Good Friday 2

Smoking Trail.

This is probably the last 'smoking' piece that will appear on my journal - regular updates of the 'where? and what?' will go onto the discussion board. I don't know if I'll be able to afford cigarettes this week - I've just bought every Sunday newspaper, and there are a lot of them. About ten days ago, I called to a bungalow in a 'middle of nowhere' not a million miles from my own 'middle of nowhere' cottage. The woman who listened to a song and bought a CD, was very interested when I told her about my smoking adventures. She also happened to be smoking in my workplace but it would have been churlish of me to object. She turned out to be Lynne Kelleher - freelance journalist and is, at least 50% responsible for my appearance in today's Sunday World, People, Star and Times.

I welcome comments on the discussion board, where somebody who calls himself, 'The Wise Old Man' sent me my first ever 'hate mail' on Good Friday. I must be doing something right. Anyway, speaking of Good Friday........

It's Good Friday again. 2004 this time. I'm in Killarney and, of course the pub are shut -unless you know the right back door, and the right knock. I don't but I'm feeling peckish. Hey, why not pay a visit to the Killarney Holiday Inn - yes, the very place where 'The Ansbacher Waltz' was written at the IMRO writing collaboration, all those years ago? Maybe the bar will be open for coffee - they do good coffee - and a sandwich. It is.

I'm being very good. I ignore the 'meaty' stuff on the menu, even the turkey and ham, and order a cheese and tomato, toasted. I'm not going to be that good though, when I finish my sandwich.

The place is quite busy with lots of families and I'm afraid I'm going to have to risk killing a few children with my cigarette - I hope they'll be happy to know that they died in the name of freedom.

I'm in a side room off the bar and the only other occupants here are one very serious looking couple and their toddler. Here's my sanwich - very nice too. Oh my God. I've just noticed that the female half of above couple is about seven months pregnant - and....AMERICAN.

People I've met along the way, ask me if the thought of a 3,000 euro fine doesn't worry me. I don't have 3,000 euro so why should it. To quote Kris Kristofferson - again - 'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose' and I think that in our time of relative prosperity - or just easily available credit (thanks Linda Martin), a lot of people have far too much to lose to be free.

I do have nightmares though, about being under 24 hour surveilence by omnipotent 'smoke police' or environmental health officers - I heard them on Pat Kenny, on the radio and they sound mean - especially the female one. This is why I'm having my equivalent of Q put a chip in my engine to enable my Eunos to reach speeds in exess of 200mph AND deliver 60mpg - on unleaded*.

Sandwich was good and I've ordered a second cup of coffee and will light up soon.

What I do fear more than the EHO is that our wonderful government/dictatorship - without any decent opposition - have a bigger masterplan. They want to turn all it's citizens into an unpaid police force.

Here goes. Trusty fake Zippo almost failed but now I'm law-breaking again. 1,000,000 euro reward for capture of 'Billy the Cig' or 'The Cigcinati Kid' with smoking butt.

Halfway through smoke, couple are leaving - I think they were going anyway. The barmaid passed once and I don't think she noticed - it's amazing how invissible these deadly fumes can be - maybe I should have asked for an ashtray. I do tap my ash onto my cigarette box and not the floor - I'm not all bad.

Finished and left my usual card, on which I wrote 'smoked here on Good Friday', with the barman.

The day after the smoking ban came in, it was another branch of Holliday Inn complaining that they'd had two weddings cancelled by couples who chose alternative venues - across the border.

* Did you know that as long ago as 1990 it was discovered, by scientists, that the fumes expelled during the filling of tanks with unleaded petrol, are highly carcenagenic. The Swedes, who seem to care a lot their people, insisted that within a year or so, all filling stations install petrol pumps that suck these fumes form the cars tank while filling it And that, in the meantime, all pump attendant wear filtering face masks. Do any of our health ministers want to know about this?

Smoke Trail

Smoke Trail. A one man band's , one man stand against what one man banned.

A man walks into a bar (this isn't a joke), orders a glass of Guinness, sits down with it and begins to write. It's a Wednesday, 9.30ish, and the bar is quiet. A middle aged couple and one other. The couple decide to go out for a smoke. The TV imposes 'Footballers' Wives' on the quiet bar and the man lights a cigarette. The barmaid doesn't notice - or pretends not to.

If she chooses to ask him to put out the cigarette, he will decline as politely as possible and explain that it's not personal and that it won't happen again, in this bar - the Corner House in Croom, Co. Limerick - but that yesterday and every day, since the smoking ban came into force, he has picked a pub at random and done the same thing.

He's still writing and still smoking. The couple have returned from outside. Will they notice? 'Footballer's Wives', the final episode, is riveting. Cigarette finished. No big deal. No EHOs or members of the Garda have disrupted this quiet scene. He'll finish his glass now and point out what and why he's just done what he has - and leave a calling card behind.

This happened on 10th April and when I told the barmaid she was flabbergasted, as were the couple whose main concern was that I'd be fined 3000 euro. I pointed out that I could have recollection problems, like Bertie, and that as nobody had noticed - well I'd probably get away with it, and again tomorrow - and the day after etc. and that I didn't have that kind of money and so would probably have to settle for a term of accommodation - at government expense - in a place where I would be allowed smoke. They said that they'd send me some cigarettes. The barmaid said that she wished I'd asked first. (she was very young.)

Here is a list of the places in which I've had a cigarette - or in some cases begun one and left before finishing it.

Mar. 29 The Long Point (an appropriate beginning), Whitegate, Co. Cork.

30 Jimmy's Bar, Killworth, Co. Cork

31 Stag's Head, Mallow - Cork Road, Co. Cork

Apr.1 Thatch Bar, Dromina, Co. Cork (got barred AND so did my friend who hadn't smoked - maybe they were just kidding, being the day it was).

2 Greyhound Bar, Castleisland, Co. Kerry

3 Hickey's Bar, Mount Uniake, Co. Cork

4 Montegue Hotel, near Ballybrittas, Co. Laoise

5 Batt Murphy's, Middleton, Co. Cork

6 Ulick's, Farranfore, Co. Kerry

7 The Corner House, Croom, Co. Limerick

And coming soon to a bar near you. Suggestions welcome.

