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Irish Examiner

Tom Dunne: Rory Gallagher still rocking Cork 30 years after his passing

You will be hard pressed to avoid Rory Gallagher's presence in Cork this weekend. Thirty years gone but never forgotten. The main road in Cork airport is to be named after him, exhibitions at City Hall and the Library, a city-wide walking trail… it is as it should be. The consensus at this point is that he is Cork's finest cultural export and I wouldn't question that. Time spent in Rory's world is time well spent. It does the heart good. Rory rocked Cork and Cork rocks Rory. I met him twice. The first, when my band Something Happens made its first ever UK appearance in the late 1980s. As part of that magic trip, a very early days Ryan Air flight, a gig at Vince Power's Mean Fiddler, a night in the Columbia Hotel, we were invited onto the BBC. It was impossible to have seen any BBC output in those days without having also seen Broadcasting House, the BBC London headquarters. Situated between Oxford Street and Regent's Park, bombed twice in World War II, it seemed as iconic as the queen herself. It was the last place you expected to hear a Cork accent. But as we approached the doors that was what we heard. 'You an Irish band lads?' asked the voice. We turned and there he was, Rory Gallagher. Bold as brass and twice as good-looking. He asked how we were getting on, seemed genuinely excited that we had signed a record deal, enquired about Virgin, sang the praises of the Mean Fiddler, and wished us the best in our interview. We were gobsmacked, speechless, in awe. I hear his voice still. A few years later we got to play with him at the Lark by the Lee in Cork. We stood side stage to watch that most inspiring of all sights: Rory Gallagher, his 1961 Fender Strat and his Vox AC30 amp. The holy trinity of rock. A spinning dervish, the guitar speaking for him, saying what he couldn't. I still think of it. It comes with a whiff of imposter syndrome for us to have been on that same stage as him, but for him to have made time to talk to us that night at the BBC, the sheer generosity of it, is something I will never forget. I hope in the exhibitions, one of which Rory's Early Impact focuses on his early years in the Fontana Show Band (later The Impact) a light is shone, tangentially at least, on his mum, Monica. If a proper biopic is ever made, hers will be a key role. It was Monica who took Rory and his younger brother Donal to live in Cork when the children were very young. Rory already has his sights set on music and Monica promised to buy him a guitar if he settled in his new school. It was she who accompanied him to Crowley's music shop, then on Merchant's Quay when in 1963 he had his heart set on a Fender guitar. He'd hoped that when faced with Mick Crowley she'd weaken and buy him the guitar despite the exorbitant price of £129. But she stood firm. Jim recalled that once outside the shop there was a conflab and after it, Monica returned to ask if they ever got in any second-hand Strats. Mick told her it was unlikely. He'd only sold two or three such guitars and most people would keep them forever. What happened next is a fantastic reflection on the vagaries of the Irish showband scene at the time. When a member of the Royal Showband found that his new guitar clashed with the band's new suits it was the guitar got hocked and not the suits. Crowley's suddenly had a second-hand Strat. Mick made his way to the Gallagher's and left a message. Rory slipped out of school to examine the guitar and conclude 'Yep, that's the one!' He was back with Monica at 5.30pm to pay a deposit and negotiate a hire purchase. In his showband days, still a young teen and playing gigs while still going to the North Mon school, Rory fell foul of the teachers and was beaten for his long hair. Monica pulled him out of the school and deposited him at Saint Kieran's college, a co-ed on Camden Quay. Monica warned the new principle: 'My son is a musician…some mornings he will be late coming in.' It wasn't off the stones he licked it, as they say.