NORTHERN IRELAND MARCH 2012
Finbar with some members of the Portadown
Male Voice Choir, including Gordon Speers, Musical Director, and Cecil Brownlee, Choir Marshall
I travelled up to the Craigavon Civic Centre last week to perform as special guest with the Portadown Male Voice Choir, who were celebrating their 86th Annual Gala Concert. Believe me, there is nothing quite like the sound of a large male voice choir in full throttled performance and this choir creates a wonderfully balanced sound. Last Friday was a beautiful sunny day up north - a fresh clean airy Spring day with the countryside coming to life all around us. The fields of Ireland display a glorious array of shades of green at this time of year when the growth is young and new. With the new-born lambs gallivanting around their mothers, the tidy hedgerows bursting with life, the rabbits nibbling in quiet corners and the odd cock pheasant strutting his stuff, it was certainly a little bit of heaven on earth. It certainly contrasted with the early days of my career when life in Northern Ireland was anything but peaceful. Fortunately, although I was a frequent visitor, performing all over the province, I never ran into any trouble, and they always did me the favour of not blowing up the Europa Hotel in Belfast when I happened to be staying the night. It was the most bombed hotel in the world at that time. There was, however, a night when it all might have ended sadly - my wife Angela, a few months pregnant, decided she would drive me from Derry to Dublin after a concert. As the journey progressed, I dozed off in the passenger seat, dreaming away about butterflies and quiet ponies, when I was suddenly lifted out of the seat as we sailed through the air, having hit a monster of a speed bump at the entrance to the Aughnacloy military border post, a notorious British army crossing where there had been numerous incidents, some fatal, around that time. Angela, dazzled by the blaze of floodlights, and unaware that she was entering the border zone, had come at it at speed and the crashing bounce over the security bump did not help matters. Immediately, we were surrounded on all sides by heavily armed soldiers who obviously lived in fear of a terrorist attack in those troubled times. Thankfully, they were not trigger happy and, after the initial shock, it all calmed down and we were on our way, shaken but unstirred. Northern Ireland has always given me a big welcome and the Portadown Male Voice Choir was no exception. We wish them every success at the Cork Choral Festival shortly.
One of my first major television specials was produced and directed by the legendary John Anderson at the Grand Opera House in Belfast for UTV - you can catch a few excerpts from that on the recordings page of this site, including Danny Boy and So deep is the Night.
Lissadell, Sligo, Sunday, August 1st, 2010
Ben Bulben was God, broody & fickle, intermittently glowering at us from his darkening shapely brow, then majestic, once green, then golden, frequently worshipped by chiffon wispy clouds, who caressed him and reluctantly moved on. He was, nonetheless, a contented God, for on this sparkling evening, the first day of August 2010, Leonard Cohen had come to call, a deserving second son; Yeats, our host at Lissadell, being the elder and chosen one. Cohen paid homage to both; at first boldly, with the sun chasing his mystical eyes back under the shade of his black trilby, and then atmospherically, as night wrapped us slowly in its darkened silky veil. We were at a ritual ceremony and Cohen was our high priest, bowing occasionally and fluidly as the mood took him, frequently lifting his hat with the humility of an elderly gentleman born to etiquette and refinement, often to us, then on cue to one of several accomplished, sharply skilled, musical fire-brands, who charmed us with their passion, betraying, easy, and hot.
