by Jimmy Magee
Across the road from the mansion is the commercial side of things, where they have a studio with the backing tracks of all the Elvis hits, so you can record a number yourself. I did ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ in the same key as Elvis.
The studio of Sun Records is also in Memphis, but for a building oozing history it doesn’t look like much these days. The studio is just a room, but it’s the fact of what happened there that is special. They have off-cuts of various things that happened, which are fascinating to listen to. The man who owned the studio, Sam Phillips, had only four artists signed to his label when he was starting off: Carl Perkins, who wrote and recorded ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ and sold a million; Roy Orbison; Jerry Lee Lewis; and Elvis Presley. Later on he signed Johnny Cash. That was his stable, which was just unreal. He had off-cuts of them all talking after recording sessions, some wonderful stuff, which I listened to on my visit.
The wall was covered with pictures of them, which I remember fondly, because it was almost exclusively that great era; but there was one other picture: an outsider’s picture of U2. I got a great kick out of seeing them there on the wall of fame.
I went to Memphis to see all these things because if you are serious about music you have to know where these people came from. I was interested in all the places where music was performed, where it was written, who wrote it, who did this and who did that.
I also visited New Orleans to soak up its musical history. What a town! You go into Preservation Hall, a music venue in the French Quarter that was founded in 1961, and see all the old guys jamming, and you think to yourself, ‘You couldn’t get music like it anywhere.’
One of the first times I went there this young man, who had a young woman in tow, said to me, ‘I know where you got ’em shoes.’
‘I’ve no money; it’s back in the hotel.’
‘I don’t want your money, man. I know where you got ’em shoes.’
‘Really?’
‘If I’m able to tell you where you got ’em shoes would you give me ten bucks, man?’
‘I would.’
‘I know your goddam shoes. Don’t feel bad. You’ve just been had. You ain’t the first and you won’t be the last . . . You got ’em on your feet on Bourbon Street!’
I laughed, and I gave him the $10, as I thought he was worth it.
I met him the next day on the riverboat opposite St Louis Cathedral, and I said to him, ‘I know where you got your goddam shoes . . .’ and he laughed and said, ‘Isn’t it better than dealin’ drugs, man?’
——
After launching Ireland’s first music charts I got involved in the music business proper by becoming a minority shareholder in a record company. It came about because Mick Clerkin, who was the road manager for Larry Cunningham and the Mighty Avons, got a chance to start a record label, and he wanted me for the venture. It was a British label called King Records. Mick was smart, he could pick a hit; he mightn’t be able to sing but he could pick a hit. He knew what the public wanted.
He had Larry on this label. He owned the company, and I had a little bit of knowhow that helped a little bit. I was only a small shareholder, but I didn’t care about the lack of monetary gain, because I was learning all the time from the experience, as was Mick. We were all learning as we went along.
I enjoyed immensely being part of the label and being asked by Mick to pick out records that might be hits. We seldom missed: we knew what would go well, and then the nearly-all-right ones would go on the B side, so we had a strong product line.
Eventually King Records went out of business, but Mick was determined to stay in the music business and open a new record label. I told him, ‘I’ve a great name for the record company: Release Records. It will be the most-mentioned name on the air, because with every new record being played the DJ will say, “This is the most recent release,” or, “Newly released”.
The venture was a success, and we had enormous hits with the likes of Larry Cunningham and Dermot Hegarty. In fact so many people came onto the label that we launched another label, and then another one for the lighter stuff and the comedy stuff. Brendan Grace was signed up, as was Brendan Shine. We did tours of America among other things. The label even recorded some songs that I wrote myself.
I’ve written about six songs that have been published. Dermot O’Brien, who captained Louth to the all-Ireland football title in 1957 as well as being a renowned musician, was the joint writer of my songs. O’Brien played beautiful piano; accordion was his instrument of public knowledge but he could play trombone, and he could sing in many styles. Our first hit, about twenty years ago, was entitled ‘Gypsy Boy’. He was the melody man and I was the lyricist.
I also wrote a song called ‘Connemara Rose’, which has now been covered by four or five different artists, such as the country singer Mick Flavin. Dermot O’Brien again wrote the music. This particular song came about like that because Dermot said to me one day, ‘I want to write an Irish song. It has to sound old but it also has to be new. How long would it take you to write the lyrics, Jimmy?’
‘I suppose a couple of days,’ I replied, which he couldn’t believe, as he thought it would take longer. In fact I had it done that night.
Well, I met a girl in Connemara,
Far west from Galway town.
Her blue eyes glow with beauty
And her red hair flowin’ down.
She lives among the mountains
Where the wild, wild heather grows,
And her name is Kate O’Hara.
She’s my Connemara rose.
We had it on tape in a couple of days, and it ended up being a big hit for Dermot when it was released on the record label I was involved with. He played it when he went on a tour of America. At a concert in San Francisco in which the audience was full of Irish immigrants he had many requests to sing ‘Connemara Rose’, which had just been released that summer. People came up to him at the end of the night saying to him, ‘Thank you for singing that. I remember my mother used to sing that to me,’ or ‘My granny used to know all the words.’ One night a fellow said to Dermot: ‘Ah, God, it brought tears to my eyes when you played “Connemara Rose”.’ I remember my mother and grandmother singing it.’
