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Gerald Seligman -- Executive Producer | |
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In Ireland in the early 1970s a generation of musicians entered the musical fray that was unlike any that had come before it. To match heart and soul they added superlative, consummate musicianship. This was a generation that had a deep, abiding respect for tradition and could feel in their very bones the cultural wealth that they had inherited. But they were in no way stifled by it. Instead, they sought to embrace their musical origins even while they were opening them up to a world of influences. Tradition Is not a museum exhibit. It lives and breathes and changes come. These were the musicians that made it happen.
Yet outside of Ireland he had become known only to those privileged enough to have discovered the island's explosion of fertile creativity, or as a musician's musician as artists like Kate Bush, Elvis Costello, Mark Knopfler, Van Morrison, Rod Stewart and a host of others invited him to play on their albums. Whether it was humility, a rampantly creative intelligence that preferred to explore many directions rather than mine a single commercial vein, a disinclination to be the "front" man is all speculation. But he remained the marionetteer pulling strings, helping figures dance to life while standing off a bit too far behind, just out of view. Looking over this remarkable work and career which span nearly 3 decades, it is not as if his time has finally come: the time has been his for years now. I know, as many do, that given the chance, the creative freedom and scope, what he has done so far could well be a glorious prelude to yet greater work. So when I was hired into an A&R (Artists & Repertoire) position at EMI UK with the brief to sign artists and develop projects, the first thing I did was fly to Dublin for a meeting with Donal. EMI Ireland's Managing Director Willie Kavanagh and his A&R man Thomas Black set it up. This was purely exploratory. First I asked Donal if he had any projects in mind that we might discuss doing together. Was there ever a temptation to reform The Bothy Band? Of all his group efforts, this was the one which for me was not only his most exciting, but the one which seemed to have disbanded long before it had exhausted the gifts it had to offer. Was he interested in the prospect of a new Planxty album? And, most enticing of all, Would there be a new group he might be forming? The discussion roamed far afield, and we all retired to think things over. One of the great pleasures in working within a major label is that ideas and, therefore, budgets, are limited only by their commercial potential. One can be challenged to think big. Over many conversations with Thomas Black, one idea kept recurring.
What if we were to attempt an all new album fronted by many of the greatest names in Irish music? But the key would be to ask Donal to mount a single backing band, co-arranged and led by Donal himself. This, I felt, would give the entire album its musical grounding. Soloists could be added as a given song required, but, ideally, and here was the leap of faith I was certainly prepared to take, the basic band should create a coherent, artistic whole from its many parts. I approached Donal with the idea. He was interested straight off, but cautious. He knew how ambitious this was,and how high we were aiming in thinking we could actually attract such a wish list of guest artists as those we were tossing about. Some time now passed, months, actually, as we talked occasionally and I tried to keep the idea moving forward so that he might agree to begin. It was only Donal who commanded the sort of respect among his peers who had the chance to pull this together. I knew this, which is why I pursued the idea to develop it in the first place. I imagine there were many questions in his mind. Would he be given the creative scope and the major role in shaping its direction? Would he, in approaching these artists, be able to assure them that the album in development would represent the vision of Irish music both he and they might share? I imagined the equation to work out something like this: Would we at EMI honour the pact with him that he would make have to make with the artists? In many conversations that followed, I could sense the relationship developing. Perhaps that trust was clinched over two consecutive nights' dinners in Dublin, when we tipped a good quantity of wine and, at one point, found ourselves in an hour-long conversation about the masterpiece that Planxty's "Little Musgrave" represents. An hour, I kid you not, marveling over the sensitivity of the arrangement, akin to chamber music as much as folk, with the instrumental backing dramatizing details in the narrative, and Christy Moore's aching marvel of interpretation that wrenched from the old ballad every ounce of emotion, then dread as the story unfolded. Whatever it was that brought him on board, we were suddenly planning the first weeks of recording. By coincidence, EMI UK was holding its yearly conference in Dublin the same week, so I shuttled between the events and the studio. The conference typically airs special video presentations and invites a host of artists to perform songs from their upcoming releases. It's a hearty mixture of pep rally and an astonishingly intimate musical revue. It is one of those concise reminders of why it is we've all entered this profession in the first place and brings into focus all that is best about the industry in three short days. The conference's second day was our first in the studio.
