The talented Mr Kennedy
UNTIL the mid-1930s, the English-speaking world pronounced ‘Capri’ with the same stress as ‘Bantry’ or ‘pantry’.
Then along came a man from Omagh. Jimmy Kennedy wrote the lyrics of The Isle of Capri, made famous by the likes of Frank Sinatra (below), Rosemary Clooney and Dean Martin. Jimmy gave Capri its new stress, ‘cap-ree’, to fit the scansion of the song.
I was following in the footsteps of Jimmy last week on the islands of Capri and Ischia. I’m researching a book on the nine counties of Ulster, and explained to the publishers that a visit to the Mediterranean would yield valuable background information.
The sun-stunned island of Ischia in particular is no stranger to showbiz royalty. I lodged at the L’Albergo della Regina Isabella, a hotel located in a tranquil bay, surrounded by rocky outcrops, private beaches, Mediterranean pinewoods and frequented by people with many shades of laid-back.
The Regina Isabella was built in the 1950s in the village of Lacco Ameno d’Ischia. The founder, Angelo Rizzoli, a legendary publisher and film producer, turned the hotel into a magnet for the international jet-set.
The rooms the celebrities stayed in are today marked out with small discreet brass plaques attached to the doors.
As it happens, I was staying in a room once occupied by the scientist Marie Curie; but next door Charlie Chaplin had laid down his head over 50 years ago. To be honest, every time the wind rattled the wooden shutters I expected the ghost of Charlie to appear any moment masterfully playing the drunk attempting to find the keyhole in a door.
Further down the corridor, Cary Grant lodged for a few weeks.
Sadly, Jimmy’s room wasn’t marked. I’m not surprised. His name rarely appears in books on Irish music, never mind global superstars. His music has largely fallen out of favour — yet he wrote the lyrics of over 2,000 songs, 200 of which became worldwide hits. He even became embroiled in a legal row over the rights to, of all things, the Hokey Cokey.
I reflected on all these matters as I sat at breakfast. The maitre d’ steered me to the table that, he assured me, was Gina Lollobrigida’s favourite. You can’t quite see Vesuvius from it, but it’s the sort of hotel that would probably arrange for a minor volcanic eruption for your pleasure. But of Jimmy, sadly, they had no information.