How do you know when a politician is lying? - his lips move. Let's leave John Deasy out of that one and give him the 'Politician with Integrity' award.

This will be also posted on the discussion board along with a regular update and your comments.


Tom Chapin @ the Green Room Sunday 4th April

There's a kind of 'nice' that brings a person out in goosebumps and raises the hackles and brings a determined resolve not to enjoy or participate. Tom Chapin sails dangerously close to these waters and then gradually melts you down.

For a start, he's American - yeah, so's Bob Dylan and lots more besides but Tom is almost 'Little House on the Prairie' American. Too sweet to be wholesome or too wholesome to be sweet. One of my favourite songwriter/singers, another American, is Boston based Bill Morrisey. Bill asks himself, in his song, 'Amnesia',"Are my friends all hip? Do they play tenor sax? Or belt their pants round their armpits and wear plastic pen packs?". These lines sprang to mind as soon as Tom walked on stage - and he wasn't carrying a saxaphone. Think black and white movie actor Jimmy Stuart with a guitar and you're just about there.

If you don't know already, Tom had a brother, Harry, who was killed in a car crash, at the peak of his career in the early eighties. Harry is well known for songs like, 'The Cat's in the Cradle' and, one that hugely influenced my parenting, 'Flowers are Red'. Apart from folk singing, Tom has a huge body of songs for children - like ten albums. He describes them as songs for kids 'between Barney and Brittney'. He'd already played an afternoon, 'Kids' gig at the Helix. I didn't get to that but had heard one of his childrens songs on an interview on 'Rattlebag' a couple of days earlier - 'There're two kinds of seagulls, hegulls and shegulls, and hegulls like shegulls - and that's why there's seagulls'. The song goes through two kinds of lots of things - herzarrds and hizzards etc. etc. I'd mentioned this song to Donal McGuirk of the green room when I arrived - though this was billed as an 'adult' gig, and Tom was going to be singing from his folk repertoire, and some of Harry's songs.

Tom was joined on stage by Michael Mark, who played a mean bass and harmonized, as well as singing a couple of his own songs. I had travelled up from Cork with my girlfriend and her daughter who is seriously 'cool' and potentially as truculent as only twelve going on thirteen year olds can be, when things aren't going their way. From about the third or fourth song, we all relaxed and got into the show. When Tom did Harry's, 'Flowers are Red', Mike did the boy in the song and the transformation in him when he went from being the enthusiastic first day at school to the product of an unimaginative teacher was perfect.

I have never seen an autoharp being played - I was given the remains of one, picked up from a hucksters shop, years ago. Tom played his for a couple of songs and watching this was like watching a man waltzing with his 'sweetheart' and magic. Another magic moment was when Tom sang a song - not one of his own and I didn't catch the writer's name - 'American Jerusalem'. This has got to be the best September 11 song.

Half way through the second half of the show, he said that, while this was his adult show, there were people in the audience who'd come all the way from Cork to hear 'Two Kinds of Seagulls' and sang it. I still don't know who told him but I suspect it was Donal. Thanks. I suspect that in Tom's world the term 'adult show' doesn't have the connotations that is has elsewhere as none of his material would be unsuitable for children. I did find that, probably as a result of writing so much for children, that apart from a few of his own songs and Harry's and 'American Jerusalem', his melodies were very simple and without much subtlety. Great lyrics though and not a nasty bone in his body I suspect.

The Green Room is the venue at the Holiday Inn, with ex IMRO man, Donal McGuirk at the helm. Donal is one of the greatest champions of singer/songwriters I know and after 18 months of dedication there, is finally getting recognition for the venue - despite it's unlikely parentage. It's there that the IMRO writing collaborations take place and - hopefully many a future 'hit' is premiered (I'm talking about my Christmas song here - check out the journal on my website if you're reading this on musicsceneireland or check out their site if you're already on mine)

Should you go to a gig at the venue, and you should, bring your sunglasses or suffer the effects of the bar staff's 'green' shirts - which must surely contribute to their grumpiness - bordering on rudeness.

Just to digress while I'm on the point. Imagine, if you will, you've bought a CD from me and it skips. You come to tell me about it and I tell you that I'll have my expert look at it. It comes back to you and doesn't skip but you're not happy 'cause the case is covered in blackcurrant jam and chip fat. You contact me to point this out and I say, defensively, that my man is unlikely to be responsible and perhaps it was that way when you gave it to me, but that I will check it out and get back to you - but, sure, couldn't you just clean it yourself? 'Not the point' you say. I don't get back to you.

Six months later, you bump into me and remember how pissed off you were about it and you ask me why I didn't get back to you. I avoid answering that but tell you that I did check it out and that it couldn't possibly have been my 'man' as he assures me that he only uses marmalade and axle grease. Do I go up in your estimation? I think not.

What is the point of this absurd story? Well, it's metaphorical for an experience I had with one of the managers at the Holiday Inn. To spare his embarrassment, I'll just call him 'Clever T' (Ian Dury fans will have a head start on this one). Here's what did happen. Last August I drove up to Dublin, top down in my old but good Eunos Roadster (Mazda MX5). I'd treated it to a wash the day before. I like my car - though not the point of obsession.

There is an underground car park at the Holiday Inn - just as well, it's located on Pearce Street - and while I engrossed myself in co-writing sessions organized by IMRO and stayed inside for most of the four days, my car was being dripped on by something mysterious from the ceiling above the space in which I'd parked. Probably nothing to worry about but better point it out to the management and suggest they block off that space, till they fix the problem - lest a Pat Kenny lookalike from Lucan, with a black 02 Audi TT (see Good Friday in my journal) should park there for a day or two.

'Clever T' looks at the situation and says he'll send down the handyman and so I return to bar - they do good coffee - until 'Clever T' comes to tell me that it washed off fine and it was detergent dripping from the kitchen above - he also pointed out that there was no lacquer coat on my car and that anything would mark it. I'd bought it 13 months earlier and polished it once and it was, for a thirteen year old, not in bad nick - lacquer coat or not.

At a glance it looked OK in the dim light of the car park - BUT. When I pulled up in front of the hotel - I'd left my phone charger behind - the brilliant sunshine revealed that the front of the car had scouring marks in circular patterns, over half it's surface - heavier where the drips had been and in fact still showed.

