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Gavin Friday: ‘U2 and I are almost like brothers – you very rarely blow smoke up your brother's ass'

Gavin Friday: ‘U2 and I are almost like brothers – you very rarely blow smoke up your brother's ass'

Irish Times9 hours ago

I'm
65 now. I was born in the Rotunda hospital, and in 1962 I moved to Cedarwood Road, which was old Ballymun before the new Ballymun appeared. I was quite a shy child. I was about 12 or 13 when I met Guggi and Bono and music had become very important to me. The Ireland of then was ridiculous in the stranglehold the Catholic Church had on us. My father was a strict man, a diehard, old-school Catholic guy. Loved GAA, all of that, and I was the polar opposite, a shy kid who didn't like sports. My father thought I needed to toughen up. So I was sent to the Christian Brothers. I can't stand that whole spotlight of 'poor me', but when I look back now, one of the glues that glued Bono, Guggi and myself together was the three of us had not great relationships with our dad. We had a difficult dad.
I was bullied badly, even bullied in primary school in Glasnevin. I found the nuns really cruel and hard. There was corporal punishment in school, so you were hit – and badly hit, which is horrific to think of. The stuff they would do even with a cane or a leather. I didn't hang out with many people.
My true little world was about music and drawing and art. I always liked performing even though I was shy. Whenever my dad's mates were over, I'd be called down to sing a song. And I would sing. I loved music but I didn't know much, so it was Top of the Pops that became my first touchstone. I was a 1970s kid: glam rock – Marc Bolan, T Rex, Bowie and Roxy Music.
I found a home in my head. I started dressing a certain way. My mum would make elephant flares for me. I got my ear pierced when I was 13, and that was a big thing to have your ear pierced then and I was battered for it. I was being beaten up and called names. My response became more prominent when I formed The Virgin Prunes in 1978, when I was 18. I thought, 'I'm going to wear a dress'. It was not gentle-looking, it didn't look fun and cuddly the way Boy George did. It was punk: 'Is that guy gonna bite the head off or kiss us or kill us, or what?' There was an element of threat about it.
READ MORE
[
Gavin Friday in Dublin review: Svelte, swooning performer lays bare his life on the stage
Opens in new window
]
There was nothing nourishing going around other than music. I really did find Dublin hard. Things are really hard here now economically for people, but it was a complete nightmare back in the 1980s. As an adult I was kicking against the Catholic Church very strongly in The Virgin Prunes. One of our infamous performances was on The Late Late Show in 1979: it was the same weekend the pope was in Ireland. I think Gay Byrne knew what he was doing because he liked being a bit controversial.
My idea of success was 'Get me out of here': get me away from this drudgery of old Catholic Ireland. I started gigging and touring. We were away so much. We weren't earning much money. The first success I had was when I started working with
Jim Sheridan
, when I did the music for In the Name of the Father. When Jim Sheridan asked me to be the musical consultant on In the Name of the Father, I took on the challenge and we got on well. He said, 'Could you make a bomb go off musically? Could you do that?' I said, 'Yeah, I think so.' Then he said, 'I think you guys can do score, so let's go for it.' I love working to learn more.
I'm very singular in what I do. I speak straight, mate to mate. When I worked with Bono on
Stories of Surrender
, the stage show [version of Bono's
memoir
], I said, 'Well, you can't turn the whole book into a stage show'. It's just about having conversations, the way friends do. I have a very strong friendship with Bono and we have a very direct communication. It's not just with Bono, but the
whole of U2
, because I know them 50 years. I've always been at a recording session when they go in to make an album, at the beginning, middle and the end. We're almost like brothers – you very rarely blow smoke up your brother's ass. 'What do you think of these songs?' 'I love these five, that needs more work, that's brilliant.'
Albums to me are not jobs. It's an expression of who you are and what you're going through. To me, if you want to say something, the best way to say it is to make the tune have a sweetness or a tangibility.
In conversation with Nadine O'Regan. This interview, part of
a series
asking well-known people about their lives and relationship with Ireland, was edited for clarity and length. Gavin Friday's latest album is Ecce Homo. Bono: Stories of Surrender is out now on Apple+