Earthy and reassuringly human, another ritual played out, coincidently, to the right of the stage, where hundreds of portable toilets formed a busy yet grotesque side altar. From there the audience was gazed upon by a line of ever-shifting heads appearing just above the parapet of a metal wall that was furnished with urinals. There was no shortage of bloated bladders. You cannot have ritual without drink. Like excited yet determined ants, a steady stream of congregants followed a scented path in circular motion, visiting, in turn, the holy liquor sellers’ tent, then back to their expensive seats, finally onwards to the saturated, anointed wall, or any combination of that itinerary, just for the hell of it. The women were no better than the men, if more discreet in their plastic perfumed closets. One long string of a man, with wiry grey hair and disturbingly intense eyes, rose up the steps alongside us, eerily; it must have been a hundred times; searching rhythmically from side to side, sweeping us, and then leaving us, disturbed. He might have been a bounty hunter. Gerry Adams & Gerry Kelly passed us up only once, both looking fit and slightly gaunt, yet somehow troubled. They might have hoped for ‘Kevin Barry’ which Cohen has sung a time or two, but, tonight, Cohen charmed us with the personal weapons in his own extensive, sophisticated, sensual armoury. Penetrating every distraction with the sheer power of a happy marriage of poetry, music, and style, he lifted us all above the petulance of our hungry hearts and bedded us in the luxurious bosom of Ben Bulben for several balmy hours. When the birds of Lissadell awoke at break of day, they sang sweetly from the pages of Cohen’s bible.
©Finbar Wright, 2010
December 3rd,2009
He was a scruffy old dog, hair a mixture of salty black and pepper. An ancient mariner. He was walking, or, more accurately, being walked by a dainty man with a t-shirt which read: ‘do I look like I care?’ – as he past by, the reverse side read: ‘back off, it’s just botox’. Apparently, a smile is not always a smile in California. The dog had a definite, genuine beam on his face, as some dogs do – noboby would botox a dog, would they? Alright, I can think of a few also. The dog smooched me with a watery grin as they drew alongside. I threw a glance back a few moments after they passed by and his head was turned back, still staring me down – in a friendly kind of ‘don’t I know you’ sort of way. Then he stopped, pulled his handler up short, and barked at me. I looked behind expecting to see a stunning French poodle on high heels flashing lashes, but no, there was nothing of special interest there and, strange as it seemed, it looked like he wanted to talk to me. Mr Botox snapped the lead and, still gazing at me, the dog reluctantly moved along.
The seafront at Santa Barbara was windswept but warm and sunny. Lithe, blond, Californian girls, as if released from some artisan’s master cast just that morning, smooth and even, gaily played volleyball and ploughed the sand, fig-leaved and frisky Naturally, I gave them only a fleeting glance. Hey, I was distracted by the dog.
All around me was busy with the wandering people, the sleep-beneath-the-stars beach people, most appeared to be male and bearded, but you can never tell for sure – free of taxes, yet fettered by their own rules, they practiced a religion of self-centered routines. One stood there as if addressing a Congress which was unseen and intangible (what else is new, I hear you say!)…..I advise you, Sir, that the legislation you propose is flawed, tainted by self-interest and greed, and it will never be sanctioned by me nor imposed on the long-suffering citizens of this great nation…he was out of place, but not that out of synch with reality, and possibly as effective.
One garrulous beacher, who had made an impressive sculpture of a seated Buddha-like gentleman out of sand, invited me to donate to his bucket; that is, if I felt inclined to ‘support the arts’. I asked him was it Buddha – he squealed like a hyena, then braked hard on the laughter, his eyes traveling far away into a trance for a while. Just as I was losing interest, he raised his finger to point to the middle distance, or out towards Hawaii, and wondrously announced: “maybe, indeed, an Italian Buddha – for it’s actually Marlon Brando”. I chuckled: “obviously, after he gained all that weight in later years”. Okay. I dropped him two dollars. Front row tickets. Anyway, back to the dog. Catching up, I noticed the handler up ahead trying to entice the old dog to cross the street. He had stopped and was again looking my way. Eerie. As I got closer, he seemed fixed on me and welcomed my approach with a whiskery grin. “Come on, Hal”, said his minder, “time to go”. He ignored him and stood there wagging his tail, waiting for me. He was obviously as friendly as a puppy, so I bent down, firstly letting him sniff my hand and then I scratched his ears. “He is usually not that interested”, he said, “he must think he knows you”. We both laughed and, reluctantly, he padded off, still grinning, still wagging his tail. The dog, that is.
