Cats cried the day the music died
On New Year's Eve its last night on air I listened tearfully to a little transistor as, one by one, the faithful crew who had kept us informed, amused and entertained for so long spoke of their sadness at having to bow to the heartless decision of the Broadcasting Commission of Ireland (BCI).
Their voices cracked with emotion. They would love to continue in their jobs, they explained, catering for the loyal fans of a station that the BCI's own internet website acknowledges to have delivered one of the best local radio services in Ireland. But life had dealt them, and Radio Kilkenny, a cruel blow.
As the hands on my wall clock edged towards midnight and the tension seemed to be mounting in the station building on Hebron Road I could stand it no longer: I threw on my old jacket and drove from Callan to Kilkenny to join my friends in their hour of sorrow.
It was the largest 'wake' I have ever attended. Gloom pervaded the station. Some chins were up, the odd face sparked with defiance, but many eyes were downcast. Scrooge had arrived in the black and amber county a bit late for Christmas, but he was definitely here, compliments of the BCI.
Johnny Barry was giving his last performance, rattling off names, addresses and requests. The rustic raconteur was going out on a positive note. His distinctive voice had charmed listeners into the early hours of many a morning. He was a tonic for insomniacs.
But his usually upbeat style gave way to tones of regret and disillusionment as the clock ticked towards the hour of doom.
Well-wishers thronged his little studio, clapping him on the back and trying as best they could to soften the impact of the BCI's decision.
Then Johnny had to wrap it up. The old discs would never be played again at Radio Kilkenny. The voices and the music had ceased. Sadly we sipped our New Year's wine.
Hearing of my trophy for ballroom dancing, the ladies present asked me to step it out with them. I obliged, and soon everyone was dancing.
Whistling or humming a few tunes, we shuffled around the floor of the reception area. Though we tried to feign happiness, it was more like a funeral parlour than the location of one of Irish local radio's big success stories. We danced and hummed and laughed and cried on the day the music died.
Next morning, I tuned into 96.6FM on my transistor partly out of habit but also in a kind of denial half expecting to hear something, like you wish sometimes for a dearly departed friend to answer when you pray for the dead.
But there was nothing, just a deafening silence.
Jimmy Walsh,
333, Mill Street,
Callan,
Co Kilkenny.
