Where I Belong

by Alan Doyle

  Before we were Great Big Sea, we were Best Kind. This shot was taken in 1993. Darrell (left), me (middle), Séan (right).

  One afternoon after school when my brother was not home, I snuck Dad’s guitar and the big Irish songbook from Mom’s piano bench and stole away up to the bathroom. (It had the only door in the house that locked.) By even that young age, I already knew the lyrics to dozens of songs. I learned songs the way a circus kid learns to juggle. I didn’t know how I knew them; I just did. It always surprised me at school that not everyone could sing traditional songs like “Rattlin’ Bog.” I knew that song as well as the other kids knew “Happy Birthday.”

  In the bathroom with the songbook and the guitar, I opened the book at random and it fell to a page in the middle—“I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” I knew how to sing that song, so the guitar chords and melody made sense. I reviewed the chord names and shapes. I knew how to play D and G but not A. That was a tough one, as you had to cover three strings right next to each other in the same fret. Even as a kid, my fingers would not fit. I quickly figured a way to get two strings under one finger. I still play A that way—with two fingers.

  Once I was sure about the chord shapes, I strummed the guitar and sang the melody with the chord names inserted into the lyrics. I still do this today to teach people the chords of a song:

  I’ll D you G again, Kathleen,

  To A the air is fresh and D …

  And on it went for a few weeks. I’d sneak away and secretly learn an Irish song or two from that book. I remember learning “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” and “The Green, Green Grass of Home.”

  After a month or so, at one of Mom and Dad’s kitchen parties, I waited for my chance. It was late, around ten, and Mom was about to send us kids to bed. She’d asked us to go up and get ready, and I knew I could either chicken out now or give it a try.

  “Let me play a song first,” I said.

  “What?” Mom asked. “You can play a song by yourself, can you?” She acted surprised for my benefit, I’m sure, as she would have known full well what I’d been sneaking off to do. Our house was very small, after all.

  “Oh sweet Jesus, another one stung with the bug,” my aunt Jackie said, mock-rolling her eyes at the thought of yet another Doyle fighting for a concert slot.

  Dad had a funny look on his face, but said, “Go on, b’y, have a go.” He passed me his guitar and I sat next to him. I made my way through “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.”

  I’d be lying if I said I blew the place away, because I didn’t. I was nowhere near the strongest singer in the room, even amongst the kids. But the fact that I could get through a tune accompanying myself on guitar was good enough.

  “Good boy,” Mom said. “Now off to bed.”

  “Oh my lord, Jean. Look at that,” one of my aunts said. “Let the boy stay up if he’s gonna sing songs.”

  I did not fully realize it at the time, but I was experiencing something that has fuelled musicians for centuries: Special Attention. Sing songs for people, and you’ll get away with stuff that most others don’t. That bedtime extension was the first time I experienced the power of being a musician.

  If this was an indication of what playing a song could get a boy, I wanted more of it. Heck, I wanted to be in a band! And of course, being a Doyle and living in Petty Harbour, there was a band really handy.

  I knew that I’d have to get a hell of a lot better than I was if I was going to make it into a real band. So I started learning a new chord here and there. I went through just about every song in The Irish Song Book and asked for another for my eleventh or twelfth birthday. Dad agreed to take me to town to buy one. We did not own a car, so he borrowed one from my uncle and we drove to O’Brien’s Music Store in St. John’s.

  O’Brien’s sits on Water Street. It claims to be the oldest business on the oldest street in North America. I’d seen O’Brien’s before when I’d been with my mom shopping for clothes, but I had never gone in there. I was trying to play it cool, but I was pretty excited.

  Dad parked my uncle’s car and we walked into O’Brien’s. The quaint little store had a bell that rang when you entered. It was a long, narrow shop with a display window featuring accordions, whistles, mandolins and various other traditional Celtic instruments. One wall was lined with fiddles and mandolins and guitars—all brand-new instruments with the tags still on them. There were a few brand names I recognized, Yamaha and Fender like I saw on TV. It was an amazing feeling to just be in that shop, where so much cool stuff hung from the walls and so many St. John’s musicians must have stood.

