis (not to worry), on into Castleisland for the ‘cure’.

  Next, on to Galway and a trip that lasted for many years.

  Green and red,

  black and blue.

  A helpless, hopeless, dreamless view.

  Hear the wind blow, love,

  hear the wind blow.

  Bígí ciúin.

  It’s the way to go.

  (‘Black and Blue’, John Hoban.)

  Galway was like San Francisco. The Summer of Love lasted a week in San Francisco, and then they went off home to their beds. The party in Galway lasted, for me, until 1987. The fire took a while to die down.

  At this time, Galway was awash with refugees like me. There were dozens of us, all waiting for something. We were on a voyage of discovery into our world of music, acid, life, joy and madness. All of us waiting. I came across great people, too numerous to mention except, I must say, Mickey Finn and Michael Treacy, two music people with whom I felt at home.

  I could be anywhere in the country, hitch-hiking was my mode of transport, and if a seat was going to Galway, I’d go there. I was wandering aimlessly a lot of the time, so, in a way, Galway was as near to a base as I had in the ’70s. I felt it was the one place I would have music seven days and seven nights a week, plenty of drink, parties and people who I felt were like me. I was always made to feel welcome because I sang and played well, and had manners. I was no trouble. I had no money, but busking was cool. I recall a few days when there were eight or ten of us all busking outside Moon’s on Shop Street. We made a fair few bob, but it had to cover the whole company in Mrs. Cullen’s or in The Cellar. Some of us had other jobs, but most of my friends at this time were like me, playing music for survival. It was a great way to learn music, listening to each other, and each one of us a teacher to the others. It was like a commune. It all began to change after the late ’70s and early ’80s for various reasons. I believe change is natural for life and growth, and this was very true for me by 1987, it was time to turn it all over to the higher powers. I reached out, and sure enough, I got a seat home.

  There was no money to be made in those early days. Good, hungry music, us all learning how to ‘Roll on Buddy...down the line’, as the old blues number advises. We busked, drank, played music and learned from each other. Some people went straight, some died, some got real famous, a few went to college, and others went home for the tea, imagine.

  The sound of fiddles, boxes and pipes came closer and louder even though I was a Motown man myself. I met ‘The Bucks of Oranmore’ and ‘Rakish Paddy’, ‘Bonny Kate’ and ‘Jenny’s Chickens’. My native music led me on many journeys throughout the country. A tune like ‘The Battle of Aughrim’ led me to East Galway and to The Old Ballinakill and Aughrim Slopes Céilí Bands. I visited many places with my music. I remember one night in Gentian Hill in Galway, I discovered that if I sang my heart out, I’d be granted shelter. But once again, the firewater took over, loss of memory, helter skelter into a dark place.

  I played the bouzouki to the great music of the Brodericks who hailed from ‘The Lighthouse in the Bog’ in Bullan. This house was literally a beacon for those like me passing by, imagine a farmhouse in the middle of a bog, lit up all night long, inviting us in. Down in East Galway, I heard the pipes of the Travellers, John and Felix Doran, The Cash family playing ‘Col. Frazer’, ‘My Love is in America’ and ‘Sliabh na mBan’. Fairy music for sure.

  I used to meet Máirtín Byrnes in McDaid’s and in O’Donoghue’s in Dublin. He hailed from the same country of East Galway. I knew his music from Paddy in the Smoke and I admired his way with music. Máirtín led me to Michael Coleman and Frank O’Higgins. Not long before he died we met up in RTÉ (in the bar) and sang and yodelled Jimmy Rodgers’ songs including ‘The Singing Brakeman’. I felt then Máirtín was set to go, he wore a white suit, the colour of grief. I will never forget this night. Desi Halloran, his old friend from his London days, was also in the company.

  It was a Late, Late Show special about music and dance from the Islands. I got the call from the good people of Cliar
a (or Clare Island). I was living in Dublin, learning about a new life, and I was included as part of this Clare Island ensemble. We had great craic, as they say. Billy Gallagher, my good friend and great accordionist, and me on tenor banjo playing for the dancers. All descendants of Gráinne Uaile. We did our best. The Inis Bofins followed us. Afterwards, we were guests of honour in the bar and that was where Máirtín, the crayture, was sitting waiting for us. It was 1988. Máirtín passed away not long afterwards. I thank God we had that great time on that night.

