One evening after tea

MY father answered the door to Larry Kirwan, and called my name upstairs where I was playing the piano. I came bounding down and invited him up, but he was on his way to the pictures with his girlfriend.

‘A bit of good news,’ he said ‘I spoke to Johnny last night and he wants you to join the band.’ His horn-rimmed glasses were steamed up from the rain, and his umbrella had inverted from the wind.

‘But I don’t have an instrument to play, unless I play the saxophone?’

“Yeah, that’ll do, and you can sing shur, we’re practicing on Monday down in the CYMS, we can start the ball rolling then.’

As he was wiping his glasses, I grabbed the umbrella and reverted the spokes against their will. Handing it to him, I thanked him for putting in the good word with Johnny. ‘Ah it’s no big deal, as long as there are more people on the stage, Johnny doesn’t give a shit what they do, he gets paid more if there’s more people.’

This idea astonished me, but it made some sense too. Johnny was well known for his cavalier approach. My mother and he were once competitors when she had her own dance band. Johnny, a lovable rogue, was notorious for pilfering musicians and undercutting other bands for dances.

Now, he still liked to play, but because of the whole Sixties beat movement, felt that it would be easier to get four young fellas up there. He would supply the equipment and book the gigs. Johnny thought like that, he kept a vigilant eye on the charts, and took notice of the trends. ‘Them Supremes always feck into the charts,’ he’d say, or, ‘That Jimi Hendrix sounds like a machine shop.’

The CYMS was just down the quay from our house, I knew it well as I had been involved in the cycling club. I always assumed that the C stood for cycling, but I stood corrected one day by Peter Firman, who was a member.

‘Catholic,’ said he. ‘Catholic Young Men’s Society.’ The place seemed so ancient to me, dilapidated and musty, I assumed it was started during the catacombs. There was a small function hall on the side street leading up to the Bullring, but I had never been in there, it seemed a bit seedy.

I entered through the latch door where I always had after the bicycle races. While walking through the courtyard, loud drums echoed in the man-made canyon. As I entered the hall, Larry turned towards me with what seemed like a massive bass guitar hanging across his chest, beaming from ear to ear.

At Larry’s rear, John Hall sat behind a drum kit. I knew John, he was also part of the small fraternity of open-minded musical souls that I had encountered in Wexford. Power was his forte as a drummer. What he lacked in finesse he made up for with his drive, there was no hesitation behind his intention, when he hit, he hit!

I also knew the guitarist, Tommy Hynes, he had been in a band with my older brother Paddy. As a youngster he had been a tiny terror, keeping guard on the vicinity of Jukes Lane where he lived, which included Rowe Street Church Yard, wearing his So’Wester like a helmet when he patrolled the area.

But now Tommy showed how mellow he actually was, he was a respected guitarist too, and was known for his knowledge of chords, he smiled a cordial welcome. But not everyone felt the same about me – I’ll explain, next week.

The place seemed so ancient to me, dilapidated and musty, I assumed it was started during the catacombs. There was a small function hall leading up to the Bullring