Hopefully by the time this book comes out my latest song will be ready to be released. I’m planning to sing it myself. This new song is the story of Irish show business and the showband scene. I wanted to do a song that would be a tribute to all the showbands and would give the listeners a sense of their history.
It starts with a scene where we’re in the back room having a few jars and fellows are talking and remembering different characters and singers and saying to me, ‘Jimmy, you were around a long time, and surely you’d remember these people?’
It’s not a heavy song but rather a light, sensible but true-to-life song, with a blend of pop and country.
I reluctantly recorded it myself. This came about after a conversation I had with Dave Pennefather, who was the European manager for Universal Music. We were talking about who would be best to get to sing the song, and Dave said, ‘What about Larry Cunningham?’ It was a good idea, because Cunningham was one of the leading players from the showband scene; but, as I explained to Dave, ‘I can’t have Larry, as he’s actually referred to in the song. Fellows can’t sing about themselves.’
‘Why don’t you sing it yourself?’
‘I can’t sing.’
‘Sure can’t you hold a tune?’
‘I suppose if you can keep a pitch and keep time there’s not much in it.’
‘I’ll produce it, and you try and sing it.’
The song is called ‘These Old Eyes Have Seen It All’. The music is from an old country song.
I saw the Clipper Carlton playing on the stage
I saw Miami roll when rock was all the rage
And the first to play on Christmas Day was the Royal in the Ulster Hall
These old eyes have seen it all.
Larry Cunningham i
n Cricklewood jammed the Galtymore
Joe Dolan in his suit of white sang more and more and more
Big Tom praised ‘Gentle Mother’ and Mick Dell played ‘Every Ball’
These old eyes have seen it all.
Chorus:
These old eyes have seen it all
Red Hurley, Freshmen, Eileen and Brian Coll
And the dazzling hands of D. O’Brien
Answered the all-Ireland call
These old eyes have seen it all.
I saw Butch Moore when he walked the streets in rain
Pat McGuigan singing Europe long before young Barry’s fame
I heard Ray Lynam singing country when George Jones phoned him a call
These old eyes have seen it all.
Brendan Shine washed down Con’s Lobby
On windows Sonny Knowles
The swing clarinet of New Orleans was surely Paddy Cole’s
The Indians wore the war paint, and that’s no sitting bull
These old eyes have seen it all.
Chorus
Joe Mac had us laughing as he beat the Dixies’ drum
And T. J. Byrne and Connie were the ones who did the sums
Brendan Bowyer did the Hucklebuck
And Art Supple mimed them all
These old eyes have seen it all.
When JR was shot in Dallas TR climbed to number 1
Jumping Johnny told the Las Vegas crowds about his Noreen Bán
Dennis Allen lauded Limerick
Daniel ditto Donegal
These old eyes have seen it all.
Chapter 16
| A NEW LIFE
I’ll always remember 1996, for two reasons: firstly, for Michelle Smith’s victories, and secondly, because it was the year that I began to have some health issues, which led to me having a triple heart bypass that almost finished me off.
I’m lucky to be alive today after enduring my triple bypass operation in 1999, which resulted in me being in a ‘touch and go’ condition, lying unconscious in intensive care for more than a week.
It was probably my own fault for not heeding the earlier warning signals coming from my body. I had given up smoking and boozing in the early 1970s, but, being a typical man, I have always been reluctant to go to the doctor when I was suffering pain. I could have made life a whole lot easier, and safer, if I had immediately got a thorough check-up when I first noticed that my health was deteriorating, some three years before my lifesaving operation.
I would never have dreamt that I would have heart problems. Like everyone else, I always thought that it’s something that happens only to other people.
I began to notice that something wasn’t right when I was attending the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta. It wasn’t that I was in pain, but I wasn’t feeling my usual upbeat self and instead was down in the dumps and lethargic. Rather than my usual brisk walking style I was ever so slowly strolling towards the stadium to watch the games, and I wondered to myself, ‘How am I going to make it through today?’
Clearly it was obvious to some of my colleagues that something was wrong, because the Irish Times sports journalist Johnny Watterson, who is a former Irish international hockey player, caught up with me and remarked, ‘You’re taking it very easy today, Jimmy.’
I shrugged and lied. ‘I’m taking the time to smell the roses.’
I knew I was in trouble as I watched Johnny, who wasn’t walking particularly fast either, speed past me.
I knew I had a blood-pressure problem and thought it was connected with this, so I decided to seek out a doctor when I got to the stadium.
As I continued at my snail’s pace towards the stadium I began to mentally kick myself for one of the silly things I had done earlier that week: dashing back to Ireland for twenty-four hours to do the commentary on a GAA match. During this period when I was in the United States for RTE I was also contracted to UTV to do the commentary on gaa matches. Of course it wasn’t RTE’s fault that I was working for UTV, and it wasn’t UTV’s fault that I was working for RTE. I had thought as I was heading out there, ‘If I don’t raise a rumpus about this everything will work out.’
