Culture That Made Me: Lisa O'Neill picks 10 of her touchstone influences
Lisa O'Neill plays the Everyman in Cork on November 19.
Born in 1982, Lisa O’Neill grew up in Ballyhaise, Co Cavan.
She moved to Dublin when she was 18 and in 2009, she released her debut album. Her latest album will be released shortly by Rough Trade.
- She is performing in Cork as part of the Quiet Lights festival at the Everyman on Friday, November 19. See: www.everymancork.com.
We're born singing. The moment you arrive, the first thing you do is stretch the vocal cords and holler. From a very young age, I was singing my thoughts. Recently, I’ve been spending a lot of time with my niece who's three and a half. I'm observing her. She's singing a lot. It's a really fun and free way to find yourself, to find your voice. We have music from such an early time before influences are put on the table in front of us. It's a higher language.
In the last year, I've been spending more time up in Cavan. I'm loving it. It's still. We're all at the centre of our own world in a way. There's something peaceful about a lot of Cavan people that I get the sense that they’re happy where they are. It’s enough for them. They've got everything they need. The drumlins – these little hills – are very special as far as the landscape is concerned. When I'm up in Glangevlin in West Cavan, it is a magical place. I'm among the mountains and the drumlins. There's just something in the breeze.
I loved Tracy Chapman’s self-titled album growing up. She's a great songwriter. She has stories in her songs. I found over time, as I talked to other friends who were interested in music, some friends would go for the melody. It would draw them in first. But for me, it’s: “Well, what's the song about?” I realised the lyric was drawing me in. Tracy Chapman had that. I was 15, 16 listening to her. She spoke to me. She had a very poignant song on the album about domestic abuse. I remember always feeling uncomfortable about that one. Sometimes I wouldn't be in the right mood to listen to it, and I thought that's extremely brave. My discomfort in listening to it is part of the power of it.
When I was younger, I remember finding Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morissette. It’s a fantastic album, a body of work that I enjoyed from start to finish. It’s visceral. If you take those lines from the song You Learn, it draws a great picture: “Swallow it down. What a jagged little pill. It feels so good. Swimming in your stomach. Wait until the dust settles.” Metaphorically, you could take that in so many different ways.
I loved Queen from a young age. I shared the love of Queen with my dad and my brother. Freddie Mercury let life rattle through him. You can feel it. He went for it. I wonder sometimes did he know it was going to be short-lived. He let that kind of force and energy move through him. His lyrics are fantastic, and the melodies are bold and brave and big, and I believe every drop of it.
I went to see Martin Hayes talking about his book, Shared Notes, at the National Concert Hall recently. He was in conversation with Dónal Dineen. I was in one of those moods that day where I didn't think I should be going out to socialise, but something pulled me out and off I went. It spoke to me. It was a bit of education I needed for myself. I hear other people saying that gigs have made them cry, but it never happened to me until I went to hear Martin speak. I cried with relief and joy. His story resonated so much. I came out of there thinking I needed that.
Music was such a part of Martin’s early life. He was in the Tulla Céilí Band. It was Martin and a group of older men. Martin was quite innocent, a bit nerdy was the way he put it. They'd be out late at night playing these céilí gigs and driving home at two o'clock in the morning. Standing around a car eating biscuits and drinking tea. He’d be trying to help at home, milking the cows. Sometimes he wouldn't get to bed at all – it’d be straight to mass. He went to America in his 20s and 30s. He had a moment working in construction in Chicago and he said to his friend, “There has to be a better way than this.” He turned his life around. He and his music seemed to land.
To me, The Cobblestone bar in Smithfield serves as a womb. We go in there and things grow and get pollinated. When Tom Mulligan opened up that pub, I don't think he had any big plan that it would become the community it did. He’s a man who loves music. A soul of a place comes back to good intentions. Everybody always had a good welcome in The Cobblestone. It always welcomed the traveling community. I regret to say that stands out in Dublin. The travelling community are very much part of our singing tradition. Unfortunately, The Cobblestone is threatened at the moment, but we won't lie down easily and let that happen.
What I see in the cinema stays with me longer [than watching films on television]. It leaves more of an impression. It’s more of an occasion. One of the last films I saw in the cinema was Joker. It’s fantastic. I loved him – the Joker [played by Joaquin Phoenix]. You're rooting for him even with his madness. It’s a universal story. People can get lost in big cities. Everyone has a story. He’s so beautiful in it.
A lot of inspiration for the songs I write come from documentaries that I might land upon, discovering stories for the first time. Mother Jones by RTÉ is one that comes to mind. Mother Jones – Mary Harris from Cork – who immigrated to North America in the nineteenth century. She changed society. She changed laws. She was an activist for human rights, child labourers, miners. When someone puts a story together well in a documentary and I hear it or see it, a song comes very soon afterwards. They can really affect me when done well.
