How did an economic backwater at the outskirts of Europe, constrained by the
Catholic church's rigid morality and the residual effects of British
colonialism, become one of the world's leading exporters of popular music? It's
not an easy question to answer, and Ireland Rocks: From a Whisper to a
Scream (Premieres on Bravo this Sunday, March 17 at 10 p.m.), an enthralling look at the island's rock-music history, doesn't
really try. With such a great story to tell, it doesn't need to.
Part of the explanation, of course, is that music and literature have always
been central to Irish culture. So it's interesting to learn that the first
tentative manifestation of Irish rock was an ersatz pop music that flew in the
face of the nation's lofty ballad and poetic traditions. The "uniquely Irish
phenomenon of the showband" first emerged in the early '50s as a wholesome way
to cut a rug while minding the Church's prohibitions against "displays of
earthy sensuality," we're told by Niall Stokes, editor of the Irish music
magazine Hot Press. Hugely popular, these big bands played repertoires
consisting of the day's American hits; they were so in thrall to music from
across the Atlantic that one bandleader, Brendan Boyer, is seen by some as the
first Elvis impersonator. (Footage of rural culchies thrilling to his frenetic
pelvis shaking is priceless.)
Younger generations, however, wanted nothing to do with this clunky,
counterfeit youth culture. "They were crap!" says an indignant Bob Geldof. "An
appalling travesty. Typical Paddydom." Bono echoes him: "They were the enemy.
They were from an Ireland we had no interest in being part of."
But the showbands did have one thing going for them: their note-for-note
copying of American hits offered young professional musicians the opportunity
to learn their chops. One of these was a fiery youth from Belfast named Van
Morrison. The gritty R&B he'd later churn out with Them was some of the
first and fiercest rock and roll exported from the island; he'd loom large over
Irish popular music for the next four decades.
As the '60s crashed in from Britain and America, Dublin was suddenly,
surprisingly, an exciting place to be. Emboldened by a new libertinism and the
international success of bands like Them, rock groups sprouted everywhere.
Chief among them were Taste, featuring mercurial, flannel-clad guitar whiz Rory
Gallagher, and Thin Lizzy, fronted by poetic black Irishman Phil Lynott ("The
quintessence of cool," author Pat McCabe dubs him). Their flash riffs and
cocksure posturing fomented a revolution of sorts among Irish youth. "There
was," says Stokes, "a definite casting off of received values."
Yet despite insular Ireland's new-found confidence, a musican could hardly make
a living there, let alone find fame. Like millions of their compatriots before
them, Irish musicians -- even the Chieftains -- had to emigrate. Yes, it was
heartening that Van and Thin Lizzy had gone forth as ambassadors, remembers
composer Bill Whelan. "But they had gone. They hadn't come back."
Even in London, it wasn't easy. Whelan recalls being "banished to the outer
offices [of record companies], introduced to people who make tea."
Singer/songwriter Paul Brady chalks it up to lingering resentment between the
two nations and a reflexive English perception of Ireland as a nation of
céilidhe music and showbands: "It was like you were having to come from
minus-ten to get up to zero."
Enter punk in all its ragged DIY glory. The Undertones from Derry. The
Radiators from Dublin. Stiff Little Fingers from Belfast (their inexplicable
exclusion is one of my few quibbles with this program; their excoriating
responses to the Troubles should be central to any discussion of Irish music
history). "Suddenly," says Stokes, "it was all there for the taking." As the
'70s, waned, one punk-influenced band took to the fore. They called themselves
U2. And they would change everything.
Their performance at the 1985 Live Aid (organized by fellow Dubliner Geldof) is
presented here as a sort of apotheosis of Irish rock. That's a bit much, of
course. But the significance of U2's massive success and its galvanizing effect
on the nascent Irish music industry cannot be overstated. They conquered the
world, they did it on their terms, and -- most important -- they did it from
Ireland. "U2 was the watershed after which nothing was the same," says Whelan,
"after which anything and everything was possible."
And look where we are now. Sinéad O'Connor. The Cranberries. Enya. The
Corrs. Riverdance. Irish culture is big business. And the hip,
prosperous, internationally engaged Ireland that exists today would have been
unthinkable a half-century ago. U2 manager Paul McGuinness shows just how far
things have come when he recalls that, as the band ascended to world
domination, "it certainly did us no harm being Irish."
Issue Date: March 15 - 21, 2002