A mellow gust chased me up the hill. A gang of rusty leaves on the footpath joined in for a while like a posse of dry rattling spiders. Then both breeze and the fallen foliage lay back and let me be. Lazily fidgeting, they whispered among themselves. Unannounced, a low hanging branch tousled my hair, saying ‘how’s are things, stranger, welcome to the neighbourhood, and, em, get a haircut’.
Slipping quietly into the aged mission above the town, I met an old padre. He smelled of sweet cigars, rich coffee, and decades of peppery incense. We chirped away in a tangle of Spanish and English, content with neither, as if either failed to adequately represent our weighty philosophical meanderings about life and music and Ireland and the mission and the fact that the flowers still bloomed here in December, flaunting their pretty skirts, tossing their perfume in your face, ladies of the night, of the day, and all four seasons. I sang a Latin hymn to please him, a capella, off the cuff, awakening the luxuriant acoustics of these old dusty walls. Having stolen their secrets and their peace, I brazenly bid farewell.
Later. Leisurely. Half-way down, on turning a street corner, I met a t-shirt and a dog. On seeing me, the old dog gathered his old bones and jumped for joy. This time, I couldn’t resist. I gave him a big hug. No, not the t-shirt! – the dog! T-shirt looked too surprised to say anything- then again, it may have been the botox.
“He certainly likes you”, he eventually managed.
“We must have met in another life”, I joked.
Thinking about it, that musky smell reminded me of my great-aunt Catherine….and those eyes…….?
November 5th, 2009 Do the cancan while you can!
Paris is in mourning. People throng the streets dressed in black. Not even varying shades of black – just the one sunlight damping shade of sober black. I arrived in town last week and, several times during the first day, I decided I now also suffer from colour blindness (to accompany my habitual bouts of dementia – you will say – yes I heard you, nothing wrong with my hearing! yet!), but then I see a tall smiling lady lazing along in a custard coloured poncho. She stands out from the crowd like Red Riding Hood at a lesbian parade. She either has to be from out of town or mentally impaired. I cannot decide which. I expect the fashion police to swoop at any moment and swiftly whisk her away to the Bastille nouveau where the ghosts of Yves Saint Laurent and Coco Chanel take turns into haunting you into the religion of BLACK. If you want to die in style, then go to Paris; if you want to be mourned by the mobs on the street, then have them drag your hearse down the Champs Élysées; if you love black wool, cotton, silk, leather, fur, recycled paper, nylon, plastic or used coca cola cans cut up and shaped into jackets, leggings, jeggings, pants, shants, treggings, shirts, or even night caps, then Paris is the place for you.
I know you think I’m joking, but believe me, I was performing at a terribly posh soirée there and the place is gone bonkers on black! I quietly include a picture here, which had to be shot secretly at night because my coat was sort of gray/grey and my scarf had colours involved, other than black!
What surprises me is that I was there just six months ago and everything was still in colour. (Although, I admit that, at the time, there were a lot of Americans in town and they like to splash out a bit, especially after visiting the Louvre and being rainbowed within an inch of their lives in that vast imposing exhausting corridor of maniacal hangings of absolute genius in stunningly beautiful shades of every brilliant tint in the famous artists’ impressive and collective tool box). After that, I can understand people (high on Chardonnay) sneaking back to their hotel rooms and playing with their crayons, drawing blue daisy patterns on their jeans and defacing their favourite low-cut blouse with a collection of red hearts and yellow petals. Not so the Parisians. Ever since french fries were banned in Montana, the Parisians have not been the same. Ever since Carla Bruni grew taller than the French President Sarkosy and his nose grew longer than hers, things have been out of kilter, and, like all grievances in nature, it will erupt somewhere. It could have manifested itself as a boil on Mona Lisa’s chin, but instead it took revenge by robbing the legendary couturiers of both hue and spectrum. You could say they have lost their marbles.