  Beneath the instruments was a long rack of records and songbooks. Along the other side, the high wall was filled with strings and capos and picks and various other bits and bobs. As soon as I was inside the door and Dad made his way in, the older, well-coiffed gentleman behind the counter said, “Hello, Tom Doyle. How’re things in Petty Harbour?”

  “Best kind, b’y,” Dad replied and after a few more pleasantries said, “This is my little fella, Alan. He plays the guitar now, too.”

  “Sure you knows he do. He’s a Doyle from Petty Harbour,” the man said. “And what are you interested in playing, son?”

  I told him I wanted a book of rock ’n’ roll songs.

  “Well, we don’t got that sort of book here. We got lots of good Irish and country ones, though.”

  “He’s after learning all the songs in the Irish Book I got. He wants something different now, I think.”

  “Not to worry. You and your father should probably just take a wee stroll down Water Street to Hutton’s Music. You’ll find what you need there. But before you goes, take a couple of O’Brien’s guitar picks with you. God knows I’ll see you again.”

  He was right, too. I’ve been going to that store for over thirty years. It remains one of my favourite stops on Water Street.

  We strolled past the banks and shops, all busy with lines of people. Hutton’s was a slightly bigger place with a larger display window and electric guitars in the display case. There was a younger man, probably in his late twenties, behind the counter. I recognized him from music videos on TV. His hair was long and unkempt. He looked like he’d had maybe two hours sleep the night before. This place was way more rock ’n’ roll than O’Brien’s. I was in awe.

  “Hey, man,” the guy behind the counter said. “You look like a fella who needs a brand-new electric guitar. I’ve got the one for you right here,” and once he’d started talking, he didn’t stop. He went on a mile a minute, until Dad finally cut him off and explained that I wanted a rock ’n’ roll songbook.

  While my dad wandered the store, the guy picked out a big book called The Pop Song Book and explained that it had a few hundred songs in it, most of them with really easy chords. He picked out a few other books as well. Then he looked at me and asked where I was from.

  “Petty Harbour,” I said.

  “Oh! You must be a Doyle. That’s your dad, right? Yeah, man, I thought I recognized him from All Around the Circle. So Leonard is your uncle?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well, just stay close to your uncle and you’ll learn a lot more from him than you will from any book. But these will get you going. Have fun playing. That’s the main thing, man.” He winked. Easily the coolest person I’d ever met in my life.

  I took The Pop Song Book home, and I’m pretty sure I learned every song in it. The Eagles, Rolling Stones, Elvis Presley, Joni Mitchell, John Denver. In the weeks and months to follow, I was given used copies of songbooks by the Beatles, Cat Stevens and Kris Kristofferson. For almost two years, I learned a song a day. By the time I was thirteen, I could sit at a party with adults and play along with every song they were playing. I’d try to sit close to my uncle Leonard, because he always played the chords differently than they told you to in the books. He could play A and D and E the way Chuck Berry did in “Johnny B. Goode,” with the wuncka chunka wuncka chunka parts added to the basic chords. The rhythm was
awesome.

  Watching Uncle Leonard, I learned to play bar chords, where you put one finger across the entire fretboard and use your remaining three to make the chord shapes. I learned that if you make one shape, like an E, with your last three fingers, you could just slide that shape up the neck with a finger bar behind it and play any major chord without changing finger shapes. Same was true for E minor. Also for A and A minor. The progression of E and A major and minor bar chords is one of the most prevalent things you’ll notice in just about any rock ’n’ roll or country guitar song. Every band, from the Beatles to AC/DC to Chuck Berry to George Jones, uses this guitar-playing shortcut. Most folks have to take lessons for quite a while to get this trick. I was on to it in my living room before I was a teenager.

