Cathal Coughlan remembered on his anniversary: 'Cathal opened up Cork to me'
Cathal Coughlan in London in 2005. Picture: Bleddyn Butcher
This week marks a year since we tragically lost Cathal Coughlan after a long illness. The outpouring of love for the passing of one of Ireland's great contemporary creative minds was overwhelming. His presence was still felt throughout 2022 as the hugely innovative collaborative project Telefis (Jacknife Lee/Cathal Coughlan) won admirers worldwide.
And when time slips by, and the noise softens after such a loss, and we go about our lives, those who were close to Cathal can reflect with a calmness that only infinity brings.
So as I get used to a world without my buddy who founded Microdisney with me in Cork in the spring of 1980, I would like to once more recall some moments, mostly from the early 1980s, that are dear to me and should be shared.
After the first few years of Microdisney’s mutant funky-punky beginnings as a five-piece, living the dream opening shows for The Fall, Siouxsie and The Banshees, The Undertones and U2, Cathal and I (sometime in 1982), decided that continuing as a duo, simplifying the sound and resolutely dedicating our time to song construction was the way to go.
To achieve this we rented a two-room flat in Daunt Square, over a bakery and in the shadow of the folk cabaret club Maguires. Daunt Square had been recently pedestrianised, with Mandy’s Burgers offering a popular meeting place for the emerging Cork tribes (skinny jeans and raincoats, A Certain Ratio; mohawks and bondage trousers, Crass and Crisis).
The flat was large enough to hold a Yamaha SK10 keyboard, a Laney guitar amp, and a Korg preset drum machine. We worked a strict 10 til 5 writing day in that damp little flat (rent was £6 a week, I seem to remember), crafting song shapes and readying ourselves for funny little gigs and recording sessions that strayed from the normal route to small success.
I can see Cathal now, stood behind the SK10, wearing a patterned jumper, and old fella’s slacks picked up from a gentleman's outfitters on Oliver Plunkett Street. He was also fond of Farah trousers. The sweater would go after an hour of graft, and the excitement of surprise and delight would rise as another song emerged - a wonderful example being a tune we wrote about a poor Canadian chap who sought to live out his last days in the West of Ireland anonymously.
The song never made the first Microdisney album, Everybody Is Fantastic, but it did give us the huge Canadian flag transposed into green and white from red and white, which accompanied our early live shows and adorned the record sleeves.
The writing sessions, Monday to Friday, would sometimes be followed by one maybe two early evening pints in the Long Valley, where we might quietly congratulate each other, and wonder where this music was coming from. It was simple in arrangement but ambitious in construction, and it astonished us. Cathal would head for the train to Little Island and I would jump on the number 8 to Mayfield where I lived with my parents.
The gigs were odd. The odder the better. Back in 1982, Cork had a circuit of small cabaret hotel venues that were struggling in that recession. Cathal and I sought these venues out, convinced that performing outside the rock and blues circuit and tacking towards the showband circuit would in some way enhance the sense of otherness that we eagerly desired. I realise now that this very notion was mildly arrogant but we were ambitious in a peculiar way.
I remember two of these shows, one in a spot north and left of St Patrick’s Bridge and one in Mallow, in the north of the county. The promoters would inevitably have been convinced that they were booking a cabaret duo (guitar, drum machine, and piano was a popular lineup for these shows) and would eventually wander out from behind the bar as the lyrical content of some of these jaunty tunes landed with anyone who was listening.
The same chap might also be wondering why the raincoats and students were gathering with the regular clientele who, granted, seemed to be happily waltzing to the rata-tat-tat of the Korg Rhythm box. At the end of the day, if it was a full venue, all was good, and a regular Sunday night might be offered. Cathal loved this mix of performance and friendly genial disruption - no harm, but maybe something to think about.
So, to the recording process. Well, if I was to say that Cathal and I found ourselves in the Divine Word Missionary in Maynooth and Alto studios in Dublin, a converted Christian Brothers residence, and then a small studio cottage in Cúil Aodha, Co Cork (Sean O Riada’s son was engineering), you might imagine that once again, normal protocols were not being followed. Most of these adventures in recording were set up by a trio of fellow travellers, Terry Cromer, Dave Clifford and Gareth Ryan. These were away days for Cathal and myself. The train to Dublin carting the portable backline, and disembarking at Heuston was almost exotic to us.
The trips to West Cork were usually a drive with Pat Donovan, another longtime friend who encouraged our ambitions and cheery, presumptuous notions of being iconoclasts.
There were also eventful, amazing, and grueling times in London for the two of us, shared then with band members Tom Fenner and Jon Fell. But these early days in Cork, now 40 years ago, are almost magical in my mind.
Cathal was the first great friend I ever had, and opened up Cork to me, as I had only arrived from the car town of Luton with my folks in late 1976. I was closed down and not confident. Because Cathal had confidence in me, I found a confidence for life.
The years leading up to the Microdisney reunion in 2018 are the freshest memories of Cathal. He was the kid I knew in the 1980s, remade as a man of thinking and culture. Music was central to his process, but he was a concerned political soul. His political thinking was complex, researched, and always provoked thought.
So the last few years spent with Cathal on various projects in London are very much with me. There were surprisingly sunny afternoons in Peckham drinking tea and talking about everything, from ’how did we get here?’ to ‘where are we going?’. There were theatre trips to Sondheim shows (we both became huge fans), and some great days in the studio, this time in Bermondsey, south London.
He was singing better than ever on those sessions. That is what people will remember: the writer and the performer, but I remember a dear funny man, who was far more humble than he needed to be, and a great family friend.
- Cathal Coughlan, December 16, 1960 – May 18, 2022
