Sunday, February 25, 2024

“The End” - the Doors’ Gothic Dream Song Brings Back a Hot Day in 1967

 

Driving near Schull yesterday one of those evocative tracks from the past comes up on Spotify – The End by the Doors.  It was from their first and best album, The Doors, released in January 1967. I am immediately taken back to a baking afternoon in August of that year. I am heading to Clanricarde Gardens in Notting Hill with a friend to score some dope from a group of Irish friends we bumped into regularly around Earl’s Court - and with whom we shared an affection for the Warwick Arms on Warwick Road - where acceptable pints of Guinness were available. We arrive at their spacious ground floor flat and are let in after the customary paranoid interrogation (“who are you with”, “anyone around”). The room is in semi-darkness, the heavy, floor-length velvet curtains closed and a small lamp is fighting the murk. There is a heavy smell of hash. Pakistani Black was the most generally available form of marijuana in those days. It was a heavy, drowsy, high - conducive to listening to Pink Floyd or the Moody Blues and to crashing out. The End was playing as we entered the room. It was my first time hearing its Gothic doom-laden lyrics and dramatic musical pyrotechnics. The three occupants were Batt, Deke and Martin – all stretched out on comfortable armchairs and clearly stoned. Batt was the officer in command of their little drug-dealing triad. He was the son of a Garda sergeant in Clare and his drug-dealing would escalate to dealing heroin internationally and dying a few years later from an overdose in a hotel room in Toronto. He was a speedy, dashing guy who usually sported a beret and was always plotting the next move, the next rip off. His two companions Deke and Martin were very different types. Deke was a good-time Charlie with an endless capacity for booze and dope and little going for him except a striking physiognomy and a large muscular physique. He returned to Cork in later years and became reclusive due to a large growth on his once handsome face. He too is long gone – but his was a lingering, dying fall, played out in the corners of murky suburban pubs far from his old haunts. Martin was a slim, good-looking man with very long dark hair and sensitive features. He was a gentle soul, intelligent and well-read but much riven by a destructive cynicism about life in general and any form of endeavour or aspiration. He became a heroin addict and died choking on his own vomit about 10 years later. We were motioned to one of the abundant sofas in the room, a fresh joint was rolled and we too settled back and listened to that portentous Doors album on repeat. “This is the end, beautiful friends, the end.”

Monday, November 27, 2023

Jack Donovan and Pinkey Downey’s


An edited version of this snippet appeared in the Winter edition of the Irish Arts Review.

Not long before he died in 2014 Jack Donovan was asked by a friend if he was still painting. His reply was pithy:
 “Of course I’m bloody painting. It’s a disease, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.” It was a disease that Donovan passed on to many a budding artist during his inspirational sojourn as head of the Limerick School of Art from 1962 To 1978. Two of those inspired, John Shinnors and Donald Teskey, are now in the front rank of Irish contemporary art. Shinnors saw Donovan more as an exemplar than a teacher. Rather than overseeing his charges, Donovan set up his easel amongst them and led by example. “To me and my fellow students, Jack was an artist who practised his art amongst us. His self-imposed presence was unorthodox.” Nudes, clowns and a penchant for the irreverent were Donovan’s stock-in-trade. The earlier nudes often came in the form of collage using images torn from ‘girly’ magazines. In the later work, his nudes were painted, stylised, candy-store pink creations - far from erotic. There was a darker edge to his early paintings, while his later style became positively playful – even when depicting scenes from the crucifixion. Nude in Bed from Pinkey Downey Series  in Morgan O’Driscoll’s late October sale featureda large pink nude typical of his later work except for the fact that the eyes are painted realistically instead of his customary black orbs. The Pinkey Downey referred to in the title was a well-known bar in Michael Street (not far from the Hunt Museum) that also operated as a discreet brothel. Donovan and his friend the poet Desmond O’Grady were regulars there. It would be cheeky to suggest that they sampled the full range of options available in the long-closed premises. However, the hat hanging on the far side of the bed is exactly the type that Donovan favoured. This prime example of the storied Limerick artist went under the hammer at a modest €3,000.