I said to the producer on site in Atlanta on the Friday, ‘Any chance of having a day off on Sunday?’
‘If ever a man deserved a day off it’s you. You never ask for a day off. Have you ever had a day off in your life?’
‘Very few.’
‘Of course you can have it. Is there any Irishman boxing or anything that we’d need you for?’
No, there wasn’t.
I did a fight in the boxing hall in Atlanta on the Friday night and then sneaked off in a taxi to the airport and boarded a transatlantic flight. When I arrived in Dublin I immediately jumped into a car and drove to Clones, arriving just in time to do the commentary on the Ulster football final.
When I was finished in Clones the man in charge in Belfast came on the headphones and said, ‘Thank you, Jimmy; that was terrific. You were in great form. Wonderful. Thank you very much.’ I was surprised that I hadn’t sounded tired after all that travelling.
On leaving the game in Clones I headed to Belfast, where I was doing some filming for Sky, a summary of the Olympic Games, and then I turned around and went back to Dublin, stayed in the airport hotel, and got a flight to Atlanta that arrived at 9:30 a.m. local time, and I was back in the stadium for 1:30 p.m. to cover the athletics.
The producer came on the headphones and said, ‘That day off did you good. You were sharp and fresh today.’
I never told him about my epic journey. What they don’t know doesn’t bother them, I thought as I took off the headphones. If I had told either UTV or the producer in Atlanta the truth about all my travelling I think one or the other, or perhaps both, would have said, ‘Ah, Jimmy, you weren’t at your best today.’ Instead I got the plaudits. It shows that you should never tell people what they don’t need to know.
But a few days later I was really regretting all this travelling. I was sluggishly walking up towards the stadium. I was knackered, and I just hadn’t got the energy to get up a slight incline and into the stadium.
Eventually I got inside. I’ve always thought that if you’re ever going to get sick you should get sick at a sports event. I enquired about getting my blood pressure taken, and when I was told to walk up the stairs I shook my head and explained that I was too weak to make it that far. The official suggested that I should use the lift, and I replied, ‘I might not be able to walk as far as the lift. I’m really, truly not feeling the best here.’
As I was in the mixed zone, where athletes coming off the track can seek medical attention, I decided to seek out a doctor.
At the Olympics everyone is colour-coded, so I looked for the ‘red man’, which was the medic. When I spotted the red colour code I went over to him, waved my accreditation badge at him and said, ‘Doctor, do you mind if I have my blood pressure taken? I don’t feel very good.’
He took one look at me and said, ‘Come with me,’ and ushered me inside the barrier and laid me down on a stretcher. As I had expected, he told me that my blood pressure was very high. He gave me some medication and then said to me, ‘You’ll have to lie down to see if it will go down.’
After about ten minutes my blood pressure had gone down, but he was still clearly worried about me and told me, ‘You’ll have to stay there.’
‘I can’t,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘You don’t understand. We might have to hospitalise you.’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m working. I’m doing a commentary.’
He laughed out loud when I told him I was scheduled to do the commentary on a game in less than twenty minutes. ‘Not today you’re not!’
‘What do I have to do to sign myself out?’
He told me he would get the head doctor, who then came down and allowed me to leave, on condition that every fifteen minutes someone would come and take my blood pressure. I agreed, on the condition that it could be done discree
tly: the last thing I needed was someone in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging from their neck barging into the broadcasting box and demanding in front of everybody to see me and take my blood pressure.
I brought a young doctor with me and showed him where we could meet in twenty minutes’ time. Then I went into the commentary box and got to work. I would see the young doctor down below and he would catch my eye, and at a suitable moment during the commentary I would whisper, ‘I’ll be back,’ and then head out to get my blood pressure taken.
The doctor would come closer and closer to where I was sitting each time he was trying to catch my attention. There were about four of these check-ups, and it was beginning to become obvious to my fellow-commentator Greg Allen that something was up. Eventually, when we went into a commercial break, I had to alleviate Allen’s suspicions by telling a white lie. ‘You know that thing they had out about how athletes respond under pressure?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, now they want to find out how commentators respond under pressure, so they asked me to be a guinea pig.’
Thankfully, the young doctor eventually agreed to stop taking my blood pressure, and I went on for the rest of the Olympics. When I got home I went to my local doctor and he immediately put me on blood-pressure medication, which didn’t unduly concern me.
During the 1998 World Cup in France I was having occasional little lapses that I knew shouldn’t have been there— like when walking up stairs I would get out of breath, which can happen to a lot of people. It’s natural enough, and I kept telling myself this. Besides, when I would get to my position in the stand I would recover instantly, so I thought nothing of it. There are loads of ways you can cajole yourself into thinking everything is fine. I kept it a secret, because I didn’t want anyone worrying about me, and there was no way I was missing out on doing the commentary on the World Cup. Besides, I was always on top of my game once the whistle blows. As a friend of mine says, ‘Once that red light goes on you go into another gear.’
