Читать книгу Barefoot in Mullyneeny: A Boy’s Journey Towards Belonging - Bryan Gallagher - Страница 12

All our class successfully negotiated our way through our first confession and communion, and next day, in the odour of sanctity, we were allowed to have a school concert. There was a prize of sixpence for the best singer. One girl sang ‘The Old Bog Road’, a sad song about an emigrant thinking of his homeland. Another sang ‘Teddy O’Neill’, about a girl lamenting the departure of her boyfriend. I thought, in view of the day that was in it, I would sing something lively, so I launched into ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’.

Goodbye Dolly I must leave you, though it breaks my heart to go.

Something tells me I am needed, at the front to fight the foe.

See the soldier boys are marching, and I can no longer stay,

Hark, I hear the bugle calling, Goodbye Dolly Gray.

I had heard my mother singing it to herself and I had no trouble picking it up. I gave a spirited rendition, and when I saw the other children tapping their feet in time to the music, I figured that the sixpence was as good as mine. I finished, and flushed with success, I sat down in triumph. Alas, pride goes before a fall. The teacher looked at me witheringly.

‘A most unsuitable song,’ she said. ‘That is a British army marching song, next child to sing please,’ and added in an undertone to the big girls, ‘what else would you expect from a policeman’s son?’

When I told my mother, she laughed and said, ‘She’s right. It is a British army marching song. Next time you better sing “Wrap the Green Flag Round Me Boys”.’

And the remarkable thing is that I could have done so easily, because in our house, when I was growing up, we were ‘exposed to a wide range of musical experience’, as the teaching manuals have it. My mother had what seemed a limitless repertoire, ranging from Irish traditional music to Victorian music hall and Moore’s Melodies, and from hit tunes of the Forties to light opera, and the singing of Tauber, Gigli and above all, John McCormack, who was revered by my parents as a musical deity.

Music was almost a way of life. One of my earliest memories is of my mother, playing the piano and singing in her fine round voice, ‘I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls’.

Once a week, a lady used to arrive at our house on a bicycle to teach us the piano. The sole purpose of this seemed to be to pass music exams, and enjoyment did not enter into it. Studies, scales major and minor, in similar or contrary motion, sight-reading and ear tests were the order of the day. I cordially hated these lessons, and instead of practising, spent my time picking out tunes by ear, much to the teacher’s displeasure. One day, as I came into the room for my lesson, she said, ‘Don’t look over. What chord is this?’

She played a chord on the piano. ‘A flat,’ I replied

‘What note is this?’ she asked, and played a note near the top of the piano.

‘F sharp,’ I replied without hesitation.

‘You have perfect pitch,’ she said. ‘You should be doing far better.’

Full of pride, I told the boys in school, but I would have been better not to, because one of them told the teacher that I had used bad language and said she was a ‘perfect bitch’, and I was put standing out on the floor for the rest of the day.

However, my musical interest increased, and I dug out every songbook in the house and learned the words as well as the notes. One that sticks in my mind was ‘The Bridle Hanging on the Wall’, about a man whose favourite horse had died.

There’s a bridle hanging on the wallThere’s a saddle in the empty stallNo more he’ll answer to my callThere’s a bridle hanging on the wall.

I must have been a soppy kind of child, because I used to have tears in my eyes when I sang this and just wallowed in the sentimentality. Looking back, the only excuse I can have for this mawkish behaviour is that I myself had known and ridden a neighbour’s beautiful white horse which had died under tragic circumstances.

I remember about this time making my stage debut, singing at a parochial concert. During the holy season of Lent, no dancing was permitted by the Church, and the principal entertainments were the parish concerts. The parish priest had a simple plan of action for these affairs. He would come out on to the stage, look down at the audience, and call somebody up to perform. Refusing was not an option. ‘Paddy Gunn, come up and play the accordion,’ he would say. ‘John McManus, come up and play the fiddle.’

One night he called out, ‘Janey Maguire for a song.’ And Janey, from a well-known musical family, came up and sang ‘By Killarney’s Lakes and Fells’, and received warm applause. After a few more items, the priest called out, ‘Ownie Maguire for a song.’ Ownie was Janey’s brother, and he sang ‘By Killarney’s Lakes and Fells’, and received slightly more tepid applause.

Later on, Alsie Maguire from the same family was called upon and when she sang the same song, the audience were getting restive and there were a few shouts. There were six Maguires and they all sang ‘By Killarney’s Lakes and Fells’. As soon as the last one started the first line, the audience, who were by now expecting it, yelled, shouted and cheered wildly. The parish priest, who was both tone-deaf and naïve, was highly gratified by the reception.

Sometimes members of the local dance band would perform as guest artistes and I used to look in awe at these celebrities, with drum kit, double bass, saxophones and with microphones powered by a car battery. There was much arranging of wires and stands and loudspeakers on the stage, all watched with the greatest of interest by us, the audience. Then we heard a crackling sound through the speakers, and a band member came out on the stage, tapped the microphone, and said into it, ‘Hello, hello.’

We responded, ‘Hello, hello,’ as good manners dictated, so that there was instant dialogue across the footlights.

Man:	Hello!
Audience:	Hello!
Man:	Testing! Testing!
Audience:	Testing, testing!
Man:	Testing, one, two, three.
Audience:	Testing, four, five, six.

I thought that this band was the pinnacle of sophistication, and when they started their programme, with the leader saying in a slightly American accent, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the music of the Starlight dance band,’ and when they described the songs as ‘numbers’, and used the word ‘entitled’, I thought, ‘This is really showbusiness.’

‘We’d like to play a number entitled “South of the Border down Mexico Way”,’ they would say. And the singer wasn’t a singer, but a ‘crooner’. They sat down behind music stands with sheet music on them, and SL painted on the front. ‘And here is our crooner John to sing for you our next number, “Cruising Down the River”.’ The drummer counted aloud in waltz time, ‘With a one two three, two two three,’ and they started.

I was in heaven.