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Lions diary: A relaxed Johnny Sexton, Dostoevsky and questions of identity
Lions diary: A relaxed Johnny Sexton, Dostoevsky and questions of identity

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timean hour ago

  • Irish Times

Lions diary: A relaxed Johnny Sexton, Dostoevsky and questions of identity

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Haim: I Quit review – Ferociously catchy, satisfyingly grudge-bearing
Haim: I Quit review – Ferociously catchy, satisfyingly grudge-bearing

Irish Times

time2 hours ago

  • Irish Times

Haim: I Quit review – Ferociously catchy, satisfyingly grudge-bearing

I Quit      Artist : Haim Label : Polydor Rock music arrives at the quarter mark of the 21st century in a strange place. To the extent that anything interesting is happening, it is largely in the margins. Out in the daylight this is the era of the big beasts of antiquity: Oasis on the comeback trail, the middle-aged happy chappies Coldplay making it their mission to sprinkle the world in figurative and literal confetti, U2 trying to work out what to do next. Significantly, the most streamed band on Spotify are Imagine Dragons, a pop act with a passing familiarity with guitars. Thank goodness, then, for Haim. There is something hugely cheering about the return of these three sisters from the San Fernando Valley, in southern California, whose bittersweet soft rock is proof that, between the indie underground and the stadium cash grab, there is still a third way. Since their debut, a decade ago, they have championed such delightfully old-fashioned values as sun-kissed guitar anthems fuelled by heartache, melancholy and zinging melodies that insist on being hummed aloud. READ MORE They've also had to overcome being dismissed as pop fodder early in their careers. Still, in their teens they resisted attempts to turn them into a chart group dancing to the tune of behind-the-scenes producers and composers. 'We were scouted as teenagers, and it was kind of a horror story,' Este , the eldest of the sisters, told Irish journalists in 2014. 'It was terrible; we were turned off the business for a while. The songs were already written – they only wanted us to play. That was an instructive experience. Immediately we were, like, 'From now on we will write all our own stuff.'' To paraphrase their musical heroes Fleetwood Mac, they were determined to go their own way. That journey moves up to the next level on their ferociously catchy and satisfyingly grudge-bearing fourth album, I Quit. Showcasing the wonderfully vituperative songwriting of Danielle Haim , the middle sister – she's had her heart broken, and you're going to hear all about it – it makes the bold statement that rock music can be catchy and cathartic without pandering to the lowest common denominator. With Danielle producing alongside the former Vampire Weekend member Rostam Batmanglij, I Quit exits the traps at speed. All Over Me is a steamy chunk of acoustic funk whose narrator dreams of healing their broken heart with a quick hook-up. Take Me Back, meanwhile, is chiming folk pop that bubbles with retro goodness, recalling at moments Joni Mitchell and REM. The album's title is a reference to the band's mission statement of not being caught in a rut. The goal is 'quitting something that isn't working for us any more', according to Alana Haim (who is best known outside the band for starring in Paul Thomas Anderson's Liquorice Pizza ). Nor is it entirely a Danielle show. Este takes lead vocals on Cry, the most country-oriented moment on the epic 15-track run time. ('Seven stages of grief and I don't know which I'm on,' she croons in a lyric that draws from the big book of country-rock cliches.) A youthful vivacity runs through the project – a consequence, they have revealed, of the three sisters all being single for the first time since high school. 'I think it really brought up this nostalgic [feeling] for the last time we were single, when I was, like, 14, 15, 16,' Alana told BBC Radio. 'It's just been amazing to kind of, like, go back and relive those times [and] get back into it.' There is little in the way of surprises – aside from one curveball at the end, when Now It's Time samples the U2 song Numb, a highlight from the days when Bono and friends were more interested in pushing themselves sonically than putting bums on seats. It is a haunting reminder of the more experimental band U2 might have been and a winning conclusion to a charming LP. Haim could never be accused of blazing originality: this is a great album forged from the DNA of other great albums. But it is catchy, brash and bittersweet – and refuses to take prisoners. With so much going on, I Quit is an urgent call to the world not to give up on rock quite yet.

