“Star, star, teach me how to shine, shine
Teach me so I know what’s going on in your mind
‘Cause I don’t understand these people
Who sayin’ the hill’s too steep
Well, they talk and talk forever
But they just never climb, oh”
Hansard / Odlum / Doyle / Brennan / Mac Coniomaire
Elsewhere I have written that we are all very different from each other and that the world is a better place for it. With respect to great taste in music , there are people like me , not many, true, but a decent amount , with an eclectic taste in decent , heartfelt, and original tunes. And then there are people that like Garth Brookes. We do our best to share this wonderful planet with the cloth-eared. But I draw the line at a ‘sing-a-long’. The number of great evenings and occasions , where everyone is in great spirits, more than a beverage or two have been consumed, old stories are being repeated, strangers are on the verge of becoming life long friends and ….
“Quiet please James is going to play a few tunes for us on his guitar…”
Everyone is embarrassed into silence and then James launches into a sincere, but nonetheless dreadful version of a Luke Combs/Zach Bryan/Garth Brookes ‘classic’, and then just when you think it’s safe to speak to your neighbour, someone’s uncle shouts “ Cassandra has a great voice, sing a Swiftie for us Cassie !” and then starts banging his table chanting “Cassie! Cassie Cassie!” until she gets up , pretends to be embarrassed and sings twenty songs in a row from Taylor Swift’s back catalogue.
Evening ruined.
On occasion if I spot someone arrive at a party and hide their guitar behind the sofa so that they can ‘reluctantly’ play a song later, I wait for them to go to the toilet and I put their guitar out in my car. They rarely make a fuss as you can’t pretend that you hadn’t planned to play if you’re going around asking everyone “Have you seen my guitar ?”. I then ‘find’ it at the end of the evening and shout “Who owns this, and what’s it doing in my car ?”.
You may consider this to be a dastardly and cowardly deed , but back in the days before marriage, or any adult responsibility, and 36 hour house parties, I used to let them play , waiting until they’d sung the first line and then say loudly “Is he playing with two broken hands ?” , “I hope that’s not *insert name of song* that was *insert hosts name* ex-girlfriends favourite song. Is he trying to break his heart ?” and many other even wittier , cutting remarks. But in my defence I was a wonderfully obnoxious arse back then. I started hiding guitars at parties after one particular party in a house in Blackrock in 1988. It was a Saturday evening, I’d met the crew from Banana Republic on Moore St. and we’d have a pint or two in the Liberty Belle and then headed for dinner in Little Caesars on Balfe St., before settling into Bartley Dunne’s. I’m sure we stopped at one or two other places before we ended up in someone’s basement flat in Blackrock. It was a great evening and then…
“Quiet please Glen is going to play a few tunes for us on his guitar…”
I was getting myself revved up to chop this fella down and got distracted by possibly the best version of ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ I’ve ever heard. And then we all waited for him to play another song, and he asked if he could have a beer first , and I thought ‘That is very cool’. I don’t think he played another song that night, and he’d been so good that no one else dared.
It was only a few years later when we went to see The Commitments movie I said to my Soulmate “That’s the guy who sang at that party in Blackrock !”. And she shook her head and said, “You said the same thing about that busker on Grafton St. last year. Not every ginger guitar player is the same guy.”
I was not the biggest fan of the Frames. I did like a lot of their songs and as the years went on you couldn’t not love Glen Hansard just for being himself. I always remember him saying :
“At the end of the day, I’m just trying to write ten good songs. That’s my life goal. I want to write ten good songs, and if I write ten good songs I am done. That’s it. Because then you’ve written stuff like, it’s like making a fine piece of furniture, you’ve built a chair that will serve people beyond you, and you know, that’s the craft. If you can write a few good songs , you’re flying. And it’s not about being rich. The greatest compliment you’ll ever get is if someone plays your song. You know, ‘I learnt your song, because I like it.’ That’s it. That’s everything. That’s your riches right there.”
Again, elsewhere , I wrote this week about the wealthiest man in Monaghan…
Outside of Monaghan town there’s a beautiful forest park called Rossmore. It’s larger than the Phoenix Park in Dublin and is the second most visited Coillte forest in Ireland. The only park busier is Avondale in Wicklow, which is only 30 minutes from Dublin and features a £4 million tree top walk and slide. I run two or three times a week and always run out there as it’s traffic free and you always bump into someone you know and can stop and chat and catch your breath. While finishing a run in the car park last week I was chatting to a friend of my brothers when an elderly gentleman walked past and said hello to us. He was wearing a well worn St.Anthony anorak, and carrying a well read Financial Times under his arm. His hair was snowy white and unkempt. I’d seen him around the town many times, usually sitting on a park bench at Peter’s Lake, or on the Hospital Hill, always reading a newspaper. My brother’s friend had addressed him by name, so when he’d gone I asked him who he was.
“That, is the smartest financial advisor in Europe.”
I said I found that hard to believe.
“I find that hard to believe.”
So my brother’s friend told me that this gentleman had been a good friend of his father’s and at some point , when his father had been flush with cash , he’d invested it with Lloyd’s, the maritime insurers. Back then if you invested with Lloyds you became a ‘name’ on the Lloyd’s list. Whatever profits Lloyds made each year was shared among the names. And Lloyds charged very large premiums, was world renowned, and always made a profit…until they didn’t. The year that Lloyds didn’t make a profit was the year of the Exxon Valdez oil disaster in Alaska and the sinking of the Marchioness on the Thames, and several earthquakes and hurricanes which destroyed over 700 ships worldwide. The Lloyds names were now expected to contribute to all of these disasters in compensation.
The man in the St.Anthony Anorak looked at my friend’s father’s contract and found a loophole that no one else had spotted , which saved him from certain ruin. My friend’s father offered to introduce the St.Anthony Anorak man to lots of other investors who would pay him for the same advice.
“But you’ve already paid me for that advice, it’s yours now, you can share it with whomever you like. I’m far too busy.”
My friend’s father knew of seven other people in Monaghan who were also facing ruin through Lloyds and he went around each of them that very afternoon to deliver the advice that he’d received. As he did so he twice passed the St.Anthony Anorak man. The first time he was sitting on the bench at Peter’s Lake reading a newspaper, and the second time he was sitting on the Hospital Hill, eating a 99. He stopped and went over to him.
“I thought you said you had a busy afternoon ?”
“I do. On Thursdays I read the Irish Times, The Times, and The Financial Times. It’s a very busy day.”
“But I could have got you seven new clients today. You’d have made a fortune !”
“Each of these three newspapers costs 45pence, this delicious 99 cost 30 pence. You paid me £10 this morning for that advice, so I’m still up £8.35…” And then finishing his 99 he opened the Financial Times with a flourish, and said “ Now , if you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy.”
He was a happy man.
I think that Glen Hansard died a very rich man indeed.
We’re very lucky to share our time here with other wonderful humans…and country music fans…God bless their cotton socks.
God bless your cotton socks.
I think you’re fantastic.
Toodles,
Paul
P.S. This is Star, Star, song by Glen Hansard and The Frames, and sung back at him by the whole audience who’d learnt all the words of his song.
“It’s all yours, the whole chocolate factory. I’m giving it to you. You’ve won”
