The Thrill of It All

by Joseph O'Connor

  Suite in which MAOMM are accommodated to include sleeping area, living room, two bathrooms. Any TV and all alcohol will be removed in advance of MAOMM’s arrival. All artworks to be removed. Bare white or off-white walls, no patterned curtains, carpets, throws, etc. Suite to be guaranteed noise-free and to contain the following:

  One king-size divan-style orthopaedic bed. Cotton (not linen) sheets. High threadcount. One treadmill-style running machine. One set of basic free-weights and two sets of basic workout clothing. One 1972 Ovation Legend acoustic guitar (‘similar’ not acceptable), Black Diamond strings, N600XLB gauge.

  No other musical instruments. No ‘welcome note’. No flowers. No newspapers, magazines, books, brochures, travel guides, CDs or menus. The suite to be guaranteed free of Wi-fi.

  Supply of clean drinking water, supply of fresh (not bottled or tetrapacked) orange juice, means of preparing tea, fruit bowl. The fruit bowl to contain no apples. Bananas to be ripe. All fruit to be replaced daily.

  One yoga mat and supply of basic (unscented) candles of night-light type.

  Notepad and ten (10) pens, five blue, five red (disposable is fine).

  The children of MAOMM, when travelling with MAOMM, and at all other times, will be treated like MAOMM. Anyone erring on this matter, or on any related matter, will find himself wishing he’d never been born.

  The personal staff of MAOMM will be obeyed without question.

  MAOMM do not grant interviews. MAOMM are not available for any public appearance or comment. MAOMM do not open events.

  The ambience around MAOMM will be drug-free at all times. NB: Marijuana is a drug.

  No photograph or visual image of MAOMM or MAOMM’s children will be provided. Appearance in media of visual image of MAOMM will constitute breach of contract and those responsible will be liable to punitive damages.

  Fail to guarantee any of the above and MAOMM don’t travel.

  Fail to deliver, you don’t work here any more. Three months’ wages will be sent to your account. Never turn up again. No exceptions.

  If you’ve ever read a sadder document, I’m sorry to know it. Oh, my poor dear friend.

  ‘Ready, so?’ Amelia chirped, bottle of water in hand. I followed a ginger cat that was following Amelia down a long corridor where the burgundy carpet was embroidered with silver phrases in some language that might have been Sanskrit. I noticed Amelia was barefoot and wearing an anklet. But I felt it was wrong to be looking.

  Along the walls were framed photographs of her employer with an assortment of world-improving luminaries. The Dalai Lama. Hillary Clinton. Aung San Suu Kyi. Cheryl Cole. Now and again there was a caricature of Fran from some newspaper or internet site, hung there to demonstrate to his cleaning ladies what a good sport he was. Platinum and gold discs in such unremitting profusion that soon they seemed to diminish each other. Fran with Vladimir Putin. Fran with Tony Blair. Honorary doctorates. Old wrestling masks. A framed A.S. Roma jersey. The mild eyes of Nelson Mandela assessed me as I passed. On his shirt were many parrots. He seemed to be saying ‘hold steady’.

  But it was hard to hold steady when we turned the next corner. There, in a glass case, was my 1955 Stratocaster. An anonymous collector in the Far East market? Clearly he was also a Dubliner.

  Amelia led me into an office that had a view over the bay. Behind a very plain desk sat the most beautifully tailored suit I have ever seen. In it was a man. I’d no idea who he was.

  ‘Mike McGoldrick,’ he said with the offer of his hand. ‘Good to meet you. Thanks for coming in.’

  A well-preserved sixty. Frequenter of the Stairmaster. The accent Californian, those suntanned vowels. The hair George Clooney grey. His third wife was no doubt beautiful. I pictured them in matched sarongs on Malibu Beach, boiling lobsters but very humanely. There’d be some serious ocean frontage going down outside their bedroom windows. My pincers banged a little on the pot.

  He gestured towards an objet d’art that I took to be a chair and raised no objection when I sat on it.

  ‘You got water,’ he said.

  I confirmed that I had, lest he conclude that the transparent liquid in the bottle labelled ‘water’ that I was holding at the time was vodka.