How Henry Mount Charles brought Dylan, Springsteen and The Rolling Stones to a former rock'n'roll backwater
How Henry Mount Charles brought Dylan, Springsteen and The Rolling Stones to a former rock'n'roll backwater

Irish Times

time3 hours ago

  • Irish Times

How Henry Mount Charles brought Dylan, Springsteen and The Rolling Stones to a former rock'n'roll backwater

When Henry Mount Charles , who died on June 18th at the age of 74, first reframed his ancestral home of Slane Castle as a signature rock venue in 1981, it must have been more in hope than expectation. Ireland was then a rock'n'roll backwater rarely included on the touring schedule of the big international acts of the day, as it had a severe shortage of decent-sized venues. The backdrop of violence and the hunger strikes in the North did not help, but the Republic had succeeded in making itself a dispiriting place on its own. Fintan O'Toole, in his book We Don't Know Ourselves , outlined the grim picture. 'The number of unemployed people had doubled over the course of the 1970s. Mass emigration was back. There was a balance of payments crisis and government debt was out of control ... The whole project of making Ireland a normal Western European country was in deep trouble.' Yet there must have been some optimism in the music business, as in 1981 Slane had to compete with music festivals in Macroom, Co Cork, Ballisodare, Co Sligo, Castlebar, Co Mayo, and Lisdoonvarna, Co Clare. Most of those events were headlined by Irish acts, however – as indeed was Slane. Thin Lizzy were nearing the end of their career at the top, but supporting them that day in August was a four-piece on the rise from Dublin: U2 . READ MORE Although only about 25,000 people attended the first Slane concert, its success paved the way for future events and for Henry Mount Charles' emergence as a public figure of note. Slane's natural amphitheatre could safely accommodate numbers much greater than the modest first event. In addition, it was near Dublin and could be reached by bus or car in a relatively short time. [ Henry Mount Charles: A Lord in Slane – The strange blend of fact and fiction around one of the last Anglo-Irish eccentrics Opens in new window ] Rock music is a business. The bigger the audience, the easier it is to attract leading acts. Pay them the money and they will come. And so it proved, with the likes of The Rolling Stones , Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen happy to park their caravans down by the Boyne. Springsteen's concert in front of an estimated 65,000 fans marked an important shift in his career: it was the first time he and the E Street Band played in front of a stadium-sized outdoor audience. It would be the first of many lucrative concerts. As the profile of Slane grew, Mount Charles lapped it up. Although concerts were generally partnerships with the likes of MCD Productions and Aiken Promotions , Henry was the public face of the event. He was no less a performer than those artists he welcomed to Slane. Concert days were celebrated in high style with the great and the good in the castle. [ Foo Fighters, Oasis, U2, the Rolling Stones and more: Slane's 15 greatest acts – in reverse order Opens in new window ] He was keenly aware of the value of good publicity and no slouch when in search of it. The money generated by the concerts was a windfall of sorts, but, crucially, it allowed him to underpin the finances of the castle and its grounds, developing other projects, such as the Slane whiskey brand , and helping to provide the resources to overcome setbacks such as the fire of 1991. Although a very public personality, the young Henry Mount Charles – he was in his early 30s in 1981 – was good and genial company, interested in the world beyond his castle walls and indeed beyond his elite social milieu. Embracing the rock'n'roll world afforded him the opportunity to experience the thrill of meeting great artists and celebrities while banking enough to retain and maintain his beloved Slane Castle for future generations. That concert idea was good fortune indeed. Joe Breen wrote about rock music for The Irish Times from the mid-1970s to the mid-1980s

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