Great Lyrics Series, No 4: Aird Ui Chumhain

My last post mentioned hurling in Cushendall. Being the old romantic that I am, it reminded me of the song Aird Ui Chumain in which an Irish farm labourer working in Scotland sees the coast of Ireland across the sea and pines for the Sunday mornings he formerly spent hurling with his friends on the beach in Cushendun. Here are the lyrics in the original Irish, followed by a translation. Back in the day, a friend used to sing this. Happy memories.

Dá mbeinn féin in Aird Uí Chumhain
In aice an tsléibhe ud ‘tá i bhfad uaim
Ba annamh liom gan dul ar cuairt
Go gleann na gcuach dé Domhnaigh

Curfá:
Agus och och Eire lig is ó
Eire líonndubh agus ó
‘Sé mo chroí tá trom agus bronach

Is iomai Nollag a bhí mé féin
I mBun Abhainn Doine is mé gan chéill
Ag iomainn ar a trá bán
‘S mo chaman bán ins mo dhorn liom

Curfá

Dá mbeadh agam coite ’s rámh
D’iomairfinn liom ar dhroim a’ tsnáimh
‘S mé ‘dúil as Dia go sroichfinn slán
‘S go bhfaighinn bás in éirinn

Curfá

Translation:
(like most translations of Irish lyrics/poetry into English, this comes nowhere near matching the simple yet elegant mood of the original)

Mercury Music Prize

Gutted that Amy Winehouse didn’t win.

Death, Johnny Cash & HIV

Is there an art to dying? A couple of happenstances make me pose the question.

Last Saturday, The Irish Times carried the obituary of Linda Reed, a young Irish woman who recently passed away and one who had been HIV+ for many years. She had long since come to terms with her illness and had spent her final years as an inspiration to all those who have/fight/campaign on HIV/AIDS issues. I didn’t know her, but judging by the words written about her I would have enjoyed the privilege of meeting her.

Two days later, I drove from Dublin back up to Belfast after a long day. Some of it had actually been spent addressing the issue of HIV/AIDS stigma. More than once during the day, I thought about Linda Reed. 

On the journey home, I happened to be listening to Johnny Cash’s American V. Of all the Rick Rubin produced material of Cash’s, this has to be the best. The Rubin cycle - The American Recordings, now covering five CDs – are essentially a bunch of raw, largely acoustic recordings that Rubin inspired the great man to record in recent years; years that saw a steady and serious decline in Cash’s health and also saw the loss of his wife June Carter. Most of the songs are poignant and the collections progressively focus on death. Indeed, American V was released posthumously.

As I said, American V is my favourite in the series. And it’s not just that we know Johnny’s gone and that it’s easy to read an added poignancy into the lyrics. Yes, it’s very reflective and often confessional in many ways. But over and above that it’s just a fantastic selection of lyrics and songs, including: a superb version of Springsteen’s Further on up the Road (“Got on my dead man’s suit and a smiling skull ring, got on my dead man’s boots and a song to sing”); Four Strong Winds (“Well our good times are all gone and I’m bound for moving on, I’ll look for you if I’m ever back this way”); and a heartbreaking rendition of Hank William’s On The Evening Train.

Now I know that it’s easy to get maudlin about such stuff and I know too that the final tracks on the album were put together after Cash had died. But that’s irrelevant. The man knew he was coming to his final days when he laid down the vocals. It takes a strong man to speak such words and it takes a special strength to greet the world in such a way. It’s a strength I have seen in only one or two faces, a look that rises above fear; a look akin to something like benign confidence. Nothing can harm you anymore.

I wonder was it a similar look on Linda Reed’s face when, in her illness, she was refused service in her local bar by a barman she had considered a friend. And was it the same look that carried her through to the end of her days dramatically inspiring all those she worked with?

So where did her confidence come from? Maybe there is an art in dying. Or maybe it’s the art of dying. Both Cash and Reed had huge corners to tun in their lives. Both seemed to manage it well.

Johnny Cash’s death, though, has certainly been ennobled, and few would begrudge him that. Others, like the Linda Reeds of this world, will always deserve better from the society around them and the casual cruelties it likes to aim at them.

Paisley, Sir Bono and a Chocolate Jesus

Excuse me for not blogging over these past seven days – but who could blame me? Because no sooner did something happen to inspire a line or two but up popped something else to put it completely in the shade.

Take Paisley and Adams at Stormont. Am I the only person in Ireland to see that coming? Judging by the comments so far, I think I am. But anyone who has monitored these two closely over the years could have seen the tell-tale signs of de Selby’s Atomic Theory happening before their very eyes. Readers of Flann O’Brien’s Third Policeman will remember that de Selby’s theory suggested that the more two things collide, the more their atoms are interchanged and the more they take on the characteristics of the other. His example cited a policeman and a bicycle. After years of contact over the bumby roads of Ireland, the bike ended up more man than machine and vice versa. Hence Paisley has recently taken to wearing the “broad black brimmer of the IRA” – the head gear favoured by the lads in days of yore:

 

And likewise, Gerry Adams has recently begun to look a little more clerical in his attire:

This time next year, you can expect Adams to be living in Ballymena and teaching Sunday School; and if you’re visiting a GAA match in Casement Park don’t be surprised to see Big Ian performing the honorary throw in.