Nevertheless, it is still a wonderful city full of life and friendly interesting people and their patisseries are beyond compare. Even in these troubled economic times, I recklessly splurged on a pink raspberry-flavoured macaroon. Duly sated, I sang the Pater Noster at Mass in Notre Dame Cathedral and it is an experience without equal. Built in 1163, it oozes history. Mind you, the chappy in charge of the incense burner during Mass nearly asphyxiated us all, such was his enthusiasm for smoke. No ordinary incense, of course, as I could detect a distinct hint of Christian Dior (on the other hand, that may have been coming from the organist’s handbag), and, as the Bishop slipped out the side door for a cigarette during the sermon, I caught a glimpse of a hermes cashmere scarf around his neck – black of course – but such is the chic of these people. Anyway, enough is enough, give the French back their crayons – otherwise, we Irish will sell them green and then you will be sorry!
OCTOBER 2009
My thanks to all of you who sent notes of sympathy to me on the death of my mother Julia on the 24th of September. I appreciate also the donations that were made to the Kinsale Community Hospital where she spent most of her last four years – it truly was a home away from home for her where she enjoyed meeting old friends and where she made many new friends. She enjoyed the beautiful gardens there and benefited from a superb level of medical care which she needed during her final years. Happily, she was reasonably well up to about six months ago and, although we knew she was weakening, we were still able to chat away with her and enjoy her company as always. She always enjoyed music and singing and had a beautifully sweet voice herself, and those of you who attended any of my concerts at the Cork Opera House in recent years would have seen there, basking in the attention she received from everybody and having a great time chatting and being made a fuss of, and singing along to the songs she knew and loved. We will miss her very much, but we give thanks for the 96 years she spent on this earth and the many blessings that came through her during her lifetime. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam
My mother was buried in Kinsale on my birthday, September 26th, which involved a little ’synchronicity’ as Charlie Johnson would say, in that she gave birth to me in that same Kinsale Community Hospital 52 years earlier. Such is the circle of life. I did not get a chance to thank the many people who sent birthday greetings and gifts in September. Obviously, my mother’s condition was deteriorating and we were by her side. Nevertheless, I appreciate your good wishes as always, which came from all over the world (including Chris Lawley in Australia who never forgets!) and a special word to Susan Swinehart who co-ordinated a gift from the many friends associated with the finbarwright-ufo website. I wish you all health and happiness and continued joy in your lives!
I hope to get back into the full swing of the entertainment world as soon as possible. The Irish Tenors have released a new Christmas album which some of you are enjoying already, hopefully!! We begin our Christmas tour at the end of November and I hope to have some solo concerts in place for Ireland in February 2010 if the country is still solvent!!! – more info as it unfolds. Finally, I have my very own page on Facebook which should free up the lines of communication between us all – it can be accessed through the front page of this website. You have to become a member of Facebook, I think, but it is easy to do and should be good fun for all!
p.s. I was mentioned in the same breath as Elvis Presley in the Sunday Times yesterday, October 11th, which cannot be a bad thing! Evidently, the wax sculpture of Elvis in the Dublin Wax Museum looks more like me than it does Elvis! All the usual acerbic & sarcastic comments can be posted on Facebook!! I can handle it. Keep smiling through it all!
Ben Bulben was God, broody & fickle, intermittently glowering at us from his darkening shapely brow, then majestic, once green, then golden, frequently worshipped by chiffon wispy clouds, who caressed him and reluctantly moved on. He was, nonetheless, a contented God, for on this sparkling evening, the first day of August 2010, Leonard Cohen had come to call, a deserving second son; Yeats, our host at Lissadell, being the elder and chosen one. Cohen paid homage to both; at first boldly, with the sun chasing his mystical eyes back under the shade of his black trilby, and then atmospherically, as night wrapped us slowly in its darkened silky veil. We were at a ritual ceremony and Cohen was our high priest, bowing occasionally and fluidly as the mood took him, frequently lifting his hat with the humility of an elderly gentleman born to etiquette and refinement, often to us, then on cue to one of several accomplished, sharply skilled, musical fire-brands, who charmed us with their passion, betraying, easy, and hot.