Wednesday, November 01, 2023

RWC 2023 - Regrets We Have a Few

 

This current Irish team is the best I’ve ever seen since started going to rugby internationals as a schoolboy in CBC Cork back in the early 60s. Perhaps we need another world-class prop and a bit more cover in the second-row but generally we have outstanding players in most positions. With New Zealand in rebuilding mode, South Africa and France seemed our only challengers. This was an opportunity for this team of all the talents to achieve sporting immortality. That this opportunity was not taken will haunt them to their death beds. The distorted nature of the draw was a factor - it stretched our resources and depleted our energies. And maybe South Africa, with greater strength in depth, husbanded theirs better. The closeness of the four top teams is illustrated by the fact that Ireland beat SA, SA beat France, France beat NZ and NZ beat Ireland. All by small margins. But even allowing for our limited backup resources, the defeat to New Zealand was avoidable but for a series of mistakes – some of which were inspired perhaps by Joe Schmidt’s intimate knowledge of our team. Our lineout was a mess and we couldn’t rely on regular clean ball from it. We didn’t seem able to counteract the NZ contesting tactics on the fly. I think James Ryan’s absence was a major factor here. Remember his injury removal for the latter stages of Leinster’s loss to La Rochelle in the European club final turned the tide in that match. The referee Wayne Barnes is an officious little prick, full of his own importance, and had clearly been briefed on Porter’s scrummaging style. Our boys should have been aware of this and adjusted accordingly. Losing all those early scrums and line outs sucked a lot of confidence and momentum from the team. The timely intervention from Jordie Barrett when it looked a certain try for Ronan Kelleher was a real killer blow. But still we hung in there. Then Murray gave away a silly three points for obstruction when there was no danger and Sexton missed a routine penalty not long afterwards. A six-point difference that would have given us the match. Even if one of those had not happened we could have been chasing a drop goal or penalty in those last desperate minutes rather than the required try. And then the ever-reliable Doris knocks on a routine catch near the NZ twenty-two when we are gathering momentum for a final surge. Thin margins, fine lines. And suddenly it’s all over. For ever. The Roundheads won - the brute pragmatists South Africa with their scrum-based tactics and their supreme defensive excellence vanquished the Cavaliers from France, Ireland and  New Zealand. One positive note - we were saved from having to endure more of that appalling song the team seem to have adopted. I remain unconvinced of the Cranberries talents but Zombie has to be one of their direst efforts.

Sunday, October 22, 2023

Recent Reads - October 2023

 


Be Mine by Richard Ford

****

This is supposed to be Ford’s last novel in the Frank Bascombe series. And it certainly has an elegiac feel to it with the ageing and infirm protagonist taking his dying son on a road trip to Mount Rushmore. Doesn’t sound like much fun but it’s Ford’s usual blend of acute observation and reflections on Middle America - and there is much humour in his rueful account of the difficult journey and the parade of characters they encounter as they traverse parts of America that rarely appear in popular fiction. Even though he’s a cranky old bollocks I would strongly recommend it.


A Thread of Violence by Mark O’Connell

*****

Probably one of the two most engrossing books I’ve read this year. It sound unpromising - revisiting the much trodden path around Malcolm MacArthur and his two brutal murders. However, it focuses less on the murders and more on the slippery MacArthur, his family background and his current post-jail circumstances. O’Connell explores his psychology and fails to reach a conclusion. MacArthur’s inability to accept his deeds as anything more than a momentary aberration and his complete absence of remorse and empathy certainly suggest sociopathy. He sees himself as above the common herd and the only motive we can ascribe to his deeds is his quaint notion that gentlemen should not be burdened with the need to work. It all makes for a riveting read. 


Prophet Song by Paul Lynch

****

My tip for this year’s Booker Prize. It’s set in the near future where an authoritarian government, complete with Stasi-type intelligence services, began to sort out their supporters from the dissidents. The resulting violence and turmoil create a very modern state of disruption and deprivation in our own Fair City and beyond. It’s told through the experiences of a particular family as they go from cosy middle-class comfort to dislocated refugees. A convincing and timely warning of how fragile our world is and how we must guard our freedoms. Lynch writes well and draws us into this highly credible dystopia. 