  ‘Your Irish water is wonderful,’ he said.

  That seemed an uncontroversial proposition. We nodded at one another and grinned. There followed pleasantries about the properties of water, its unmatchable capacity for the slaking of thirst, the inability of human (and other) life to sustain itself without it, the gratitude we all of us should feel for it. The room fell quiet again.

  ‘You’re probably asking why we wanted you to stop by,’ he said. ‘Before we start, let me tell you, we’re grateful.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupted, as peaceably as I could. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. But you’re who?’

  The eyebrows went up and down like caterpillars doing the Macarena.

  ‘Fran’s attorney,’ he said. ‘You weren’t told previously?’

  ‘No.’

  He uttered a bitter sigh at the incompetence of whoever had been meant to tell me. ‘I’m so sorry. Michael McGoldrick. DeWitt McGoldrick Management. I look after the personal affairs.’

  ‘The . . .?’

  ‘Personal affairs of the family. Also the publishing and most of the philanthropy.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I want to level with you, Rob. May I call you Rob? Thanks. We got a call from someone in the business about this . . . concert Trez is putting together. We thought we’d go over the ground with you. Informally.’

  ‘Is Fran here?’ I asked. Saying his name aloud was strange. I don’t think I’d said it in years.

  ‘Fran’s in Vietnam for UNICEF, with his wife and the boys. We’re building a children’s hospital. In Quảng Ninh province. I can assure you, I’m authorised to speak on his behalf. I have full plenipotentiary powers.’

  Hard to know what plenipotentiary powers might mean in this context, but it was clear he got a kick out of having them. I didn’t mention that I was so deeply conflicted about the idea of the concert that I had emailed Trez and Seán earlier that morning to say they should count me out. Instead I did what my daughter, a soccer fan, would perhaps describe as lob a speculative shot from the edge of the box just to see if it troubled the keeper.

  ‘We were hoping, Seán and Trez especially, that Fran might join us on the night,’ I said. ‘Maybe do a couple of numbers with us. For old times’ sake.’

  ‘That won’t be possible. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It would mean a lot. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘I do understand, but we’re otherwise committed. We’re working with Streisand on a new album. Terrifically exciting. In any case, we have a couple issues I need to bring to your attention.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I switched my phone to record-mode and placed it on the desk. He glanced at it with mild disapproval but I insisted it would be staying in situ. This means that whereas my preceding account of our dialogue is reconstructed from memory, the exchange I’m about to report is 100 per cent verbatim.

  ‘See, our primary issue is confusion, Rob. If I can put it like that. We’re troubled that the audience might be confused as to what you guys are offering.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘We’ve had counsel look this over. I hope you don’t mind. The opinion is pretty long but I can give you the takeaway. There’s a legal concept known as “passing off”. The precedents are established. The event can’t be marketed as featuring the Ships or any iteration of the group. It’s essentially a matter of trademarking.’

  ‘We’re three-quarters of the Ships.’

  ‘With respect, no you’re not.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We wouldn’t want to get into precise quantifications – but we obviously don’t regard our client’s former project as having had what? Four equal contributors.’

  ‘So give me a pencil. I’ll figure my hours.’

  He flourishe
d a buttery smile. ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘Delighted you think so.’

  ‘No, but apportioning these matters, creativity, so on – there’s no need to go there right now. What I’m saying, we’d need to watch wordings. This couldn’t be advertised as ‘featuring ex-Ships’ or ‘performing music by the Ships’ or any formula of that nature. The public need clarity that this is a new entity. A trio, in fact. Could it have a new name?’

  ‘Christ’s sake,’ I said. ‘Fran can’t copyright the word “Ship”.’

  ‘In this context, I assure you he has.’

  ‘You brought me all the way from London to tell me we can’t bill the gig as the Ships?’

  ‘Well, for that and other reasons. This is difficult for us, Rob. We wish you nothing but the best, I can totally assure you of that. But I’m here to tell you, there’s no question of this concert featuring property owned by my client.’

  ‘By “property”, you mean songs?’