For what went on from there, go back to the metaphorical story and you, with the CD, play me with the car let 'Clever T' replace me, in the story and you'll get the picture - especially if my final comment was that - anyway, your CD player was a heap of shit. Public relations?

This has been written and will hopeflly appear in a new e-zine www.musicsceneireland.com (or .ie - not sure)

Good Friday 2002 and a 'scary' story 2004

Loads of stuff coming soon - smoking in pubs - STILL and dropped new guitar - still works.
Here's a piece I wrote which appeared on the 'gigsmart' site in 2002. Also a story I wrote for schools last week which went down well on it's first outing on Monday, in Whitegate national school in Cork.



Good Friday
Or
How I got to Handle Gerri Haliwell's Boots (yes that was BOOTS) and get a piece of Michael Flatley's shirt.


About a year after I began writing and performing my own songs, it occurred to me that there some songs were like shirts and some songs like shoes. Shirt songs and shoe songs -not a bad album title - maybe after Dead Birds and Funny Fish which, I hope, will be in the shops by September.
"Shirt Songs and Shoe Songs". In case it isn't obvious I'll explain. Some songs, you write, you learn, you sing and gradually, you get more and more comfortable with and as you relax with them they get better and better. They're the shoe songs. I reckon Guy Clark has a lot of shoe songs.
Actually the analogy falls down in my own case on the shirt songs, as I like my shirts old and comfortable, like my shoes. But if you like to keep your shirts looking like they've just come from the box after you've worn them and washed them, then you're going to have to put in a fair bit of work with an iron and maybe some starch to keep them that way. A Shirt song, you write, you learn, you sing from the heart and it sounds great. It usually comes from something you feel strongly about when you write it. After you've been singing it for a while, the energy can go out of it and what had been a great song is now merely a good song. With shirt songs you have to get yourself back to where you were at when you wrote it each time you perform it to keep it fresh and "just out of the box"
On Joni Mitchell's album, "Blue", I would think of Big Yellow Taxi as a shoe song and almost everything else as shirts.

Good Friday is right up there with Christmas in the popularity ratings in Ireland and I figured with the pubs being closed and f#ck all else to do, most people would be home and delighted to listen to a song on their doorstep. Wrong. I went to Lucan, got an early start - about twelve - and maybe I don't know something about the pubs in Lucan but there were even less people at home than on a regular day and most of them found lots of stuff to be busy with. Lots of gardening, hoovering, lawns to be maintained and cars to be washed.
I like the Audi TT but find the owners of these to be, in the main, total pratts. Here's the scene; about four o'clock I come around a corner and see a guy, who'd win a Pat Kenny lookalike contest any day, in his garden polishing a black Audi TT. Now the house is your standard newish red brick 3 bed. 2 rec. semi-detached and has a pair of iron gates about 3 feet high with the spiky tops that are sometimes picked out in gold. So nothing unusual here. Not so fast though. The Guy, I'll call him Pat, is engrossed in the polishing - it's a 02 reg. and polishing paintwork this new doesn't do it any favours but what the heck, it's his car. He continues to ignore me as I press the latch on the gate and realise when I push it and it doesn't open that it's an automatic remote control electric job. I could have thrown a leg over and walked over to the guy but as I was only about four yards away I introduced myself from the gate. Pat continued polishing and when I had finished my bit, he declined. OK. That's his prerogative. What did piss me off though was that for the whole time I addressed him, Pat didn't once look up.
Now I can be a bit of a bastard myself and I was delighted when Pat's next door neighbour wasn't at home. This meant that I could stand at the door, waiting for a reply, for AS LONG AS I WANTED. I stood watching Pat polishing and getting redder and redder, and very self conscious for about ten minutes and then told him that he was doing a super job and that I would give him a free CD if he would clean my Toyota Corolla. Pat declined.
If I were a rich man though, I'd probably be a total bastard. Idea one; buy heavy chain and super-strong lock and some night, in the middle of the night lock Pat and the TT securely in and it wouldn't be a Friday or Saturday night either. Idea two; as idea one but recruit a rugby team to lift the car over the gate and leave it outside. On second thoughts, it would be better to leave the car locked in but lifted to face in the opposite direction. All fingerprints to be carefully polished off, of course.
What's this got to do with handling Gerri's boots and Michael's shit er shirt. Not a lot, but I always find that for everyone like Pat there's someone like Shirley.
Earlier the same day, I called to a house where some gardening was being done, but not too seriously. The kids were mucking in and enjoying themselves. When I called one of the older ones went to get his mam and when she came around to the front, she recognised me from the Nationwide programme and said that she'd buy an album anyway, but would I sing a song for her four boys, aged twelve to two. After the song, when she went to get some money, one of the boys went in and returned with a pair of sparkly green, very high platform boots. When I told him that I didn't think they'd suit him, he said that his mam had been given them by Gerri Haliwell for doing her ironing.
When Shirley came out she explained that she worked as a dresser and costumer at the Point Depot and that when the Spice Girls played there, these boots had been hurting Gerri's spice toes and the she'd worn them for about two songs and changed. After the show she'd given them to Shirley.
A couple of hours later I was working across the road and Shirley came over with some blue fabric fluttering in her hands. She said that she wanted me to have it - for luck. She explained that it was an off-cut from a shirt she had made for Michael Flatley - the shirt that had been seen by 600 million people on television, when Riverdance was introduced at the Eurovision Song Contest in the year ????
Thanks Shirley. All in all not a bad Friday










The Terrible Eater From Space c.Sean O'Neill



Tommy wasn't scared of much.

He wasn't scared of the dark - he knew he could switch a light on.

He wasn't scared of being on his own - he liked himself.

He wasn't scared of animals - he knew if he was nice to them that they'd be nice to him.

He wasn't even scared of bullies - he knew that they'd meet bigger bullies one day.

He wasn't scared of getting lost - he had a good sense of direction.

He wasn't scared of people who had different coloured skin or different beliefs and ways - he knew that people are people and kind of all the same.

He wasn't scared of school - he knew he had a lot to learn.

He wasn't scared of his mammy and daddy - he knew they loved him.

He was scared of................

The Terrible Eater From Space.

He was scared that the terrible eater from space lived under his bed - in his room.
He had never seen the terrible eater from space - but he knew it was there and getting hungry.