Well, you have it here. Imagine that vocal as a first glimpse of how the album was unfolding. It would be hard to dream a voice more delicate, an interpretation more beautiful than what Brian has done. I had to get back to the conference, where I learned that Neil and Tim Finn of Crowded House had been flown in from New Zealand to perform two songs from their Finn Brothers album, set for release within just a few weeks. And had a thought that made me smile. Donal had invited Kate Bush and Elvis Costello to participate, both for the work they had done together in the past, and his inclination to open the project up to artists of Irish descent who were sympathetic to the genre. When they'd agreed to participate I was thrilled. Why not invite the Finns as well? I sought out their manager Grant Thomas, who set up the meeting for the next day at lunchtime. But here was the dilemma. All phases of putting the album together came about in conversation with Donal. It formed part of our unspoken pact. Yet, for this bit of serendipity to happen, the approach to the Finns would have to be made now. Should they want to participate, schedules would have to be juggled, plane tickets exchanged. The prospect of having them with us was just too enticing to pass up, so I made the approach. The next morning at the conference, the Finns performed two songs from the new album that raised us all to our feet in applause and had me thinking once again, "This has to happen." At lunch I explained the project, the concept behind it, who was on board, who we still hoped to get. Even before I had time to finish my pitch, Neil interrupted, "Oh, we would love to," and Tim added, "We thought it would be such a waste to come all this way just to perform two songs." I was to learn that, like countless numbers before her, the Finns' mother was born in Ireland and had set sail as a child with her family to a new world. Like many children of emigrants, Neil and Tim had the strongest possible link to Ireland. I suggested they come with me the next morning to meet Donal for the introductions. I was already thinking that an emigration ballad would be perfect and had a few suggestions to make. I knew Donal would have plenty more. The nice thing about working on a project such as this is that sometimes you can get your favourite artists to perform some of your favourite songs. Request time, for all posterity. But then returned the trepidation about having introduced an element to the album that went contrary to my working relationship with Donal. "Trust me on this one," is how I put it at the studio later that afternoon. Though he wasn't familiar with the Finns' work, I added, "Just trust me." Then Donal played back the day's work and the genesis of the album's second recorded song, Máire Brennan's "Ó Bhean a'Tí." Máire was there and I was charmed by the introduction, and bowled over by the track. That voice that has graced a dozen Clannad albums went for an adventurous selection in offering a song not typical of her direction with either Clannad or her accomplished solo albums. And the rhythm was sensuality itself. After hearing a guide vocal that any other artist would have been honoured to call a final one, she thought she would like to invite two of her sisters to back her up, Deirdre and Brídín. This was the night of the Gala dinner and I invited Donal over. He was too busy with the track and came later with Eoghan O'Neill and Ray Fean from the band and Paul Brady. Brady had questions about the project, its direction, our intentions and we talked for quite awhile. Being an emotional sort, I ventured that I couldn't imagine the album without his contribution. I meant it. Brady's 1970s' album Welcome Here Kind Stranger is one of the greatest Irish song albums every made and his solo career performing his own compositions has shown the sheer breadth and variety of his talent. I brought over John Hiatt (too bad he isn't Irish!) who was there to play songs from his new album. The house was crowded and I couldn't find the Finns to make that introduction. With the conference over, that next morning I arrived at the studio with Neil and Tim. Ray and Eoghan were angling in as well, being fans of the Crowded House albums. We discussed song possibilities. "Let's hold those as backups," suggested Neil. "We thought we'd like to write something special." "But, Neil," I stuttered, "we're talking about recording tonight." "I've got this tune I've been holding onto for some time," said Tim, and sat down at the piano to play it. "I haven't known what to do with it." It had no