Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Mo Cheol Sibh

I saw a lot of music last weekend, some good, some bad and some downright orange (Duffy, but that was a total accident - I was on my way to the "toilets" and happened to be passing the main stage. I stuck my fingers in my ears, and not just for comic effect). Some of it, however, hit me right in the tear ducts. And because this blog is about me and not about music, here are my highlights.

Sigur Ros played a beautiful set on Friday. As Hoppipolla washed over the crowd the world felt for a moment like it had been set to rights, and in a small way it had. I sent a well-timed message to an estranged friend; it chipped at the ice and raised a smiley. Not quite a smile, but that's something for me to work towards.

"We're going to play a nice mellow set, to make up for all the stressful music that's being played around here" announced the bould Sinéad at the start of her set, instantly losing her friends and alienating people. Like most of the assembled crowd, I will forgive Sinéad most anything, even Sean-Nós Nua. Thankfully it didn't come to that. Her short, sweet set tested the audience's patience, but she finished with Nothing Compares 2U. The song will always remind me of my childhood in Palmerstown, my brother and I as 9 and 10 year olds bouncing on the bed, screaming it at the top of our lungs, spiking our hair with soap, playing guitar on our tennis rackets, wearing white vests and pretending we were rock stars. She sang it softly, Steve Cooney accompanying her on the guitar. I got goosebumps. I heard a snuffle come from the guy on my left as she finished, and clocked him wiping snotbubbles on his sleeve. "That was the nicest thing I've ever heard" he sniffed. It was, too. My beau sent me a YouChoob clip of it this evening, but I won't link. It cheapens these small, beautiful moments, makes them look loud, discordant, fuzzy. My memory of it will be of his arms around me, her soft voice lilting, lifting the crowd, and the poor cunt beside me blubbering into his pint.

My Bloody Valentine's set opened with the overexcited middle-aged gent beside me screaming Fuck Bono! We love you, Kevin! Show us your tits! at the top of his lungs, and ended with an almost orgasmic sense of relief when they finally broke from their Holocaust of torturous feedback. Their music washed over me on Sunday night and it tasted like home. I occasionally pump my teenage years in Kilkenny for stories, hugging my adventures to me for nostalgia's sake. In truth though I think of them little enough - it's eleven years and two days since I left them behind me. There is not yet enough space between the sixteen year old me and the person I have become for us to feel entirely at ease with one another, she brings out the worst in me and I become awkward and teenage again in her company. Close friends from those days have fallen by my wayside and even now my guilt at their sinking has not quite subsided. Those four years I spent there seemed like a lifetime ago, seemed like something that happened to someone else. But the swell of their guitars on Sunday night brought all that welling up. I felt again as I did then, when I was becoming the person I recognise myself as now. I like her much better these days than I did then and it has taken me a long time and a lot of hard work to get this comfortable in my skin. I wonder if, eleven years and two days from now, I will still be so easy to undo?

I hope so.

9 comments:

le craic said...

It's good that you're in a good place. Lovely description of your weekend too.

Rosie said...

eek, there are many more tales to be told of my weekend...

Conan Drumm said...

You put it beautifully, Rosie. That's where music can take us, and it's not always a comfort zone.

emordino said...

> As Hoppipolla washed over the crowd the world felt for a moment like it had been set to rights, and in a small way it had.

Yes.

Rosie said...

míle buíochas, Conan.

i think it may have tilted again when i met yourself and Maybury, EM. even though Maybury patently had no clue who i was.

Conan Drumm said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Rosie said...

i read your comment and puzzled over it, Conan, you obviously did too. you're right though, we haven't met yet.

stereotyping said...

"It cheapens these small, beautiful moments, makes them look loud, discordant, fuzzy."

Best line I've read anywhere all week.

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