He knew he was safe when he was in his bed - it couldn't get him there. It could only get him when he was in the space between the door and the bed. It couldn't come out from under the bed - it would disintegrate. But....if he wasn't careful, it could pull him under the bed and that would be the end of him.

He knew that the terrible eater from space was getting hungrier and hungrier every day - except Sundays and bank holidays, when it just bided it's time and lurked.

Unfortunately, the other thing that scared him was telling his mammy and daddy about the terrible eater from space - they always said what a brave boy he was so he couldn't tell them he was scared. So every night, Tommy would run from the bedroom door to his bed and jump onto it - just as the terrible eater from space was about to grab his ankle and pull him under the bed. Phew!!

One day Tommy's mammy told him that his little brother, Steven, was big enough to have his cot moved from her room into Tommy's.
"No, no, no," Tommy said, "he can't come into my room."
"What?" said his mammy. "You love your baby brother. I thought you'd love to have him share."

Tommy did love his baby brother but knew that Steven was too small to jump out of reach of the terrible eater from space and that the terrible eater from space was so hungry now that Steven would be gone in one big bite.

Tommy ran to his room and closed the door. He even put a chair against it and would talk no more.
His daddy came home from the office at the usual time but Tommy didn't run out to meet him as usual.

"He doesn't want Steven to share his room," said his mammy, "and now he won't come out of his room."

"Knock knock." went his daddy.
"Who's there?" said Tommy.
"Lettuce."
"Lettuce who?" said Tommy.
"Lettuce in, I want to talk with you." laughed the daddy and Tommy let him in.

Eventually, Tommy told his dad about the terrible eater from space and his daddy told him not to worry - that he'd sort it out.

The next day was Saturday and Tommy's daddy didn't have to go to the office. He took Tommy with him to a big place where they sold wood and tools, and they bought loads of stuff including a sign that said, "DANGER - KEEP OUT".

When they got home, Daddy explained to Tommy that he had some dangerous work to do and told him that he was to look after Mammy and baby Steven for a while. Then he brought all the wood and tools AND the vacuum cleaner into Tommy's room and hung the danger keep out sign on the door.

Much later, he came down for dinner and said that he'd finished. He'd hovered out the terrible eater from space - who'd then disintegrated in the hoover, and so would not be back.

After dinner, daddy took Tommy and mammy and Steven upstairs to look. The sign was gone and so were the tools and wood and sawdust. All clean and tidy.

Tommy hardly recognized his room. where his bed used to be, there was a sort of climbing frame, with a seat and a desk at the bottom and a bed up on top - really high. Tommy wasn't scared of heights. He could see the floor underneath and no terrible eater from space. By the window was Steven's cot and Tommy could see the floor underneath that, and no terrible eater from space there either.

He gave his daddy a big smile and a big hug and his mammy gave his daddy a big smile and a big hug and Steven gave Tommy a big smile and a big hug and......bit him on the nose. Ouch.

Now Steven sleeps in Tommy's room and Tommy sleeps soundly, knowing that the terrible eater from space is gone - and is scared of nothing - well almost nothing. Sometimes when he wakes and sees the way Steven is looking at him - well he knows that Steven, with lots of new teeth, is just waiting for a chance to use them on him again.

A Christmas Song and The boy who wanted to sing (a story)

If you've been following my meanderings since I began the site in August, you may remember me being all fired up about a Christmas song I wrote with Bob Martin. The song took over my life for about six weeks and I hoped it would be buying my Christmas dinner this year and next and next etc. The plan was foolproof - I'll outline it - but alas the fools were planproof.

Here's the short version;

Create a buzz about a "mystery" Christmas song to be known only as "The Turkey? Song"

Have a high profile - low budget Christmas party at Halloween. Publishers, local and International would attend - they'd have been mad not to. The venue would have been decorated and "Dollies in stockings" would have been distributing Mulled wine and mince pies.

With announcements of the winners in the demo competition, presentation of cheques to winners in five categories, one of the winners to be given a gift-wrapped Mazda MX5 by Santa, there would have been lots of photo opportunities for the press and the publishers would have left with a stocking containing novelties and a CD with five different versions of the song - in five different genres. A week later, the "Believe in Christmas Company" would accept an offer and next year "The Turkey? Song" would be an international hit.

There are about 40,000 reasons why none of this went ahead, each one worth a Euro.

As I shan't be sending any Christmas cards this year - again, I'm going to post the lyrics here and hopefully Yule hear it on the radio next year and the year after etc.


The Turkey? Song

It's that time of year again
Parties and good cheer again
Elves're working overtime
Santa's boots're being shined

Coloured lights and jingle bells
Moving trees and Christmas smells
Lots of reasons to be jolly
Doors festooned with wreaths of holly


Mrs. Jones from down the road
Underneath her heavy load says,
"Have a Merry Christmas do!"


This Christmas - I got you
My dreams all - coming true
All this and - turkey too
This Christmas - I got you


Telly says it's going to snow
Families 'round the fires glow
Sparkles hanging everywhere
Hope I get a teddy bear

Train-sets running right on time
Dollies, stockings, spicy wine
Worries put away in drawers
It's the time for Santa Claus


Postman bringing lots of cards
Christmas box, he's working hard, says
"Have a Merry Christmas - do"


Last Christmas passed me by
Was such a lonely guy
I got my Christmas wish
This Christmas I got....
This Christmas I got you.

Repeat chorus till hoarse.



Tomorrow morning, I'm going into a school to talk to eighty children. This story was written this morning for them and for anybody who would like to read it to themselves or to children.


The boy who wanted to sing

There once was a boy who wanted to sing. When he was very small, and I mean VERY small, he heard the birds singing and, as he was too small to talk, he thought, "That's lovely - I want to do that" and he gurgled happily.

Time passed and he grew a bit bigger and, when he was by himself in the garden, he used to join in with the birds and he was very happy. Then one day he was happily singing to himself while playing and his big sister passed by and said, "Stop that. That sounds silly."

"But I like to sing," said the boy, "it's what I love to do most."

"Well don't," said his nasty sister. "You're not a singer. Only singers sing and people will only laugh at you."

"But I want to be a singer - that's all I want to be." He said.

