Christy has still got it

I’d say that 90 per-cent of all the conversations I have are based on three simple questions.

Number one is, ‘How’s the form?’.

Number two is, ‘Much craic?’.

And number three is, ‘What’s the plans for the weekend?’.

The first two are grand.

One enables you to feign interest in the emotional wellbeing of others, while the other is a fantastic means of eliciting any news, worldly observations, or anecdotes from an acquaintance.

It is only number three that I have a problem with.

You see, ‘Any plans for the weekend?’ makes the wrongheaded assumption that nothing worthy of convivial discussion could possibly happen before the working week is out.

This is not the case.

Far from it.

For any fool who falls for this common misconception, anybody whose gaze is forever fixed upon the weekend, is sure to miss out on some of the most magic nights of all.

The wise man knows that there is no shortage of craic to be had on a school night.

And I found one of these nights of midweek magic two Thursdays ago, in none other than the dirty, rotten, sleeping beauty of a town they call Bundoran.

It was Thursday, September 15, and we were bound for Rougey’s cliff-top castle which, on that evening, overlooked the quieting kingdom on Bundoran town.

We were arriving just as the dying embers of peak season were fading out, mid September, but Bundoran had kindly kept a few of its summer rays in reserve for us.

As we climbed the winding hill toward the iconic Great Northern Hotel, an orange teardrop hung low and strong above the vast Atlantic.

The scene couldn’t have been sweeter, more heavenly.

And rightfully so.

Because we were there to see of one of the gods of Irish folk music: The legendary, Christy Moore.

If the Kildare man were Zeus that night, the Great Northern was to become his Olympus.

It was myself, my aul’ boy, my brother and my uncle, Fran.

The first three of us had heard Christy on a few different occasions over the last ten years.

But the last time Fran had seen the sacred sweat glisten upon Christy’s gorgeous skull, it was 1987, and the Newbridge troubadour was playing in Knocknamoe.

We’re a big Christy house.

I’d say that before I was born, the rhythm of my heart was being set by the beat of Christy’s bodhrán.

I’d say the Kildare balladeer may be my oldest and most enduring musical companion.

Some of the earliest memories I have are of Christy’s music.

I fondly remember seemingly interminable car journeys made bearable only by the playing and replaying of his ‘Live at the Point’ CD.

I recall being buckled into the backseat of the car, bouncing through the boggy Tyrone/Donegal hinterland for what seemed like an eternity, and how, through every second of that forever, I would heartily chant along with Christy as his voice filled the car.

The tune may not have been well held, but not a word was ever missed.

Anyway, to get to Bundoran on that fine Thursday evening, we had to traverse those same rough hills of moss and turf.

The whole chat up the road was whether Christy was going to be accompanied by other musicians, or if we would see only that single, solitary, stocky figure fill the stage.

We grabbed our last drinks, shuffled into the jam-packed hall, and filled four empty seats.

The lights dimmed, and the 77-year-old emerged.

It was just like when Fran seen him back in Knocknamoe in 1987: One man and his guitar.

“If ye feel like singing, sing along!”

‘Ordinary man’; ‘Back Home in Derry’; ‘McIlhatton’; ‘Black is the Colour’; ‘Weekend in Amsterdam’; ‘The Time Has Come’; ‘Well Below the Valley’; ‘Go, Move, Shift’; ‘A Stitch in Time’…

There wasn’t a song that he sang that was not worth singing.

There wasn’t a line that he delivered that lacked conviction.

What stood before us was the same compulsive, committed storyteller that the world of folk music first fell in love with back in the days of Planxty.

And age has not robbed him of any of his essential qualities. There was not a tremor of weakness in his voice. No hint of a sharp wit beginning to go blunt.

Not a whisper of jadedness, apathy or a lack of appreciation for either the songs that he sang, or the crowd who came to hear them.

There are those who lambaste Christy for being taciturn, cantankerous and even ill-tempered with those who dare to whisper while he regales the room with lyrical yarns.

This edge of his personality had not faded either, thank god.

To top the whole thing off, he gave Fran – who likes to keep the head next to clean shaven – a bit of abuse as he obtrusively returned from the toilet.

“It seems like the big fella’s went the same as myself up top,” he fired down the hall.

…Fran wasn’t long getting his arse back in his chair!