Then came news that Bono had accepted an honorary knighthood, a la Terry Wogan and Bob Geldof. Apparently, Bono doesn’t want to be called Sir: “You have permission to call me anything you want – except sir, all right? Lord of lords, your demigodness, that’ll do.” Bless.

If that wasn’t barmy enough, we then had Christian protestors in New York force the cancellation of Canadian artist’s Cosimo Cavallaro’e exhibition which featured a nude 6 foot chocolate statue of Jesus. Having this banned in Ballymena I could understand – but New York?

Cavallaro is no stranger to controversy apparently and previous work includes painting a Manhattan hotel room in melted mozzarella and festooning a four-poster bed with 312 pounds of processed ham.” He had hoped that visitors might lick the sculpture. After all, he says, Christians receive the “body and blood” of Christ as food in the act of holy communion. Surely a case of My Sweet Lord.

But I’m surprised by all the fuss. The concept of a chocolate Jesus has been around a long time, as in the song Chocolate Jesus by Tom Waits:

Dont go to church on sunday
Dont get on my knees to pray
Dont memorize the books of the bible
I got my own special way
Bit I know jesus loves me
Maybe just a little bit more

I fall on my knees every sunday
At zerelda lees candy store

Well its got to be a chocolate jesus
Make me feel good inside
Got to be a chocolate jesus
Keep me satisfied

Well I dont want no anna zabba
Dont want no almond joy
There aint nothing better
Suitable for this boy
Well its the only thing
That can pick me up
Better than a cup of gold
See only a chocolate jesus
Can satisfy my soul

(solo)
When the weather gets rough
And its whiskey in the shade
Its best to wrap your savior
Up in cellophane
He flows like the big muddy
But thats ok
Pour him over ice cream
For a nice parfait

Well its got to be a chocolate jesus
Good enough for me
Got to be a chocolate jesus
Good enough for me

Well its got to be a chocolate jesus
Make me feel good inside
Got to be a chocolate jesus
Keep me satisfied

And who can forget chocolate Last Supper bars, as this from worldnetdaily.com suggests:

One day at a time, Sweet Jesus

‘Last Supper’ bars too tempting? (Bucks County Courier Times)

Speaking of appetite, in Pennsylvania, Jesus became the subject of a holy war over candy as chocolate lovers questioned whether they should consume bars featuring the image of the Son of God.

“I just don’t think that you should eat anything that’s Jesus,” Liz Samuel told the Bucks County Courier Times. “It’s OK to eat the cross as long as God is not on it.”

Chocolatier Pamela Roberts told the paper she was reluctant at first to sell “The Last Supper” bars: “Sometimes I think it could be a sacrilege. But the nuns just love them.”

Night night everybody – sweet dreams.

The Decemberists: Shankhill Butchers

I only came across this song at the weekend and while it is very good, I’m intrigued as to why a band from Portland Oregon should be singing about a gang of cut-throats in Belfast. I must find out more. The band are very good, by the way.

The shankill butchers run tonight
You better shut your windows tight
They’re sharpening their cleavers and their knives
And taking all their whiskey by the pint

And everybody knows if you don’t
Mind your mother’s words
A wicked wind will blow
Your ribbons from your curls
Everybody moan, everybody shake
The shankill butchers wanna cut you away

They used to be just like me and you
They used to be sweet little boys
But something went horribly askew
Now killing is their only source of joy

And everybody knows if you don’t
Mind your mother’s words
A wicked wind will blow
Your ribbons from your curls
Everybody moan, everybody shake
The shankill butchers wanna cut you away

The shankill butchers run tonight
They’re waiting until the dead of the night
They’re picking at their fingers with their knives
And wiping off their cleavers on their thighs

And everybody knows if you don’t
Mind your mother’s words
A wicked wind will blow
Your ribbons from your curls
Everybody moan, everybody shake
The shankill butchers wanna cut you away

Great Lyrics Series, No 3: Moon River

Ask anyone who writes lyrics and they’ll tell you that Johnny Mercer was a genius. His lyrics combine a feel for everyday language with a real poetic sensibility. At their best, they have a richness and emotional complexity that is simply amazing. Patrick Collister once told me that when writing copy you should go look at the masters of other genres – like great country songs, or writers like Elmore Leonard, and especially lyricists like Johnny Mercer. No truer word spoken. Mercer wrote hit songs in four different decades, from the 1930s through the 1960s. Among his many well-known songs are I’m An Old Cowhand, Too Marvellous For Words, Jeepers Creepers, Day In-Day Out, That Old Black Magic, One For My Baby, Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate The Positive and Summer Wind. Here’s my favourite lyric: Moon River

Moon river, wider than a mile
I’m crossing you in style some day
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker
Wherever you’re goin’, I’m goin’ your way

Two drifters, off to see the world
There’s such a lot of world to see
We’re after the same rainbow’s end, waitin’ ’round the bend
My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me.