"Well you're not and you never will be. I'm bigger than you and so I know better." said the boy's sister, horribly.

The boy was sad.

He went to school and learnt to read and write and learnt to add and subtract and even how to divide and multiply and was very good at them all - actually, his writing was always a bit messy. He had a secret though and that was that he still wanted to be a singer and when he was by himself he would sing and was happy then. Walking home from school, across the golf course, he would sing beautifully - but only when there was no one else there.

At night, when all the family were watching 'Coronation Street', he would sit in the kitchen and listen to songs the radio (it used to be called the wireless - even though it had a wire and a plug but this is not the story so forget about that). Sometimes, if he knew the song on the wireless and if the telly was turned up loud enough so he wouldn't be heard, he'd join in and sing along.

One day, his mother asked him what he wanted to be when grew up and he told her his 'secret'.

His mother was kind and told him that he should really think about doing something else - maybe plumbing - because you'd have to be really, really good at singing to do it for a job. She did ask him to sing though but he got embarrassed and put his head down and said, "Not yet."

One day, at school, the teacher told the class that they were going to start a choir and went round the class, listening to the children singing a scale, one at a time - ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah. "This is my chance to get it right." The boy thought and he wanted to so much, he wanted to too much and, when it was his turn, he tried hard, he tried too hard and, while he didn't actually turn into one, he sounded awfully like a frog.

"No. No good." Said the teacher and the boy was sad and all the way home from school he sang, "ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah." - beautifully - by himself.

He grew up with his secret, listening to songs on the radio. He was very exited when he heard a band that was from near where he lived. He heard them more and more. He read about them in the papers and saw them on the television too and he watched them become world famous. Encouraged, he saved and bought an old guitar and tried to learn how to play it. One day, he was going to be a singer - he knew it.

He grew up, finished school and got a job taking photographs and he was good at it too. He met a beautiful girl, his Princess. They got married and had three children. They were a very happy family and when the, now grown up boy was on his own - in the shower or driving in his car - he would still sing but because being a Daddy is quite a lot of work, he didn't think too much about being a singer any more.

When his children were growing up, he tried to teach them that they could be whatever they wanted to be. He told them that if they believed in themselves, they could do anything they wanted to. The oldest wanted to be an astronaut - his friends said that was silly but he knew his dad said he could be if he believed it. He's an astronaut now by the way. His brother is an artist and the baby, his sister is a famous ballerina - but that's jumping way past the end of the story.

Sometimes, even while they were a happy family, the Daddy would feel a bit sad because he knew that there was something missing. One day, the Mammy asked him what was wrong and he told her that, while he loved taking photographs - it wasn't what he wanted to do - all his life.

"What do you want to do?" she asked him.

He told her his secret. "I want to sing - maybe even make up my own songs and sing them"

"Oh, don't be silly." She said, "You can't sing, you're not very good at the guitar and you don't even write postcards! Why don't you just be happy being a photographer?"

The Daddy got sadder.

More time passed and the children grew up. The Daddy still used to sing - in the bath and in his car and the Mammy remembered her dream was to be an actress and became one and one day the Mammy and the Daddy knew that they couldn't live happily ever after together anymore and so the, much older, boy went to live somewhere else.

He was lonely but his guitar was a good friend and he spent a lot of time playing it and singing by himself.

One day, he was singing so loud that he didn't hear a knock on the door. The man knocking was from Africa and was knocking at the wrong door but he knocked again - a bit louder. When he knocked the third time, the boy (we'll still call him that) heard and answered.

Dembe Sowe was as black as coal and as tall as a tree. His hands were as big as feet and his feet were like skis. He stood at the door in his rainbow coloured coat with a drum on his shoulder and asked, "Dat you makin' dat sound? Is good man."

He was looking for some people who used to live on the street and who'd said, "Come and stay with us if you ever come to Ireland." He came in and had a cup of strong coffee and talked with the boy for hours.

The boy told his story and how he couldn't sing when anybody was listening and Dembe thought a while and then said, "You know, in Africa, everybody sings. We don't think, 'am I a good singer? am I a bad singer?' We just sing - all the time"

He explained that in most African languages, you couldn't say, "I am a singer, or I am a builder or a photographer."

"This is because 'I am' means 'I am' and nothing else. We say, 'I make pictures' or 'I build' or 'I sing' and everybody does their best and enjoys it. You want to sing, so sing - I like to hear you sing and other people will too. Bring your guitar onto the street and some people will listen and enjoy and some won't but follow your heart man - follow your dreams and be YOU - that is what is important. When you do that, then you are on the right road for you and you can only do good."

Dembe stayed for a few days and drank an awful lot of coffee - strong and black. He said that he needed it to stay as black as he was.

The boy heard what he said and, a few weeks later, nervously brought his guitar to the city and sang - sang his best and loved it. Nobody told him he was silly and some people even gave him money.

A few weeks later, he wrote a song - about following your heart and then another and another, and in less than a year, he'd made a record and made lots of friend who love music, and even travelled to Africa to thank Dembe Sowe for his advice.

These days, he's a little bit famous and will pass on Dembe's advice to anyone who'll listen. He's pretty happy, most of the time and writing songs and stories. He even wrote this story and maybe he'll live happily ever after, after all.

Copyright Sean O'Neill Dec 2003-12-17


Ps. I'm seeing lots of coloured lights and jingle bells and sparkles hanging everywhere, these day. We also have a lot of Santas climbing down chimneys and reindeer on rooftops. Cribs don't seem to be so fashionable lately and I wonder if you could call the groupings of glowing snowmen and Santas and elves in the gardens "Ho Ho Holy families" Sorry. Have a merry Christmas - do.

Cars & Women

So, how's the car going? Well I don't have to open the boot with a penknife anymore and the ugly 'piranha' hole in the back is covered with a sign saying; 'For amazing CYBERSEX - and some songs - visit www.seanoneillsongs.com..... (sorry, I lied about the sex). Eleven euro did the job, ten for the sign which is silver plastic, so matches the car quite well, and one for some sticky Velcro to keep it attached. It must be working too as I've noticed that the site is getting about three hits a day - and only two are mine.