chorus, no "middle 8", no development as yet. What it did have was one of those melodies that strike you that you've already heard it, even on first listening. "Have you got a piano somewhere so we can work on this?" asked Neil. "We thought we might like to write something about our mother leaving Ireland as a girl. If it doesn't work out, we can use one of the emigration ballads." We called around as they themselves called Andy White, Tim's mate and partner on the ALT album (with Liam Ó Maonlaí), who put them up in his mother's house where the three of them went to work. Then Andy Irvine came in with a new song of his own, "My Heart's Tonight in Ireland," a song about being on the road in Australia and thinking back on the place, the music and the artists who inspire him. Something about the County Clare brings out the best in Andy's song writing, as his earlier "The West Coast of Clare" first indicated and this one now confirms. I reminded Andy that we had met in 1977, I think it was, when he and Paul Brady toured together and we all ended up in Loudon Wainwright's house in upstate New York with Maggie and Suzzie Roche and a few other artists. They'd all passed the guitar around, taking turns singing songs. I had every reason to remember meeting. He did not and didn't. Three rough tracks down were three welcome weather vanes showing which way the wind was blowing: right at our backs and pushing us forward at record speed. Six hours after they'd gone, the Finns and Andy White were back with "Mary of the South Seas." Donal on Irish bouzouki (an instrument he designed), Eoghan on bass, Ray on drums, Neil on piano, Andy White and Tim all sat down in the studio to give the song its shape: where and when to repeat, how to structure, where to leave space for solos to be added later on. Tim Martin, the engineer, ran the tapes to get a trial run recorded. A few trials later and it was time to hear a playback in the control room.
By 3am a rough version of the song was done. The Finns would put down a final vocal a few days later in a London studio. "What nice guys," Donal said enthusiastically, as he hopped on his bicycle to pedal home. The following day was Sinéad O'Connor's turn. I raced from a meeting to catch her, but in no time at all she had laid down the vocal and left. Sinéad gave it one of her classic interpretations, phrasing in a way that only she would: unexpectedly and so very right. Her dramatic delivery, the building of intensity as the verses roll by, the accompanying harp, it was clear how the song would shape up. "Sinéad would like a solo from Davy here," Donal pointed out: Davy Spillane, the uillean piper and low whistle player. Friday came Liam Ó Maonlaí's "Cathain", a song that took shape before my very eyes as he and Donal sat at their microphones and let intuition reign. First with only two bodhran's and voices the naked emotion of the song was stripped barer still by such adventurous interpretation. It felt primal, emotional, dark. Donal was doing what he did best, coaxing what were to me among the best performances any of these performers have ever put down on record. The calibre of these artists, the sensitive backing they were creating together prompted from me a comment that became truer with each track laid down. "I think we are going to have to pay the Gods royalties on this project. They are very clearly with us." Five days, six tracks, a gem every last one of them. At this rate we'd have a box set by Sunday. I left that first week of recording begging to differ with Joni Mitchell: I knew what I had before it was gone or even half finished. In the coming months, the songs would be fleshed out, polished, others recorded. There are so many other mental snapshots. I flip through of the sessions I witnessed and of the first hearings of the other tracks as they were sent to me. The seeming telepathic communication between Paul Brady and Donal and Paul's impassioned vocal - Paul had opted to redo a song he'd just recorded for his latest album, Spirits Colliding. That first version is mournful, contemplative. But in concert the song took on a different direction and a swifter tempo, with urgency replacing plaintiveness, a hint of anger instead of resignation. How well these two play together and look how the song seems to burst from them. Kate Bush's miracle of musicality in "Mná Na h-Eireann" - "I didn't know Kate spoke Gaelic," someone said upon hearing her flawless pronunciation. She doesn't, but learned the song phonetically and learned it so well that she conveys an understanding as deep as anyone can in a