unironedman

Glen and Tamsyn, in the kitchen next door, in Blackcastle

There was a time before mobile phones. Before the internet and social media. In the mid-1980s, I was reaching the end of my school years and thinking about college. But I was spending more time and energy in a band. Three young lads from Leixlip, within a stone’s throw of each other, got together to play guitars in a garage. After a while, we realised three guitars alone probably wouldn’t work, so one began to play lead and another picked up the bass. And the third lad stuck with the guitar, and became the singer. What we needed next was a drummer. With a connection from school, we met a fellow traveller who not only knew a drummer but had a rehearsal space. The downside was that it was in Ardclough, which was 8 miles away. And there was no bus service.

But rock ‘n’ roll knows no bounds, so we walked, cycled, hitched lifts and for a while, a disused church along the Grand Canal near Ardclough became our spiritual home. Around that time, our self-styled manager Temple, who lived next door to the church, introduced us to a young kid with an acoustic guitar and a mop of curly ginger locks. As my Dad would say, ‘there’s more meat on a heron’s forehead’, but boy could he sing.

In 1987, with a few songs under our belt (a few originals, and a slew of covers), we snagged a gig in the local night club in Leixlip. I suppose, looking back, it was somewhat ‘exotic’ to have a local band put on a show of this magnitude as a first gig. The very same young lad came out with another mate of his, and both performed on the night; Mic before we went on, as a support act, and Glen did a few with the band. The other lad was Mic Christopher, and the red-haired troubadour was Glen Hansard. Both have left us far too soon; Mic in 2001, and Glen just this Wednesday, in the small hours of the morning.

Some of that night was captured on good old-fashioned VHS, and the footage was rooted out this week and I have copied a link to some of Glen performing Van Morrison’s Sweet Thing.

Since his passing this week (a motorbike accident along the Strawberry Beds near Lucan, after a trad session in the Wren’s Nest pub), the internet has been (on my feed, anyway) a wave of tributes and recordings. But the one Glen performance I hold dearest is one of which there is no record. As I mentioned at the outset, in 1986, mobile phones didn’t exist. Not strictly true. The first mobiles were available to the very wealthy the year previous, and they were cumbersome and unreliable. I think it was 1995 before I made my first mobile call (on a work client’s phone). And full disclosure, I was sitting in a pub in Leixlip after work, ringing home to see if Saoirse would like to join us.

Behind Temple’s house, on a hill, stands Oughterard Cemetery; a tramp across a few fields to reach. It’s a spot I have mentioned on this blog before. It’s the final resting place of one Arthur Guinness, and is also a lovely place for a picnic on a fine, sunny day.

One night, after (I suspect) some of Temple’s Dad’s elderflower hooch, a small but merry band of us found our way to Oughterard and climbed up to the top of an abandoned church which sits in the middle of the graveyard. I can’t recall much of the rest of the night, but Glen sang Who knows where the time goes by Sandy Denny, and it stayed with me ever since.

Speaking of recordings, one which I only heard recently really sums up Glen and his approach to music and life (which, to Glen, were one and the same thing). This tale recounts how he met Van Morrison one evening. It’s astounding, really. It does confirm something many already knew, which is that Van is a grumpy bollocks. But that’s not the real story. You have to try and imagine how many callow young singer/songwriters would have been able to survive that interaction. Not one but two knock-out blows from your hero. Most of us would have folded. But even had we survived the savage cutting remarks, I don’t think anyone could have pulled off the next trick, which was to trade songs with Van in a room, on your own.

I reckon if I lived another ten lifetimes, I would still not clock up the amount of guitar hours as Glen. And I play a fair bit. But guitar is just one small part of it. (I recall sitting in Stephen’s Green with him, just after he had bought his famous Takamine. At that stage, of course, it only had one hole where it was supposed to be. He played that guitar so much, he wore holes through the soundboard. Very few players reach that level of Zen. He showed me a few tunes, and taught me a few chords. In particular, the correct way to play Feelin’ Groovy.)

No, it was so much more than guitar. It was the range and breadth of the songs. He has been described as a busker. More recently, a troubadour. He was a bard, in the truest sense. I was enjoying, in a vicarious sort of way, his transition from fame with his band The Frames, his appearance in The Commitments, his Oscar success with Once, and then his numerous activist passions with homelessness. His journey was all the more fascinating because he remained grounded, and I think the main reason for this was simply because it was always about the music, and he was always just a decent bloody human being.

He had a partner, Maire, and three-year old son, Christy, and he was shaping up to be an amazing Dad. No surprise there, really. We have all been robbed of his amazing talent, his kindness and generosity. They have been robbed of so much more.

It’s absolutely heartbreaking and fucking awful.

Needless to say, my words are inadequate. Imelda May has done a much finer job here, for those who still use Facebook.

His wake is tomorrow, followed by the funeral on Tuesday.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam dílis.