The reason I don't need a penknife to open it is not because it's fixed - it's actually worse if anything. I met a guy who had two visible and one invisible Mazda 323fs in his garden. The invisible one was concealed in the nettles and was never going to drive again. The bootlock looked similar and the guy offered to give me the one from that car and dove straight into the nettles to remove it. I was wearing sandals and as getting nettle stings on my feet is low on my list of 'things to do before I die', I left him to it. He went to a lot of trouble to remove it and even more to fit it to my car - while I pointed out that it was different and probably wouldn't work. It didn't and realizing that if shut the lid, I wouldn't get it open again, I blocked the catch receiver so that it won't actually close at all.

Nowadays, the lid clatters a bit as I drive, reversing on a windy day can be tricky as it can suddenly blow open, obscuring the rearward view. Storing anything irreplaceable in the boot is not a good idea either, especially when parking in the cities. The direction in which I park, relative to the direction of the prevailing wind is important too.

On Saturday 1st November, the day of my gig at Wexford Arts Centre, I drove from Ballycotton, in Cork, to Wexford - top down and sunshine all the way. The gig went well, although the posters billed me as a 'singer of folk songs and ballads', so I wasn't sure what the audience had come to hear. I only did a small bit, one operatic link, to show them what I was sparing them. I stayed in 'Shanagolden' B&B. Marie, the owner plays accordion, loves music and, according to a friend of mine will 'mug her guests for a tune'.

There was a trilogy of macabre plays on in the evening and the Arts Centre had put me down for a ticket. The weather became a bit more 'normal' for an Irish November during the afternoon - I was the only one busking - and by evening it was a lot more 'normal' - raining sideways.

Fortunately, I'd emptied out the boot at 'Shanagolden' and so when I left the theatre and emerged into the wet windy night, to find my bootlid blown wide open and the rain battering it's interior, that was all that got wet.

Sunday was spent, trying to sort out 'women troubles', in Dublin prior to going to the Holiday Inn for a 'reunion' of the writers' collaboration, organized by Donal McGuirk, to coincide with the launch of a monthly singer/songwriter night to be held there, on the second Sunday of every month, commencing in January 2004 - and we'll be able to SMOKE there, for the first two anyway.

Arriving in Galway (is my car allergic to Galway?) on Monday night, I stopped for cigarettes and the car door decided that I didn't have the password again and so I had to enter and exit through the roof for the next twenty-four hours. Why don't I get it fixed? I've tried. If I bring it to a garage, when it's working, they can remove the interior panel to see there's nothing wrong with it. If I bring it in, when it's not working, then they have to fiddle about with rods and hooks to get it to open so that they can remove the interior panel - to see that there's nothing wrong with it!

Fortunately, most of the time, it works and the car goes and goes and stopped! This is actually a rewind; it stopped a couple of weeks ago, in Camden Street in Dublin and not without fair warning.

For those who don't know - and do care, I will talk a bit about alternators - fast forward if you do know or don't care - or both. OK. Battery starts engine. Engine's inside stuff - going round and round and up and down - turns belt to drive alternator. Alternator's insides, turning, generate electricity to run the lights wipers, radio and all the other electric stuff AND keep the battery charged to start the engine, to run the....etc. If the battery isn't charged, a push will probably start the car. If the engine is f*cked, then the car won't go and if the alternator is gone, or weak, then the battery will be drained by the aforementioned electric stuff.

My engine is good and my battery was replaced, earlier this year - when my alternator was also showing signs of not being well. A repair was carried out, using a second-hand one and a different belt. It was good enough to keep things afloat while the days were long and the nights were short. I usually work until eight or eight thirty in the evening and once the days became shorter, I noticed that my lights didn't seem quite as bright as they should be - must sort out before end Oct. when the clocks go back (I hate it when the clocks go back).

In the last week in October, I ordered a new/reconditioned alternator - but not before I came to a halt, in broad daylight, in Camden Street. I had sensed the engine was struggling to stay going - right beside a rare, on-street parking space. It cut out as I pulled in.

I loaded the meter, did my business - see daughter, have lunch, see about getting Greek mobile phone fixed (another story) - and as I finished lunch, I rang the breakdown service, again, and they actually got to the car in less than the twenty minutes they said they'd be.

Sort of sorted, by the garage I was carried to, I put replacement back on the long finger. A few nights later, I finished work, in Tarbert, Co. Kerry, at about 9.30 and headed for my cottage, in the middle of nowhere and after 20 minutes, the lights dimmed noticeably and by the time I got to Newcastle West, were little better than candles. The radio is a good indicator as to how bad things are and did nothing when I switched it on to check and I still had ten miles to go!

These last ten miles are along a narrow but unusually straight road. Cars travel quickly and it's very dark. Not the ideal place to come to a halt - even if your lights are working. In town, under a streetlight, I switched off everything except the engine to get some charge into the battery - about fifteen minutes. That got me another five miles nearer home. The same thing, outside the set-back entrance to a house got me home. It was a scary journey and the next morning, I ordered the new part, which arrived to Buttevant, at about 5.45pm on the Friday of the holiday weekend - just in time to be fitted and just in time for the putting back of the clock.

That just about covers the car troubles, despite which October was probably my best month yet, in terms of CD sales. I think that this is just a question of luck and also the fact that I've been busying myself to avoid dwelling on the 'women troubles', in comparison to which, the 'car troubles' pale into insignificance. As I've said before though, this is supposed to be a music site so 'mind your own f*cking business'.

One thing I have learnt - I think - from the above is that; to work well, a relationship sort of needs a good alternator. Both people should by charged and energized by it. If the alternator is f*cked, then it drains both. Sh*t, I sound like yer one that used to be on the radio, 'isn't an alternator..... a lot like liiife'.

I'm Scared

To quote JOHN LENNON, "I'm scared", maybe as scared as I've ever been. Why? December 6th, CORK OPERA HOUSE is why.

My friend, B, has a 12 year old daughter, Sophie. I met Sophie back last August on my way to the IMRO writers collaboration. She asked me what it was all about and I told her that I'd be drawn out of a hat with a different person every day and write a song with them. Her eyes widened when I told her that MICKEY HARTE - or Mickey Joe - had been at two previous events and that, yes I had actually met him. My ratings soared. Of course, I told her, it would be very unlikely, with his post Eurovision schedule, that he'd be at the HOLIDAY INN.