  ‘Songs included, obviously. Fran’s work is his own. Also quotations, arrangements, co-written material, his personal image on merchandising items, photographic or videographic material, souvenir programmes, so on. All these are copyrighted. As I needn’t remind you. Now, I’ve had my assistant compile an inventory of all the material at issue. I’m going to ask that you consider yourself formally served with this document. A copy will be couriered to senior management at Vicar Street this morning. So everyone has legal clarity.’

  He handed me a sheaf of papers about half the thickness of the Manhattan telephone directory. Leafing through it, I lit a cigarette.

  ‘We’re actually non-smoking here, Rob? There’s an area outside? It’s down at the beach house? I can call a golf cart if you like?’

  ‘I’m smoking,’ I said. ‘Fukken sue me.’

  For a moment, he looked as though he actually might. I’m sure he’d sued people for less. But he decided to slide, which was wise. I was on the point of setting fire to his desk or strangling him with his necktie or shoving his monogram cufflinks up his almost certainly waxed ass.

  ‘There’s no law to stop us performing our own songs,’ I said. ‘Stuff written by the twins or by me.’

  ‘Is that the intention?’

  ‘Do we have any other choice?’

  ‘There’s a matter of some delicacy I hope I can raise. May I ask how many tickets you’ve sold?’

  ‘I don’t have the details to hand.’

  ‘Because I made a call or two. Not intrusively, I hope. But I’m told you’re not by any means sold out.’

  ‘You’re right. We’re not. Fran’s the sell-out here.’

  Well, he let that one go, as a man with legal training would. They don’t get sucker-punched and they don’t fall for rhetoric. He looked calm as a person with nothing on his mind but the question of when he was next going to floss.

  ‘Bottom line, we’d prefer the concert not to happen at this moment in time. We were wondering if you might be persuaded. I’m approaching with respect. I’m gathering from your tone that I’ve spoken inappropriately. If that’s so, I assure you, I’m sorry.’

  Well, I took a deep breath. And then I took another. I reckoned I’d be needing them both.

  ‘Listen, Sausage,’ I said. ‘I’ve got blood pressure issues. You’re jerking my chain. You’re making me surge. If I die on that carpet, it’s all your fault. So let’s start this again? Understand?’

  ‘The proceeds of the show – they can’t be very large. Not in a venue that size.’

  ‘Anything I make from it goes to my daughter’s education.’

  ‘So help me out. If you can. Meet us halfway. There’s a compromise here, and I want us to find it. Could we maybe lose the recorder? No one’s trying any spiel, swear to God. Let’s you and me go off-piste a while and talk maybes. That work?’

  What the heck. I switched it off. He thanked me. I waited. There’ve been times when I needed the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty isn’t a bad watchword, as they go. But in the music business, it doesn’t go quite as far as you’d want, which was why I was feeling a bit guarded. When dealing with any lawyer, you need the wariness of an orphan. He pushed a piece of paper across the desk.

  ‘Fran wants to reach out. As you see, the cheque is for ten thousand euros. Family expenses, your daughter’s education, whatever. No one’s talking receipts. I’m saying whatever. Your obligations as a father – we want to help you honour them. And the concert goes away. Is that possible?’

  ‘He’s bribing me to stop the gig?’

  ‘That’s putting it very strongly.’

  ‘How would you put it yourself?’

  ‘An understanding,’ he said carefully, as though he didn’t like the word. ‘No one loses face. Everyone is happy. The past is allowed to be the past.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m saying maybe there’s a press release. “Due to unforeseen circumstances.” We can help you work up language. The show gets pulled. There’s a private gesture in the background between a couple old friends. That’s all this is. It’s friendship.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘If you feel you’re being condescended to, that isn’t the intent. I’m asking you to believe the motivation is sincere. All I’m saying, consider the offer.’

  You’re thinking I ripped up the cheque and flung the shreds in his face. But you know when I wasn’t born? Yesterday. I’ve been burned enough times to know a play when I see one. One thing my dad taught me, and he learned it the tough way. I’m not the son of a union man for nothing. When the thief comes to get you, he doesn’t wear a mask. Sometimes, indeed, he doesn’t come at all. He sends his most utterly plausible, soft-spoken soldier, a thug in a beautiful suit. When you see that suit, keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel.