Earthy and reassuringly human, another ritual played out, coincidently, to the right of the stage, where hundreds of portable toilets formed a busy yet grotesque side altar. From there the audience was gazed upon by a line of ever-shifting heads appearing just above the parapet of a metal wall that was furnished with urinals. There was no shortage of bloated bladders. You cannot have ritual without drink. Like excited yet determined ants, a steady stream of congregants followed a scented path in circular motion, visiting, in turn, the holy liquor sellers’ tent, then back to their expensive seats, finally onwards to the saturated, anointed wall, or any combination of that itinerary, just for the hell of it. The women were no better than the men, if more discreet in their plastic perfumed closets. One long string of a man, with wiry grey hair and disturbingly intense eyes, rose up the steps alongside us, eerily; it must have been a hundred times; searching rhythmically from side to side, sweeping us, and then leaving us, disturbed. He might have been a bounty hunter. Gerry Adams & Gerry Kelly passed us up only once, both looking fit and slightly gaunt, yet somehow troubled. They might have hoped for ‘Kevin Barry’ which Cohen has sung a time or two, but, tonight, Cohen charmed us with the personal weapons in his own extensive, sophisticated, sensual armoury. Penetrating every distraction with the sheer power of a happy marriage of poetry, music, and style, he lifted us all above the petulance of our hungry hearts and bedded us in the luxurious bosom of Ben Bulben for several balmy hours. When the birds of Lissadell awoke at break of day, they sang sweetly from the pages of Cohen’s bible.
©Finbar Wright, 2010
December 3rd,2009
He was a scruffy old dog, hair a mixture of salty black and pepper. An ancient mariner. He was walking, or, more accurately, being walked by a dainty man with a t-shirt which read: ‘do I look like I care?’ – as he past by, the reverse side read: ‘back off, it’s just botox’. Apparently, a smile is not always a smile in California. The dog had a definite, genuine beam on his face, as some dogs do – noboby would botox a dog, would they? Alright, I can think of a few also. The dog smooched me with a watery grin as they drew alongside. I threw a glance back a few moments after they passed by and his head was turned back, still staring me down – in a friendly kind of ‘don’t I know you’ sort of way. Then he stopped, pulled his handler up short, and barked at me. I looked behind expecting to see a stunning French poodle on high heels flashing lashes, but no, there was nothing of special interest there and, strange as it seemed, it looked like he wanted to talk to me. Mr Botox snapped the lead and, still gazing at me, the dog reluctantly moved along.
The seafront at Santa Barbara was windswept but warm and sunny. Lithe, blond, Californian girls, as if released from some artisan’s master cast just that morning, smooth and even, gaily played volleyball and ploughed the sand, fig-leaved and frisky Naturally, I gave them only a fleeting glance. Hey, I was distracted by the dog.
All around me was busy with the wandering people, the sleep-beneath-the-stars beach people, most appeared to be male and bearded, but you can never tell for sure – free of taxes, yet fettered by their own rules, they practiced a religion of self-centered routines. One stood there as if addressing a Congress which was unseen and intangible (what else is new, I hear you say!)…..I advise you, Sir, that the legislation you propose is flawed, tainted by self-interest and greed, and it will never be sanctioned by me nor imposed on the long-suffering citizens of this great nation…he was out of place, but not that out of synch with reality, and possibly as effective.
