Beautiful Affair. Mike Hanrahan

I recognise the old pub MG convertible, and I’m right back in the driver’s seat accompanied by concertina ace Noel Hill, on our way back from Garrihy’s shop with the morning supply of milk and eggs. I had never driven a car before that summer, so the excitement was palpable every time I turned the key. On our way back down the hill towards the pub, a tractor suddenly appeared around the corner. In a fit of panic, I swerved to avoid it but ended up sideways in the ditch with the wheels spinning in the air. The farmer was highly amused as he tied a rope to the car and brought the MG back onto the dirt road, bidding us well on the rest of our journey. As we continued on down, we noticed a group of people gathered outside the pub pointing in our direction. The village wire service had notified base of our little escapade, and as we rounded the rear of the pub some of the lads guided us into our parking spot like a Formula 1 pit signals team. ‘Well done, lads. Emerson Fittipaldi called there, looking for yer details!’ shouted one. ‘I hear Evel Knievel is gonna jump the Grand Canyon, boys – sure ye might have a go at the Cliffs!’ laughed another. For days, we heard nothing else, and all the locals made sure we were never going to forget how we were run off the road by a tractor – chugging its way UP a hill. Years later, at the Irish Embassy pub in Boston, Tommy introduced me to a TV host friend whose first words were, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. Tommy tells me you could have made it in Formula One. We could set you up for Nascar while you’re here – or maybe you’d prefer the demolition derby?’

      THE ORIGINS OF ‘BEAUTIFUL AFFAIR’

       There comes a time when you look around

       And you see the ocean rise before your eyes, showing no surprise.

       So you make your way down to the shore,

       And you climb aboard and give yourself a smile, it makes you feel alive.

      – ‘Beautiful Affair’, Light in the Western Sky (1982)

      The imagery of ‘Beautiful Affair’ is Doolin and neighbouring Lahinch, where I spent many Sundays of my youth on the sprawling beach and sandy dunes, playing on chair-o-planes and dodgem cars and swimming in the wild Atlantic Ocean.

      Today as I sit in my old haunt, I think I finally understand the song it gave to me. I certainly know more than that seventeen-year-old boy who arrived at his first major crossroads not really sure which direction to take. Whatever road he chose, it was guaranteed to turn upside down his sheltered and wonderful childhood – but it was time. Nights were now filled with the dreams I would often realise the following day, as I played music, sang my songs and discovered writers, philosophers and poets.

      I close my eyes and summon the spirits of the music to fill each crack and crevice with their wonderful tunes and laughter – I can hear the notes bounce from hand to bow, feet firmly stomping out the beat as tourists and travellers alike are drenched in the atmosphere of the moment. I see postcard snippets of the world flutter before me: I see Rome, Amsterdam, Sydney, Boston, Calgary, all the smaller towns and villages and those wonderful faces who embraced and cheered the Wing’s effervescent musical swagger. It all began here in this room at McGann’s Pub in Doolin – the place where I belong.

       CHAPTER 3

       MAURA O’CONNELL

       Mell and Colly lay down by the water to watch the stars collide.

       He takes her by the hand, says

       ‘I can’t understand this fear we keep inside.

       Take a look along that empty shore.

       If we walk that lonely road

       I’ll pick you up when you fall down.

       You’ll be there when I fall down.’

      – ‘From the Blue’, What You Know (2002)

      By 1977 I was writing a lot, singing at sessions and playing the odd support gig. As with all gigs, it helps to have a professional in your corner; at a Clive Collins Hobo Junction gig, I met up with local sound engineer TV Honan, whom I’d first met in our teens at the Friary Hall Youth Club. TV (Thomas Vincent, in case you were wondering) was meticulous in his efforts to ensure I had a good sound. This was all new to me, as in my younger days, sound engineers rarely acknowledged our band’s presence, let alone offered a sound check.

      TV called a few weeks later, suggesting I should hook up with Maura O’Connell for a few songs. I knew Maura from the family fish shop in Ennis right across the street from where I worked as a teenager, and I heard her sing many times at the Pro Cathedral. Her mother Amby was a great singer who instilled in Maura a love of old Irish music-hall ballads, light opera and the emotional dynamics of the great musicals. We met at TV’s flat on Abbey Street in Ennis, which was the third floor of a house owned by his parents, Derry and Tras Honan. Tras was a very strong-willed Fianna Fáil politician who had the distinction of being the first woman to chair the Irish Senate. She loved a good debate and I was always the willing young agitator full of youthful notions, itching for a political row. Some might say I haven’t changed much apart from the odd grey hair or two.

      GARLICKED

      I was completely taken in by Maura’s voice right from that very first rehearsal, unique with a rich, velvet timbre that weaves and meanders through each lyric line – so authentic, so full of emotion. We spent a lot of our evenings singing and listening to new music. Way down in the basement stood an old Aga, which fed and kept us warm during cold winter evenings. If you walk through the alley at Cruises Bar in Ennis today you will see remnants of that old cooking wonder, rusted and worn but still able to conjure a good memory or two. These days it seems to function as a drinks table and perhaps a quaint decorative reminder of a bygone era. If it could talk …

      Cooking was a communal event in the flat, especially at the weekends when feasts were planned sometimes days in advance. One Saturday myself and TV were on duty to cook a spaghetti bolognese, which required, among other things, a clove of garlic. We were not familiar with garlic, and Ennis was not renowned for its stock of ‘exotic’ veg, but we managed to find garlic somewhere and returned very excited to prepare our new dish. What follows has been recounted several times by Maura O’Connell – in fact, I would go so far as to say she has made a career out of this story, filling up many minutes of air and stage time with it, particularly if I am anywhere within range. TV and I busied ourselves preparing the ingredients, carefully following the ragù recipe to the letter while Maura and our friend Paddy O’Brien sat upstairs listening to music. We sautéed the onions, followed by diced carrots, celery and then the clove of garlic. We added the beef, and as we poured in the wine, there was a sizzle and the room began to choke with the smell of garlic.

      ‘Jesus, it’s strong stuff, TV!’

      ‘Yea, it surely is. Sure, it might settle down with the wine.’

      We kept going, but the smell was soon catching the backs of our throats.

      ‘Open up the window there, Jaysus,’ I said as we coughed and spluttered.

      The aroma had made its way out into the hall, and up around the three flights of stairs to Paddy and Maura. There was a clatter of feet on the wooden stairwell and the kitchen door swung open.

      ‘Jesus, lads, the smell of garlic would kill you! How much did ye put in? It’s very strong.’

      ‘Only one clove,’ I replied. ‘The recipe said just one, but it’s very strong stuff.’

      ‘And where is the rest of it?’ she asked.

      ‘There is no more. We only got one clove, and that’s all we put in.’

      Maura looked from