  Aithnionn Ciaróg Ciaróg eile (one insect recognises another). It takes one to know one, she smiled.

  (‘Ciaróg’, John Hoban)

  Music was shifting me around like a pawn on a chessboard. I prayed under the stars a lot as I slept rough, sad, mad but also kinda glad. I loved to watch the sun rise, and to think about the lilies in the field beside me. As Wally Page sings, ‘There’s always tomorrow’. There has always been a tomorrow for me.

  However, London was calling. I think the choice was made a long way back. The famous boat from Dun Laoghaire, hassle in Holyhead, train to Euston, London town, at last. So, off to Camden Town..., “Mind the doors, all change for Paddington.”

  BLACK & BLUE

  (John Hoban)

  Black ’n’ blue,

  green and red.

  Shuffling around the street half dead.

  A helpless, hopeless, dreamless view.

  Green and red.

  Black and blue.

  Purple and brown.

  Yellow and white.

  Now she’s skipping down the street at night.

  An icy wind, a sleeping town.

  Yellow and white, purple and brown.

  Hear the wind blow love.

  Hear the wind blow.

  Bígí ciúin.

  It’s the way to go.

  Notes on the song:

  A song about this time, 1970, homeless in the hometown. No joke, but it could be worse. It could always be worse. I also heard ‘The Harder They Come’ and ‘Living in Limbo’ around this time. Identified!!

  DIFFERENT

  (John Hoban)

  We scattered the ashes of Michael Patrick Gorman,

  to the four winds ’round the bay today.

  The music man has moved into another classroom.

  ‘I was never of this world,’ he used to say.

  He celebrated life with an innocent abandon,

  of a child with a truth he couldn’t hide.

  His scars were his glory, as he walked and sang his story,

  from day one, he was different down the line.

  Nora Kilmuray, couldn’t stand the pressure,

  of pretending to be precious all the time.

  She had six brothers and a mother,

  her father was a dealer,

  she was tired of saying everything was fine,

  She jumped the boat to Scotland,

  got lost up in the Highlands,

  wrote poetry and plays to beat the band.

  Her scars where her glory, as she walked and sang her story.

  Suffering, being different,

  down the line.

  Exile and the big house, were given as the answer,

  to the strange ones who wouldn’t toe the line.

  They sent away the singers, the artists, the dreamers,

  to wander in the desert and to pine.

  For a little bit of loving,

  a biteen of compassion,

  a chance to stand up and say ‘I am’.

  The scars are their glory, as we walk and sing our story.

  Suffering, being different, down the line.

  Notes on the song:

  Our scars are our glory. They certainly tell our story. When I hit London, I thought, So this is where they went, this is where they escaped to. Life could now begin, the pub to the bookie to the ‘room’, to the café, to the job. ‘You’ll never go back now’, I heard them say. It seemed a sad life for us all, but it was exciting too. Many of us were carrying a lot of baggage in our heads and hearts. I had no clue how to live, no roadmap, no internal reference points. The camaraderie and the sense of fellowship between exiles helped us all. We stood with, and for, each other until the grip got too tight and something had to give. I am so blessed to have lived two lives, and had a lot of different mates, many of whom never got past the first fence.

  Chapter 6

  THIS IS LONDON

  We were born in Mayo forty years ago,

  at sixteen from there we were forced go.

  We took the boat to Holyhead,

  lived in fear, right on the edge,

  digging drains in London in the snow.

  Tried to figure out how a boy became a man,

  sleeping rough in the West End in a red van.

  Nobody could tell me what it was all about.

  So in a few short days,

  we were back where we began.

  (‘Born in Mayo’ John Hoban)

  London was calling for sure, loud and clear. I loved the sense of being the immigrant, a kind of outcast, the men who don’t fit in. The Yukon was a bit too extreme for me, I was too fond of my comforts. Kilburn, Cricklewood, the ’Dilly, Soho...the real McCoy. I had discovered anonymity, and it felt great. Sure as night follows day, I felt alive at last as the big boat, the Bád Bán set sail from Dun Laoghaire for Holyhead.

  It was in the year of ’39.