One garrulous beacher, who had made an impressive sculpture of a seated Buddha-like gentleman out of sand, invited me to donate to his bucket; that is, if I felt inclined to ‘support the arts’. I asked him was it Buddha – he squealed like a hyena, then braked hard on the laughter, his eyes traveling far away into a trance for a while. Just as I was losing interest, he raised his finger to point to the middle distance, or out towards Hawaii, and wondrously announced: “maybe, indeed, an Italian Buddha – for it’s actually Marlon Brando”. I chuckled: “obviously, after he gained all that weight in later years”. Okay. I dropped him two dollars. Front row tickets. Anyway, back to the dog. Catching up, I noticed the handler up ahead trying to entice the old dog to cross the street. He had stopped and was again looking my way. Eerie. As I got closer, he seemed fixed on me and welcomed my approach with a whiskery grin. “Come on, Hal”, said his minder, “time to go”. He ignored him and stood there wagging his tail, waiting for me. He was obviously as friendly as a puppy, so I bent down, firstly letting him sniff my hand and then I scratched his ears. “He is usually not that interested”, he said, “he must think he knows you”. We both laughed and, reluctantly, he padded off, still grinning, still wagging his tail. The dog, that is.
A mellow gust chased me up the hill. A gang of rusty leaves on the footpath joined in for a while like a posse of dry rattling spiders. Then both breeze and the fallen foliage lay back and let me be. Lazily fidgeting, they whispered among themselves. Unannounced, a low hanging branch tousled my hair, saying ‘how’s are things, stranger, welcome to the neighbourhood, and, em, get a haircut’.
Slipping quietly into the aged mission above the town, I met an old padre. He smelled of sweet cigars, rich coffee, and decades of peppery incense. We chirped away in a tangle of Spanish and English, content with neither, as if either failed to adequately represent our weighty philosophical meanderings about life and music and Ireland and the mission and the fact that the flowers still bloomed here in December, flaunting their pretty skirts, tossing their perfume in your face, ladies of the night, of the day, and all four seasons. I sang a Latin hymn to please him, a capella, off the cuff, awakening the luxuriant acoustics of these old dusty walls. Having stolen their secrets and their peace, I brazenly bid farewell.
Later. Leisurely. Half-way down, on turning a street corner, I met a t-shirt and a dog. On seeing me, the old dog gathered his old bones and jumped for joy. This time, I couldn’t resist. I gave him a big hug. No, not the t-shirt! – the dog! T-shirt looked too surprised to say anything- then again, it may have been the botox.
“He certainly likes you”, he eventually managed.
“We must have met in another life”, I joked.
Thinking about it, that musky smell reminded me of my great-aunt Catherine….and those eyes…….?
November 5th, 2009 Do the cancan while you can!
Paris is in mourning. People throng the streets dressed in black. Not even varying shades of black – just the one sunlight damping shade of sober black. I arrived in town last week and, several times during the first day, I decided I now also suffer from colour blindness (to accompany my habitual bouts of dementia – you will say – yes I heard you, nothing wrong with my hearing! yet!), but then I see a tall smiling lady lazing along in a custard coloured poncho. She stands out from the crowd like Red Riding Hood at a lesbian parade. She either has to be from out of town or mentally impaired. I cannot decide which. I expect the fashion police to swoop at any moment and swiftly whisk her away to the Bastille nouveau where the ghosts of Yves Saint Laurent and Coco Chanel take turns into haunting you into the religion of BLACK. If you want to die in style, then go to Paris; if you want to be mourned by the mobs on the street, then have them drag your hearse down the Champs Élysées; if you love black wool, cotton, silk, leather, fur, recycled paper, nylon, plastic or used coca cola cans cut up and shaped into jackets, leggings, jeggings, pants, shants, treggings, shirts, or even night caps, then Paris is the place for you.
I know you think I’m joking, but believe me, I was performing at a terribly posh soirée there and the place is gone bonkers on black! I quietly include a picture here, which had to be shot secretly at night because my coat was sort of gray/grey and my scarf had colours involved, other than black!