  I played on the odd concert with my brother. Even with me progressing at guitar and a few other instruments, Bernie was the singing star, and I’d support his lead with harmony. We’d sing “The Boxer” or “Kodachrome,” with him as Simon and me as Garfunkel. He could flatten a place with his versions of songs by Michael Martin Murphey, John Denver and Stan Rogers. It was great fun to be a part of the community concerts in Petty Harbour. Sometimes I’d accompany the other singers along with my uncle Leonard on guitar or Mom on accordion. Other times, I’d be the lead singer and someone else would be the accompanist. There were usually three community concerts a year—for Christmas, St. Patrick’s Day and Petty Harbour Days in the summer, when we’d hold an outdoor fair on the softball field and thousands would come over a weekend. For those events, I’d have to learn at least two new songs really well, so by the time I was around fourteen years old, I’d already sung a dozen or more tunes in front of an audience. Not many people that age have so many stage appearances under their belts. It was a blast, but I needed a musical kick in the pants.

  And that’s when a lucky break fell into my lap. Call it luck, timing or maybe even being ready for a break when it knocks on the door. It was announced one Sunday while I was serving mass that one of the choir ladies was breaking off from the main group to start a folk choir that would sing for a new Saturday afternoon mass. The choir would not use the organ as accompaniment, but rather the guitar and other folksier instruments. The singers would concentrate on newer hymns that were not necessarily even found in the Catholic Book of Worship. Younger people were encouraged to enter the choir.

  I can’t recall the rest of that mass. I kept thinking about this being my ticket off the altar and my chance to attend Saturday afternoon masses and sleep in on Sundays. Moreover, maybe I’d have a chance to sing and play guitar, and in front of an audience, no less. I even thought I might learn a thing or two. I told Mom and Dad at Sunday supper that I wanted in.

  The hand program from one of the many community concerts in Petty Harbour. Count the Doyles on the bill. My uncle Leonard and/or Ronnie would most likely have accompanied all players as well, though they’re not listed on the program.

  “Well, honey, I think folk mass is a grand idea,” Mom said. “Time for you to get off the altar now and let the younger fellas serve.”

  “You can use my guitar, but it’s got no case,” Dad said. “You’ll have to carry it to practice in a garbage bag.”

  So I was set. I had no idea what a fantastic education I was about to get. Kathy Hanlon was in charge of folk mass, and she was an excellent teacher. She had quite a bit of experience with music theory and choir directing and was excited that another guitar player wanted to join. Over the course of the next year or so, I learned some of the most valuable musical lessons I’ve ever learned.

  As a singer, I learned that my natural voice is a little lower in register and most written keys for an average folk or pop song are too high for me to sing without straining. Kathy encouraged me to sing melody for the lower parts, and when the melody got too high for me to sing, she’d let me switch to a lower harmony in my register. In some cases, Kathy sang a higher harmony for the choruses and let me sing a lower one while the rest of the choir sang melody. Without even knowing it, I was learning to map and sing three-part harmony.

  Kathy also taught me how to transpose keys to better suit my vocal range. Every now and again, if I was to sing lead on a hymn, we would transpose it down a step or two to suit my voice. A song that was written to be sung in the key of B-flat would be transposed down a step and a half for me to sing in G. Kathy and I would then change the guitar chords as required. B-flat became G, E-flat became C, F became D, G minor became E minor and so on. This made such clear sense to me that after only a few weeks, I could do the transposition without writing it down.

  For the non-musicians reading, I cannot stress how important it is to learn your vocal register, especially at such a young age. Likewise, as an accompanist, it is important to be able to quickly transpose your accompanying chords to whatever key best suits the singer. I had almost accidentally learned two of the most important musical lessons by the time I was a young teen.

  I have worked on hundreds of songs since then as a writer, singer, player and producer—some with Great Big Sea, some on my own and with other younger and older singers alike. In every case, one of the first considerations is choosing the best key for the vocal range of the singer. If the tune is gentle and simple, should it be sung in the part of the singer’s voice that sounds most relaxed and soothing? If it is a rocker of a tune, should it stretch the limits of the singer’s upper register to increase intensity? Most people don’t learn this lesson until they are well into their adult lives (if ever), and I learned it almost by osmosis as a fourteen-year-old.