  The sky was full of lead.

  Hitler headed for Poland,

  Paddy for Holyhead.

  (Traditional)

  After docking, we all boarded the trains. I remember looking at the poor souls from Connacht, sitting sad and lonely after saying their goodbyes to their people. Crying as they watched their friends and neighbours disembark at each station on that long journey to London. They drank their way to London. So did I. I also sang and felt protected by the music, my very own sound.

  When the train hit Euston Station in London, I knew I was there to follow this music inside me. I had no idea how to live life on any terms. I felt a certain freedom from ‘What’ll the neighbours say?’, The Mayo News, and the terror of materialism. I felt like a released prisoner, a bird set free from a cage. Little did I know what was really happening.

  For a very brief time, London, the streets and the people, felt like home to me. I felt like an Indian on the prairies in those old black and white movies. Horses and horses and lots of music, lots of different people. I felt life, spiritual life, reality was now about to begin as I got into the music in every way I could. I also got into the drink, the way of life in exile. I wrote a tune to a poem by W.B. Yeats, ‘An Irish Airman Forsees His Death’.

  I know that I shall meet my fate

  somewhere among the clouds above.

  Those I fight I do not hate.

  Those I guard, I do not love.

  I tried the office job, shipping, and I worked for the builders Wimpey, Laing and various other crews. I went mad. I stood outside the cafés, waiting for the vans to arrive and the gangers to select us if we were so blessed. All of this was too much for my delicate, artistic constitution. Once again, a musical instrument came my way, this time a mandolin, and this new addition led me to a life of busking in the underground. A real good life. I feel very proud that for a very brief time in my life I experienced the world of the Irish navvy, the construction worker. We had a book in secondary school called Dialann Deoraí (the diary of an Irish navvy), and I detested it. I don’t know why it had such a toxic effect on me. It was a poor effort to describe the daily life of the Irish in exile. I felt it was a cruel, desperate view of the poor craytures who had to leave their homes for work and to make a living. When I met these people in Kilburn, Cricklewood and all over the ghettos, I felt I had met my own people, my own tribe. Being a ‘townie’ from back home made me a little different to most of them as I didn’t come from a farming or rural background. What connected us was the music. I listened to, and learned, the music they knew and carried with
them from home. The music, the culture, the language, the dance, the suffering and the sheer joy, these were our bond. I will never forget it, that world of the café, ‘two slices ma’am’, the site, the Mass, the Broadway, the bookie, the suit on Sunday, the smokes. I feel real privileged to have known the world of exile, the pilgrims on the lost highway, the tunnel tigers, the men and women who danced in The Galty, The Palais and The Gresham. Not to forget a lot of others who didn’t fit into any community. These people were like me. There was John, Jimmy, Margaret, and a host of others I remember when I sing ‘All Along the Watchtower’ or ‘Born in Mayo’, or when I simply think of those times. A real good life.

  Whenever I mention to some people that I busk on streets, or that my first professional music job, first real job, was busking, it immediately feels like they make a judgement about it, as if it’s the same as begging, or maybe a little worse. The look in their eyes accuses, wastin’ your talent. What they don’t know is that for me, busking, playing music on the street or in the underground tube stations of London in the early ’70s, was a truly wonderful experience on many levels. It was a full day’s work. You had to ‘book your pitch’ hours in advance to get to play in the best venues. A lot of the buskers were seasoned pros, very independent, accomplished musicans who had great soul and integrity in their music-making. They inspired me no end. The music being played also suited my diverse and eclectic taste. Guitar pickers, people playing Bach and Vivaldi on mandolins and cellos, unaccompanied singers, West Indians singing and dancing, Irish musicians like me, playing and singing their own music from home. There were great cafés and pubs to meet up in and socialise with other buskers. One spot was the Kingsway Hall, a church run by a good man called Reverend Donald Soper. You could get dinner for a few pence. This place fed down-and-out people and all kinds of street dwellers. Homeless hobos like us, dining on the second floor of the church. Even this was a musical experience for us as the BBC orchestra practised their moves and their “beautiful art music” (as a man called it one day) in the hall below us. Imagine listening to André Previn conducting his orchestra while eating your shepherd’s pie. Living underground in London was a very musical place to be in those days.