What surprises me is that I was there just six months ago and everything was still in colour. (Although, I admit that, at the time, there were a lot of Americans in town and they like to splash out a bit, especially after visiting the Louvre and being rainbowed within an inch of their lives in that vast imposing exhausting corridor of maniacal hangings of absolute genius in stunningly beautiful shades of every brilliant tint in the famous artists’ impressive and collective tool box). After that, I can understand people (high on Chardonnay) sneaking back to their hotel rooms and playing with their crayons, drawing blue daisy patterns on their jeans and defacing their favourite low-cut blouse with a collection of red hearts and yellow petals. Not so the Parisians. Ever since french fries were banned in Montana, the Parisians have not been the same. Ever since Carla Bruni grew taller than the French President Sarkosy and his nose grew longer than hers, things have been out of kilter, and, like all grievances in nature, it will erupt somewhere. It could have manifested itself as a boil on Mona Lisa’s chin, but instead it took revenge by robbing the legendary couturiers of both hue and spectrum. You could say they have lost their marbles.
Nevertheless, it is still a wonderful city full of life and friendly interesting people and their patisseries are beyond compare. Even in these troubled economic times, I recklessly splurged on a pink raspberry-flavoured macaroon. Duly sated, I sang the Pater Noster at Mass in Notre Dame Cathedral and it is an experience without equal. Built in 1163, it oozes history. Mind you, the chappy in charge of the incense burner during Mass nearly asphyxiated us all, such was his enthusiasm for smoke. No ordinary incense, of course, as I could detect a distinct hint of Christian Dior (on the other hand, that may have been coming from the organist’s handbag), and, as the Bishop slipped out the side door for a cigarette during the sermon, I caught a glimpse of a hermes cashmere scarf around his neck – black of course – but such is the chic of these people. Anyway, enough is enough, give the French back their crayons – otherwise, we Irish will sell them green and then you will be sorry!
OCTOBER 2009
My thanks to all of you who sent notes of sympathy to me on the death of my mother Julia on the 24th of September. I appreciate also the donations that were made to the Kinsale Community Hospital where she spent most of her last four years – it truly was a home away from home for her where she enjoyed meeting old friends and where she made many new friends. She enjoyed the beautiful gardens there and benefited from a superb level of medical care which she needed during her final years. Happily, she was reasonably well up to about six months ago and, although we knew she was weakening, we were still able to chat away with her and enjoy her company as always. She always enjoyed music and singing and had a beautifully sweet voice herself, and those of you who attended any of my concerts at the Cork Opera House in recent years would have seen there, basking in the attention she received from everybody and having a great time chatting and being made a fuss of, and singing along to the songs she knew and loved. We will miss her very much, but we give thanks for the 96 years she spent on this earth and the many blessings that came through her during her lifetime. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam
My mother was buried in Kinsale on my birthday, September 26th, which involved a little ’synchronicity’ as Charlie Johnson would say, in that she gave birth to me in that same Kinsale Community Hospital 52 years earlier. Such is the circle of life. I did not get a chance to thank the many people who sent birthday greetings and gifts in September. Obviously, my mother’s condition was deteriorating and we were by her side. Nevertheless, I appreciate your good wishes as always, which came from all over the world (including Chris Lawley in Australia who never forgets!) and a special word to Susan Swinehart who co-ordinated a gift from the many friends associated with the finbarwright-ufo website. I wish you all health and happiness and continued joy in your lives!
I hope to get back into the full swing of the entertainment world as soon as possible. The Irish Tenors have released a new Christmas album which some of you are enjoying already, hopefully!! We begin our Christmas tour at the end of November and I hope to have some solo concerts in place for Ireland in February 2010 if the country is still solvent!!! – more info as it unfolds. Finally, I have my very own page on Facebook which should free up the lines of communication between us all – it can be accessed through the front page of this website. You have to become a member of Facebook, I think, but it is easy to do and should be good fun for all!
p.s. I was mentioned in the same breath as Elvis Presley in the Sunday Times yesterday, October 11th, which cannot be a bad thing! Evidently, the wax sculpture of Elvis in the Dublin Wax Museum looks more like me than it does Elvis! All the usual acerbic & sarcastic comments can be posted on Facebook!! I can handle it. Keep smiling through it all!