The King
My mother had a guitar. I remember, very rarely, when I couldn't sleep as a baby, she would take it down and sing softly to me. Usually 'Báidín Fheilimí'
A sweet soft Irish song.
I could see her fingers through the bars on my cot as she picked the nylon strings softly.
She had about ten different instruments hanging in the living room.
Never played them as I was growing.
Music became the water that I swam in to keep me from drowning.
Records my parents had. The Dubliners, Simon And Garfunkel, Elvis, The Tornadoes, Val Doonican, Chet Atkins and on.
Place the needle gently on the record and listen to the finest music humans can make. Fly high.
We had a little grocery store. Food, Wellingtons, Bicycles, tool handles, meat, statues of the Virgin Mary, Mass cards, Parafin oil, Animal feed etc.but we also sold Guns, Ammunition, plants, Cigarettes, papers , Old Moores Almanacs, toys.
There was a cheap guitar in the toy section.
Something happened one day and the headstock had snapped. Still held on though and the strings made a sound.
I anxiously picked up the courage to ask Daddy " Can I have the broken guitar please?".
You can.
My heart swelled. I was ten.
I brought it up to the room I shared with my brother and laid it against the book shelf.
I lay on the bed and gazed lovingly at the first of a thousand guitars that would lay in my arms in my life.
He'd be so proud of me now that child.
Two days later my brother was deeply engaged in a bracing game of bouncing on the bed.
Bounced five feet in the air and landed on the guitar rendering it useless.
I've never before or since topped the murderous rage I felt. Still haven't spoken to the prick.
One day I asked my lovely Mammy "Why don't you play any of your instruments? "
She said "I've got a very bad case of marriage".
That hit me like a bolt of lightning to the heart. I remember the shock.
My mother didn't have permission to make music because it was beautiful. She had to hide her beauty it belonged to my father.
In my spine I swore that I would own all the music and no one would ever stop me. Ever.
No bastard has and a few have tried.
Elvis was my first big obsession.
In the same way my daughter loves Taylor Swift.
Anyway I read in the paper that an Elvis impersonator was going to play in the Abbey Hotel in town. Starts at 10. Friday night. I was 12. Daddy can I go. You can. Dropped off at 9. Pick you up at 12. Great thanks.
I'm the only one there at 9. A kid. I'm at the back of the hall in case I actually exploded with the excitement. 9.30. Four people. 10 pm fifteen people. 11 pm no Elvis. 23 people. 11.30. He's obviously waiting to see if a few more come in but I'm bursting looking at my watch because Daddy's picking me up at 12.
12 PM LADIES AND GENTLEMEN PLEASE GIVE A BIG LAS VEGAS WELCOME TO THE KING OF ROCK AND ROLL ELLLLLLLLLLVISSSSSSS PRESSSSSSSSSSLLLEEEYYYYYYYYY.
I was already at the door afraid of my father.
Sat half an arse into the seat with one leg out ready to run back in with him and said anxiously "He's just coming on stage now!!!!!"
" Ah that's a pity", says Daddy.
And we drove off home in perfect silence.