Not only was he there but he asked to have a strum on my new MARTIN Cowboy IV guitar. For a SOUTHPAW (who actually plays guitar right-handed), he did very well playing mine - upside down - and even signed a hastily cobbled "Certificate of Authenticity", stating that he'd actually played on these strings - now in Sophies possession and in her Mickey Harte folder.

Subsequently, she gave me a letter to include with a demo I was sending to his 'homeplace'- I absolutely would not give her the address. When she got a reply, amazingly, the same address was included and being a very smart kid, the next time she got five minutes on her own with the phone, she dialed 11811 and got a Donegal phone number, but no reply.

Mickey's mum has caller ID, she explained, when she rang back, a half hour later. Sophie and Nora Harte had a long chat. Nora got to hear about the strings and certificate and the Mickey Harte folder (which would put any school project to shame) and lots more important stuff. She phoned again this week and told Sophie of a gig in Cork.

A Mickey Harte gig is not my natural habitat but how could I say no to a text asking that I bring her to the Opera House in December? I got two third row seats today along with a ticket to see MARY GAUTHIER tonight.

I heard, through GIGSMART, I think, that IRELAND has about five hundred people who will take the trouble to go and see artists they know little about. I am one of them. I've heard one track by Mary, from Louisiana, a few times over the past eighteen months, on MYSTERY TRAIN - Why have they taken JOHN KELLY off the Monday night slot? Don't we have enough sport at the weekend?

Fish swim - Birds fly
Lovers leave - By and by
Old men - Sit and think
...........................I drink

to quote Mary Gauthier ( pron. Go Shay)

It's just after two in the morning. I'm just back at my cottage in the middle of nowhere, listening to her DRAG QUEENS IN LIMOUSINES album, having thoroughly enjoyed the gig. I'm looking forward to seeing her again but I'm damn scared about December 6th at the Cork Opera House. It's not Mickey - it's the fans.

Ps. No, I'm not shouting. Everything in capitals was done to remind myself to do the stuff you need to do to create 'links'. As of now, I'm not sure how to do it and I'm posting this now or else it will be way out of date by the time I've figured it out.

Good News

While I try to look at the positive side, it's not always that easy. Mondays for instance. Every Monday I start a new week. What if no-one listens to a song and I sell no Cds at all and what if this trend continues on Tuesday, Wednesday etc. etc.? So far it hasn't happened but on any Monday this may occur to me and until I've earned my first euro, it can seem to be very much a reality.

Back when I started, this was much more of a worry but now, with almost four years of Mondays behind me, experience is reassuring. I've only just learned that it's also been a worry for those close to me - my partner, my kids and friends and I hope that the reallity of my second album, "Odds and Sods" and it's eventual release should alleviate their fears for me. My mother recently asked me if I ever thought I'd find myself homeless. Maybe she'd heard the joke; What do you call a musician without a girlfriend? - Homeless.

Things are going pretty well for me right now. Some good things from the past week; someone told me they'd heard me being mentioned and a track played on the John Creedon Show on RTE radio 1. It wasn't until, a few days later, a second person confirmed it and even knew what track, I actually believed it. Somebody I met in Kilarney, told me that my 'Wandering Minstrelling' had been mentioned in an interview with Cilla Black on Radio Kerry a few days earlier. Somebody else, also in Killarney, told me that they'd just read - in Hot Press - that I'd sold over six thousand copies of "Losers and Sinners" - a slight exageration, I'm about two hundred copies short. All this tells me that I am getting somewhere, driving round in circles.

Whatever day I manage to upload this, I'm writing it on Monday 20th October. I've just spent the weekend with my partner, in Dublin. Before I left this morning, I checked my e-mails and site (still very quiet). I tried typing seanoneill into the MSN search engine - the site didn't come up. Then I tried Google - Bingo I was listed - a few times. It seems that the journal entries are being picked up. Next I tried Yahoo - I'm there too. Hey, maybe I really do exist.

www.seanoneillsongs.com

I've just typed that because, I suspect that the more times it's mentioned in the content, the more likely it is to appear in search engines. I'd welcome feedback from those who know more about this stuff. www.seanoneill.com is a site owned by an American couple and has quite a lot of stuff on it and seems to come up, very high in the search engine list and I've typed it in 'cause I also believe that it'll bring my site further up the list. For this reason, and the fact that I once traded under the same name, I'm also typing in www.seanoneillphoto.com

www.damienrice.com . What's that got to do with this site? Well, I like Damien and typing his site here could do the ratings some good too.

When I moved up to Dublin in October '99, to play at the singer/songwriter nights, I started running into Damien and he blew me away. While staying with my friends, the Herlihys in Kerry, last week I picked up a rag 'Ireland on Sunday' and read a totally bitchy article by Mary Carr. The general tone of it was that maybe Damien doesn't give Lisa and the band the credit they deserve and maybe they'll f*ck off and where would he be then and who does he think he is anyway? It's good to see someone who's done it his own way getting through. Good luck to you Damien. I'm listening to 'O' a lot lately and getting occasional texts and e-mails from people who've just seen the 'Blowers Daughter' video on the telly.

Anyway, I left Dublin at about 12 and drove as far as Adare in Co. Limerick. I was photographed in Adare last January and was featured on the cover of the Limerick Leader. (check out www.limerick-leader.ie type 'troubadour' into archives and it should come up)
It was almost five when I began knocking on doors but by 7.30, I had a days wages. With Monday out of the way, the rest of the week should be a doddle.

When I first began selling my CD door to door, I thought that within a year, there'd be at least a half dozen people doing the same. If there are, then I haven't heard about it - and I think I would. There was a guy I came across, in Newbridge, Kildare, who sold a few tapes in his neighbourhood - I think he did this for a few weekends. I also came across a guy who would offer to read you a random page from his book, on your doorstep and sign a copy for you if you liked it. Today though, a woman told me that a friend of hers - Gerry Henderson - was going to give it a go. Gerry, I hope you do and if I can give you any help, then I'd be happy to.