  I learned other cool tricks from Kathy Hanlon, too. She could play all the regular guitar chords that my father could play, but she also knew the ones that Dad often skipped. She encouraged me to hear the difference between a minor chord and a minor seventh chord—in the key of G, for example, how an A minor 7 led to D so much nicer than a regular A minor; how the D7 anticipated the G far more than a regular D; how the walk up from G to A minor to B minor 7 to C made reaching the D so exciting.

  Kathy showed me that Uncle Leonard’s bar chord trick worked not only for E and A shapes but for any shape you could manage. All of a sudden, F major 7 could become G major 7 and A and so on, just by moving up the neck of the guitar with your finger bar. She also showed me you did not always need to use a full finger bar. Guitarists: give this a try. Play an A chord with your last two fingers, then start sliding it up the neck, with a finger bar a couple of frets behind. Eventually, you’ll get to where your finger bar is on fret 7. That A shape now makes an E chord. Here’s the cool trick: take your full bar off and just play the A string in the seventh fret with your index finger. It makes the coolest E chord you’ve ever heard. I use this trick constantly.

  Kathy and I started playing songs at different capo positions, so we were playing the same song in the same key with the same chord sounds, but with completely different chord finger shapes and voicings. For example, in the key of G, I would play with no capo and play the finger shapes of G, C, D, E minor while Kathy would put a capo on the fifth fret and play the finger shapes of D, G, A and B minor. The harmony was amazing.

  This alternating capo positioning would become the rhythmic core of many Great Big Sea songs. When Séan and I play guitar in a song, I usually play a lower voicing and shape, while he capos up the neck for a higher voicing. For example, if you listen carefully in “When I’m Up,” you’ll hear me playing open C, F, G and A minor chords. You’ll also hear Séan play in a capo five-position using G, C, D and E minor chords.

  While practising for folk mass, I also learned that not everyone sang the same way. Listening to the various singers in the choir, I noticed how some had awesome pitch, while others had a broader range. Some sang louder; others softer. Most of the guys had to sing louder to sing higher, while the girls seemed to sing quieter when they went high.

  Here I am, Montreal Canadiens colours ablaze, trying my best to be the centre of attention at a gathering of high school friends at a cabin.
I’m sure I was thinking, “I bet that girl on the couch to my left is super impressed by this bar chord.”

  I played Dad’s Marlin guitar for most of the first year or so that I was in the folk mass. It seemed a very uncool guitar. I walked over Skinner’s Hill to folk mass practice with the Marlin wrapped in a black garbage bag, half the neck and headstock sticking out. Dad’s Marlin was nothing like the Martin guitar Tommy Hunter played on TV, which, of course, we couldn’t afford. For kicks one night after watching The Tommy Hunter Show, me and Dad stuck a pencil between the D and G strings of his guitar and crossed the l in “Marlin” to make it look like a t.

  Fall came, and it was approaching the time when kids start putting together Christmas lists. I wanted a guitar case for the Marlin so I’d look more like a pro walking up and down the hill. Mom and Dad thought a guitar case was in the price range that Santa could afford—happy news for me. I knew most of the places Santa hid gifts in my house, so I started searching whenever no one was around. Lo and behold, under my parents’ bed was a shiny black cardboard guitar case. I was delighted. I was going to look like Bruce Springsteen. Awesome.

  When Christmas morning came around, I’d already rehearsed my surprised look of gratitude. I walked downstairs, saw the case under the tree and said, “Thanks, Santa! A guitar case. Just what I wanted.”

  “Open it,” Dad said.

  “What?”

  “Open the case,” Mom echoed.

  I walked over to it and unlatched the three brass buckles. I lifted the top and inside lay a brand-new six-string guitar, “Citation” written in clever letters across the tapered headstock.