  ‘I’d need a couple of days to sell it to Seán and Trez,’ I said. ‘But they won’t be a problem. I’ll fix it.’

  ‘Of course. Understood. Totally take your time. Tell you, Rob, I’m happy right now. And relieved. Really am. You think we have an agreement?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Take Two was better today, right? Apologies again. Glad we got the chance to be clear.’

  Coffee was summoned. We talked of the group. He’d always been a fan, loved Trez, loved Seán. His wife was a fan. I must meet her, I’d ‘enjoy her’. His children were fans. His neighbours, his ex. I smiled and signed an autograph for his chiropractor in LA, told a couple of sexed-up road-stories. He was sweet when he laughed, like a boy on a first date. I almost wanted to hug him, but I didn’t. The coming half an hour was forming in my mind. Our meeting would conclude with peaceable words. I’d put the cheque in my pocket, to buy us a little time, but would never demean myself by cashing it. Because a lot of things I am, but a whore I am not. It was the moment I decided the gig would happen as planned. Some silences Fran couldn’t buy.

  This is a vile reason to play a concert, as I knew even then. Making music to teach someone a lesson is a bad, cold idea, violent to the music, violent to the self, injurious to the spirit of hope and angry innocence that has placed a million guitars into teenage hands over seventy years and blessed the whole world by doing so. It’s also an immensely stupid and short-sighted thing to do, like marrying on the rebound just to prove to your jilter that you could.

  I hated myself for what I was doing that morning. And hate is the enemy of music. Don’t talk to me of the protest song. I heard it all before. The most furious songs were animated by pride, not hatred. Belief in your own. The better way ahead. Nobody listens to hate.

  But I was where I was. Fran could always do that. Put me in the place I despised.

  ‘Man, I’m sorry he wasn’t here,’ said Mike as I left. ‘I mean it. You deserved better. Really did.’

  ‘Thanks, Bro,’ I told him, bumping his fist. ‘Cool we got to talk. Be lucky.’

  But when you think you’re out of the forest, the fairies step in to spin you round. That’s what the fairi
es are for.

  ‘Glad at least you got to visit with one of the kids,’ he said. ‘Fran will be thrilled you guys met. So special.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘What, you didn’t recognise her? Amelia. Fran’s daughter. Guess the resemblance is more to Mom.’

  UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW,

  RTE LYRIC FM RADIO, 27th JULY 2012

  Kathy Conway: . . . if you would. Welcome back, you’re back to us a few seconds early but welcome. My guest today is a gentleman I’ve admired for a long time, as many of you have. Robbie Goulding of the Ships, good to see you again.

  RG: Afternoon, Kathy.

  KC: ‘Inundated’, I think is the word for all the messages of goodwill pouring in. The screen in front of me here is lighting up like Broadway. I was saying to you in the break, the minute it got out that you’d be dropping in to us today, the team outside started taking the calls.

  RG: I’m very touched by the kindness. Genuinely. A bit floored.

  KC: Lisa texting from London played ‘St Mark’s Place’ as the first dance at her wedding. Tom in Belfast says God bless you, the Ships got him through some tough times. Frank in Glasgow saw you at the Barrowlands, best concert of his life. And on and on. You’re a hero to people.

  RG: I was lucky to meet Trez and Seán. And obviously Fran too.

  KC: I’m sure they wouldn’t –

  RG: No, what I mean is that I understand when your listeners say they were touched by those songs, because I would have been touched by them myself. You know? To be standing in a studio the first time Fran came in and played ‘Devil it Down’. On the piano in the corner. I can see him there still. You’d remember a moment like that for the rest of your life . . .

  KC: It’s no secret that you and Fran had a falling-out in the end.

  RG: Well, I wouldn’t want to go there. Fran’s Fran. That’s all. He was a fantastic mate when we were kids, it’s just I wouldn’t want to see him now. I guess all of us have someone who you have to love from a distance. Whatever way it happened. It’s a sadness.