I arrived home to find that I had a brown envelope waiting. It turned out to be my biggest royalty cheque yet. Thanks IMRO. www.imro.ie

A Sort of Discography

Christmas 1998 saw the 'release?' of 'Smug and Sanctimonious Songs', 20 copies made in all. This contained the first 12 songs I'd written and while I know I have a copy somewhere, I can't lay my hands on it now. Some of the songs from it are on 'Losers & Sinners', some on 'Dead Birds & Funny Fish' and some on 'Odds & Sods'. Songswise, it was a good album but it was done on a 4-track machine and by the time the duplicates were done, you'd have to be very keen to hear them, to tollerate the poor sound quality. Maybe sometime I'll revisit it digitally - probably not.


'Losers & Sinners' - I call this my accidental album - happened about tan and a half months after I wrote my first song and less than ayear after I began to sing outside my bath. Two tracks from it and the lyrics can be found on the site. Here are the sleeve notes.

Monday 12th July 1999

Does anybody else read sleeve notes? Just in case, I'm writing these, while listening for the second time to a tape of a two hour recording session at the home studio of Peter Vastl. This was the morning after doing my first ever paying gig (40 pounds), in O'Chea's wine bar* in galway, from 12.30am to 3.00am. The recording session cost me thirty pounds so I'm already ten pounds in profit (soon give up the day job). The voice, despite a good spoon of honey, is rough here and there, but I kinda like it like that.

The songs, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow are from a selection of fifty I've written since my first, 'Nice and Sleazy Caledonia Blues' - 24th August 1998, sung in no particular order - the newest, the album title was four days old and now two days later, I know I can do it much better but, having been a perfectionist for most of my forty eight years, I'm now learning to let things go (even the cough near the end of 'Unidentifiable Residential Object').

My son, Emmet donated the grapics and design, so this is probably the most inexpensive album ever produced but I want to put something of what I've been doing for the past year into the public domain. While a guy can learn a lot singing and playing on the street, he can also get pneumonia.....

Sean 'almost a Legend' O'Neill
e-mail; seanbirdfish@hotmail.com

Ps. I like to think of this as a concept album, actually a three concept allbum;

1 Going with the flow, I threw away my maps and user guides 12 months ago and have had an amazing year.
2 Quitting the day job
3 To raise funds to buy a decent left handed guitar for further recordings etc.

While retaining copyright on the songs here, I have no problem if you wish to tape it for gift and would appreciate it if you can take the time to write out some sleeve notes - at least my name. Thanks.

There's also the the third verse from 'No Hard Feelings' but I'm not going to type that out when it's already on the site.


'Odds & Sods - an interim album'

The follow up to 'Losers & Sinners' should be 'Dead Birds & Funny Fish'. The plan was to do a 'radio friendlier' album on a budget ten times that of L&S - ie three hundred pounds or the euro equivalent. It will be done but logistically, it won't be easy. So far, I've used about half that budget. I've found the studio - Cosmic in Ballymun. I've recorded a pile of stuff there and need to go back with my musicians - all of whom I've met through knocking on doors. They've offered their services - free - but they are fairly scattered around the country so getting them to Dublin and accomodating them is something that needsa a bit of planning.

My dad died last year - the June bank holiday weekend. He was still throwing himself at the world and keeled over - two bites into his last supper - and that was it. He'd been asking me for a while, when I was going to put out 'The Badness'. This track is on 'Dean Birds & Funny Fish'. I decided, following the funeral, that I was going to do an album - in a day - and that, along with that track, it would have songs that someone, somewhere was looking for a copy of, and that I'd call it 'Odds & Sods'

I'd met Aiden Roberts through IMRO and a friend, Josh Johnson - a great piano player - had told me that he had a really nice studio. I did my day there and then decided to go back and do another and get Aiden to put some other instrumentation on top of the guitar and vocal recordings we had. That actually became four more days and what was going to be a second CD to sell on doorsteps, will be going into a lot of radio stations soon - and maybe getting played occasionally.


'Dead Birds & Funny Fish'

Watch this space.


'Free as a Breeze & Fresh Out of Vitreol'

Not quite written yet.

The Old Mill

There's a very special place, not far from Naas or Newbridge. It's an old mill that's been lovingly restored by Eoin O'Toole,who bought it in 1987 and did most of the renovation himself and with the help of friends. Outside there is a water driven millwheel and walking around inside, you can see the ancient machinery working as it used to. This in itself is special but what makes it unique is that it's now being used in a number of ways, providing a gallery space and performance area for all manner of artists, not yet with a sufficiently high profile to show at the more mainstream venues or those who like to do an occasional low profile gig.

Everywhere there are small touches that show the care that's gone into making "The Old Mill" what it now is. Children's paintings can be found pinned to old wooden beams and craftwork, for sale or not is everywhere. The square footage of the place is enormous yet the atmosphere is very homely and almost cottage-like. One gets the feeling that, uniquely, this place isn't there for the money. Yes, you can buy food, teas, coffees or even a glass of wine (and until recently a beer), and it can be hard to tell who is working there and who is helping out.

Open from Wednesday - Sunday, the mill acts as a place where couples can have a pre wedding reception reception - with very picturesque surroundings for the wedding album, a low budget - high quality recording studio and, in the evenings, a completely different sort of music venue. Set dancing classes are held there in the early evening, a singer/songwriter session (with the option of having the set recorded - for little more than the cost of the blank CDR) every Thursday night. People of the calibre of Luka Bloom and John Spillane play regularly on Saturdays. Lazy family Sunday afternoons - in the grounds, weather permitting - feature traditional Irish music, which makes way for a bit of jazz in the evening.

I am a songwriter and don't have many opportunities to perform my work to an audience prepared to listen to music unfamiliar to them. In the small theatre space here, I've been at some of the most atmospheric songwriter nights, I've played to some of my most atentative audiences and even been joined on stage by some wonderful singers who I'd met an hour earlier in the kitchen and the result of this actually was recorded and features as a hidden track on my new CD.

There are very few places in which a stranger can feel as welcome, in the world, let alone in Ireland and I feel that it would be a crime against real values if this place were to be shut down.

Eoin showed me a letter from a solicitor, in which I, as a regular patron, have been called rowdy. It also suggested that I could be responsible for frightening the horses. Since discovering the mill, I've attended on at least ten occasions - to perform or to listen. I have stayed overnight a few times and found it to be a hard place to leave. I have never seen any rowdyism there - nor have I seen a horse.