language. Then Fiachra Trench's lush and moving orchestration, one that matched Kate's lyricism measure for measure. Sharon Shannon's unearthly mastery of the button accordion and the unbridled joy she transmits in Donal's melody - She came with the tune well rehearsed and played it flawlessly straight away. I'd never thought a reggae jig possible before this, I thought, as they rehearsed in the studio. And the jazz saxophone solo, Nollaig Ni Chathasaigh's consummate fiddle - here was a one-song exposition on Donal's mastery of the most disparate influences. How is it possible that it all fit together? By coincidence, while earlier sessions were taking place, Elvis Costello was recording his latest album in Studio 1 upstairs. Donal and I went to meet him, me for the first time. It was during one of those down-time snooker breaks for which recording sessions are famous. Elvis had in mind to record a song of his own that he'd never done on disk, "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels." He put down the pool cue and picked up an acoustic guitar to sing it. He would have done it on the album had not Donal mentioned a traditional song he'd been thinking of. The title was so quintessentially Costello - "The Night Before Larry Was Stretched" - that Elvis couldn't resist. Davy Spillane and Donal's duet, with each contributing a self-penned tune to the set, took hours to get the rhythms right, such were their complexity and insidious grooves. No one on earth plays the pipes with the combined mastery and lyricism that Davy tosses off as a matter of course. To have him here, and playing the low whistle on so many other tracks, Sinéad's, the Finns', made the album that much more complete. And here was a chance for Donal's bouzouki to stretch out, both the acoustic one in "Whistling Low" and then the electric one on "Errigal," its strings muted by a strategically-placed sponge over the bridge...We worked long and hard to secure Bono and Adam Clayton's participation, due to their busiest of schedules, first promoting "Passengers," then traveling to Italy, Bosnia, then Jamaica, then getting ready their own next studio album. From the start they said they'd like to be on board, and when the time came, it was a gift to be given a striking new interpretation of a track from U2's "October" album. Watching "Tomorrow" transform as it progressed from one approach to another, one mood to another, was to have an insight into the brilliantly intuitive working method of Ireland's most popular artists. And Christy Moore doing a song I had specifically requested, one that he had done live perhaps 20 years before, "Bogie's Bonny Belle." Was it done in a single take? That's what they tell me. I came by shortly after and we spoke about it and Irish music in general. Even then I thought the track would be the ideal closer for the album, sort of a resonant sigh to set the listener back down with a gentleness that no one musters so well as Christy. This has been a dream, really. Those royalties for the Gods come to mind again. Here in one concentrated stretch of time was the chance to work with so many of the artists I respect most and have listened to longest. I thank all of them for their interest, their artistry, their professionalism and, most of all, for giving the breath of life and song to COMMON GROUND. I thank the band members, the principal ones: Eoghan O'Neill, Noel Eccles, Ray Fean, David Hayes, Nollaig Ni Chathasaigh, Donal himself, for the contagious spirit with which they infused every note and song. Without that spirit none of this could have happened. I thank all those additional musicians who brushed instrumental colour from their palettes: Laoise Kelly, Fiachra Trench, Mairtín O'Connor, Richie Buckley, Brendan Power, The Dubliners' Barney McKenna, Oisín Lunny, Stephen Daley, Rita Connolly and Rens Van Der Zalm, Adrian Dunbar, Deirdre and Brídín Brennan. | |
Early on it had become
clear that what most of my favourite Irish albums had in
common was 
These initial days of a project are
the ones when those involved get to know which way the wind
is blowing: is it with us or against us? 
I'd been trying to gauge Donal's
reaction to the whole event, hoping that he would now see
why I had pushed this participation upon him. The tapes
rolled in playback. Everyone swayed in time to the music.
"It has the feel of being on board a ship in the ocean," I
suggested, then looked up at Donal. He was grinning ear to
ear. So too were Eoghan, Ray, me, everyone. Everyone but
Neil and Tim, actually, who said, "Not too bad for a first
time around."
