Tom Dunne: An honour to sing the songs Phil Lynott wrote for his daughters
Tom Dunne with Phil Lynott's daughters, Sarah and Cathleen. Picture courtesy of Tom Dunne
Which of these is my real life? It’s 7am and the dog has been ill. He’s “our dog” when he’s gambolling in fields or rolling over for a scratch. He is the “family” dog then. But when he’s ill he’s mine. “Your dog is sick,” they say in unison.
After I have showered and sand papered my hands, my wife asks me how I plan to get to Collins Barracks. Feeling brave, I point out that in many relationships, one person will often drop the other to their destination. “Some people even drop their loved ones to the airport!” I add. I get a look that ages me ten years.
She drops me there for 1pm. I enter the main square and gasp. The stage is massive, the seating area immense. In a few hours’ time I will be on that stage to perform the music of Thin Lizzy with the RTÉ Concert Orchestra, upwards of 50 musicians, conducted by Stephen Bell. I swoon.
In the dressing room I meet my fellow singers: Mundy, Shobsy, Wallis Bird, Jack O’Rourke and Jess Kav. We eye the vast stage nervously. I am reminded of the words of Warren Zevon about a similar stage built for him on the main street of Telluride, Colorado.
“Normally,” he told the audience, “when they build a stage especially for you in a western town, it doesn’t end well for you.” We’d all seen enough westerns to get his drift. I suspect this square has seen similar events!
We run through with the orchestra at 3pm. The sun is beating down. The orchestra members are expiring in the heat. But it sounds magnificent. It is easier to appreciate the performance of other people than your own so sitting out front, almost alone, I am blown away.
The orchestrations have been written by John Metcalfe, a composer best known for his work with Peter Gabriel. The arrangements veer from delicate, subtle pizzicato to powerful crescendos, from the poetry of ‘Dublin Town’ to the power, and the fun, of ‘The Boys are Back in Town’.
Post run-through, at 5pm, we are back in the dressing room. We all confess to nerves. We have learned our lyrics by heart but the idea that you could might still slip is gaining traction. We quietly ask about access to printed lyrics. “If there is a mistake it won’t be me!” we all say.
Tonight I will be singing ‘Sarah’ and ‘Cathleen’ back to back and then later ‘The Boys are Back in Town’. I have asked for these because they are songs Phil wrote for his daughters. I have always been stunned by the songs' beauty and the idea that he could give his girls such glorious, timeless gifts.
Going onstage I hear that the girls will be in the audience. The songs are a joy to sing. The orchestra are formidable. It’s like bathing in a sea of melody and charm. To hear your own voice in the midst of all this, carrying out across the square into the Dublin night air is magical.
My mother, Bridie, would have been born in earshot of this gig, in the Coombe, June 1922, just as Ireland found independence. She’d come into this world to the sounds of the Civil War. Born with a weak heart she was told never to have children. She had five and here was the voice of her youngest, belting out over the rooftops.
Later, to my eternal joy, I am introduced to Sarah and Cathleen, Phil’s two beautiful girls. Cathleen in particular had been blown away to hear her song. “It’s always ‘Sarah’ people play,” she says, “So when I heard ‘Cathleen’ come on I was so delighted!” She beams at her sister in a “I got a song too” kind of way.
She’s wonderful company and chats amiably to my wife about children and food. Philo’s grandchildren are all around us, laughing and playing as his music echoes around the square. Caroline, Philo’s wife and mum to the girls, appears to be beaming with pride. It’s a truly wonderful moment.
I count my blessings, but nothing lasts. Back home “my” dog’s travails continue. I warn my own daughters - two girls who have a song writing father but no songs- to, once again, never feed him scraps. Once again they promise faithfully.
And then I can’t resist a line from ‘Cathleen’: “Now shut up and go to bed,” I quip.
That one’s for you Philo!