Bee Sting by Paul Murray

***

Another tale of the cosy certitudes of a middle-class family being smashed but this time it’s economic recession rather than a fascist government. Murray focuses on the gradual diminishing of a family’s material well-being and the consequent effect it has on the individuals in the family: mother selling her clothes on eBay, daughter hiding their alarming fall from riches from her friends etc. This is also a Booker nomination but I found it somewhat lighter and less absorbing than Lynch’s book. Mildly entertaining at best.


Old God’s Time by Sebastian Barry

**

I must confess that I’ve never really warmed to Sebastian Barry as a novelist although I remember enjoying very much his play The Steward of Christendom. Perhaps the fact that I saw the version with Donal McCann in the lead role (at The Gate) helped. There is a certain straining for effect, trying too hard for the literary flourish in his writing, that I find grating. This novel got such good reviews I thought I’d try him again - the fact that it was set down the road (in Killiney) also encouraged me. But no, it just didn’t work for me. There was a decent story in there somewhere but I found the journey to get there tiresome. I finished it but it was a struggle.


The Wager by David Grann

*****

This was the second of the two most enjoyable books I’ve read this year. But a very different sort of book to Mark O’Connell’s. This is a ripping yarn. There are few psychological musings - just a highly readable account of of the privations suffered by the shipwrecked crew of a Royal Navy ship on an inhospitable island off Cape Horn. This was the 18th Century with strict hierarchies on board ship which slowly break down as those best equipped for survival come from the lower ranks. Hints of Lord of the Flies in there and Mutiny on the Bounty. The sources for Grann’s work included the detailed diaries kept by two of the survivors - one of whom was an ancestor of the poet Byron. So we got a couple of perspectives on all the main events and loads of attendant detail. There is even the added bonus of a very surprising ending.


The Singularities by John Banville

****

Banville just can’t let Malcolm MacArthur go - this is the fourth novel in which his doppelgänger Freddie Montgomery features. As always with Banville you can luxuriate in the fine writing and the waxing and waning of the narrative is unimportant as usual. There are many sly references to characters and places from his earlier novels - even as far back as his books on the cosmologists. Those familiar with Banville will nod knowingly, but it can be enjoyed without having consumed his back catalogue. The characters are well rendered and the setting lovingly depicted. He story kind of peters out when Freddie moves into the background but we don’t read Banville for a neat conclusion. The particularly ugly cover features an irregular black sphere and when I queried Banville about it at the Dalkey Book Festival he maintained that it represented a full-stop - so maybe this is his last go at MacArthur. 






Wednesday, October 18, 2023

Claire Keegan: Rocks Rocked in Dun Laoghaire

Entertaining event at the Pavilion Theatre in Dun Laoghaire last night. Claire Keegan was interviewed live on RTE’s Arena arts programme by its presenter Sean Rocks. She was not an easy ride for the amiable and always well-briefed presenter whose customary savoir faire was severely tested. His reasonable questions and mild assumptions frequently provoked tart responses. For instance when he spoke of her lucky break in having a family in the USA sponsor her studies over there, she responded that her own hard work had a lot to do with her success. In addition, her answers, like her novels, tended to be short and succinct leaving the unfortunate Rocks having to dip into his question bag more frequently than felt comfortable. She comes across as very self-possessed and a tad earnest - with little interest in playing the game as it’s usually done at these events where the interviewer lobs a safe question and the interviewee lobs back a bland answer and keeps the ball in play for a while. She did however do three fine readings from her books. Although she comes across as slightly humourless, there were flashes of dry wit. During a discussion of misogyny in Irish men she did aver that due to the smallness of her dating sample she would refrain from generalising. The full house was about 80% women - and they gave her an enthusiastic reception. I am a fan of her work and came away from the event an admirer of this doughty woman also.