Culture That Made Me: Imelda May on sing-songs, Billie Holiday and Bruxelles
Imelda May hosts Voices of Ireland, a two-part documentary series on Irish writers writers on Sky Arts on Tuesday, December 14.
Imelda May, 47, grew up in the Liberties area of Dublin. Her third album, Mayhem, was released in 2010 and won international critical acclaim. She has collaborated and performed with the likes of Bono, Jools Holland and T-Bone Burnett. In 2021, Faber Music published her first book of poetry, A Lick and a Promise. She will host Voices of Ireland, a two-part documentary series exploring Ireland’s famous writers on Sky Arts and Now TV, premiering Tuesday, December 14.
My earliest memories of music are singsongs in the house around Christmastime or birthdays. There was always a point in the night when mam would say, “Right, who’s starting the singsong?” It wouldn’t be a party without it. She’d point somebody out and then there’d be no stopping us. There were five kids, and aunties and uncles who would sing all night long, all kinds of songs – old Irish songs, rebel songs, showtunes. When I was about four, my auntie Kathleen taught me The Red, Red Robin and a little tap dance: “When the red, red robin comes bob, bop bobbin’ along…”
Instead of reading bedtime stories, my dad read poetry to us. He used to act them out. How much better can you get? He loved Pat Ingoldsby, Spike Milligan, WB Yeats. He read Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings to me, start to finish. Hans Christian Andersen was a massive favourite and the Brothers Grimm, which was really dark. The Little Match Girl was my favourite when I was about six. I used to cry every time. He used to say, “Why do you want to read that one?” I’d say, “I don’t know. I love it.” I’m doing the same with my daughter, who is nine years old now. She keeps asking for Oscar Wilde’s The Nightingale and the Rose. The two of us cry at the end of it. I’m passing on the tradition.
The open-mic session in the basement at Bruxelles off Grafton Street in Dublin was a big thing for me as a teenager. My brothers and sisters brought me. I used to have the keys of songs secretly written up me arms in case they said, “Does anybody know this one?” There was no process, it was just wild abandon in the most beautiful way. It was full of wonderfully talented people – some of the Hot House Flowers, some of Van Morrison’s band, Emotional Fish, Those Handsome Devils, The Stunning, Mary Stokes. I was learning from the best.
After Bruxelles, there was a nightclub on Leeson St we used to go to. The jam session would go on until about six in the morning. I remember Richie Buckley, the sax player, used to mind me. He’d get breakfast into me before my dad came to take me home. My dad would pop along and get me to the bus stop before going to work. I was obsessed with it and my dad could see that. He knew I was happy.
I learned how to sing with heart at Bruxelles. I was singing 12-bar blues. I realised you have to sing it with every ounce of your body. It reminded me of those traditional sessions with my family where if you’re singing, you have to mean every word. You have to feel it. My mam said to me one night when I came home: “Remember, a song is only a story to music and it's your job to tell that story.”
I started me up my first band when I was 17 at a place called the Jazz Café on Dublin’s Parliament St. A friend of mine started up the café. I said, “Do you have music?” He said, “No.” I said, “Well, you can't call it a jazz café if you’ve no jazz. I’ll start a band.” He said, “I can't pay you anything, but I can give you a hot meal, a bottle of wine and maybe £30 a head.” I remember calling everybody that I’d met in Bruxelles. They couldn't commit to being in a band. So I changed the band every week. We rehearsed on Wednesday, performed on a Friday. The set would usually be the same songs, but different bands and me. It was a great concept; I must try it again!
I used to sing Billie Holiday’s Strange Fruit. That song and her knocked me sideways. She was a massive influence. I didn't know at the time she was a legend. I discovered her on my own. I'm glad I did; nobody played her to me and said, “You need to hear this.” I watched the movie Lady Sings the Blues, with Diana Ross playing her with my dad. It was a moment for me. The first record I bought was The Best of Billie Holiday with music vouchers I got for my birthday; my brother Fintan brought me to HMV. I listened to her over and over again. I could relate to her on loads of different things. She moved me.
I got mad into Charles Bukowski until I realised he was such a horrible person, but I still love his writing, his rawness and honesty. It's confrontational. You can't escape what he’s saying and how he’s saying it. There's no mincing his words. You’ll find beauty in it for sure, but it’s almost the opposite of, say, WB Yeats, who reaches for the stars. It’s very earthy. It confronts you with reality.
Marina Abramović is probably the queen of performance art. I love how brave that woman is. She would do things like have an exhibition of her work and the only way into the exhibition would be for everybody to squeeze through a tight doorway with a naked man and a naked woman either side. She would let you observe who you turned to face, letting you think about it. What way would you enter that room? Would you enter the room at all? Would it make you too uncomfortable?
I love Francis Bacon. His art can be disturbing at times if you look at it long enough. It unsettles you, which is a good thing. Art should always unsettle you a little, and comfort you. It can shake you up and soothe you. It can slap you on the arse and kiss you on the head.
If anybody has not gone to his studio – that they've recreated in Dublin City Gallery – they’re mad not to go see it. They brought his studio from London to Dublin, meticulously measuring everything so it’s recreated exactly as it was, with glass all around it. His art studio in all its glory.
