LIVES
Foreword;
In our time, we have seen and lamented, the sad, untimely passing of too many musical legends. This short story was conceived in between the deaths of some icons whom we will always miss.
Hum, whistle, or sing their songs, and be grateful for the legacy they have left us.
LIVES
Copyright © 2008: Stephen O’Raw
Amongst the 80,000 roaring music fans, Alice feels a sense of quiet detachment. Alone with her thoughts she feels as though she has been beamed to that very spot from outer space, an alien, indifferent to the manic world of revelry and enthusiasm around her.
The celebrated extravaganza she was attending was The ‘Greenhouse Rock Festival’. It was the latest Worldwide Musical fund raising festival and the largest effort to date. Global concern and political realization in the face of increasing drastic climate change has, much like oil production, finally peaked. The world is now fully aware, awake and active in a united effort to turn the ever rising tide.
The tide….In Alice’s mind grey green waves lap and foam against ancient rocks.
As often before, Sir Bob Geldof has spearheaded the campaign. Lassoing down the stars, and announcing their magnetic presence for the line up bill. Sir Bob is now a master of using his clout with Hollywood elite and music giants to create media awareness, youthful exuberance and public sway. All of which combine to cajole and pressure politicians and corporate moneymen to bend and lend for once in their lives towards the greater good.
Alice imagines the day the tide brought the American stranger to dock at Ard na Ri harbour. It was raining that day almost thirty years ago.
It was not raining now. Sting had joined again with Stuart and Andy. The Police were reunited and singing ‘Every little thing she does is magic’. The fans were happy, yelling and bopping. The crowd were on average around twenty years younger than Alice. They were on their feet, Alice sat, high in a VIP box. Alice, still pretty, like the guys on stage, a little greyer, but beautiful nonetheless. Her eyes grey green – the colour of a tumulus sea, lit with a sparkle of hope. A man could drown in these eyes or be rescued by their glimmer.
The man she now loved did both. Jackson Delamare died and was born again with a single blink.
Jackson Delamare was the reason she was here. Now feeling sorry she had argued with him over the phone. Unknown to him, she had dragged herself from behind her cosy nook in her sleepy Irish village to the thronging beehive that was Wembley Stadium. She swore she wouldn’t come as he pleaded on the phone. But there she was. Having used the plane and VIP tickets he had sent to her. Alone in the crowd, wondered if he found out yet that she had arrived.
Jackson Delamare, the man who helped her sing again, the man who brought flowers to the cracked streets of her village, the man who rubbed shoulders with the superpowers of music, and specifically drafted in to lend his pull to this very event by Sir Bob himself.
He was too old for it. He knew it and she knew it. She was against him leaving and she had urged him to turn down the request. He assured her it was always just as a consultant. To shake a few hands, make a few calls and have a few drinks with the glitterati.
This was different. He had been gone three weeks. They were overstretching him. She swore she wouldn’t visit. She was a hard-headed woman. But he begged. He swore it’d be the last time – again. He said the world depended on her presence. ‘Stupid hippy’, she thought and remained staunch. But it wasn’t until he said he depended on her presence there that she caved. She tried to call him back. She wanted to say sorry for being pig-headed. She wanted to tell him she’d be on the next flight. But he was unobtainable. Lost in a world of booming sound checks she assumed.
The headline act for this festival had been kept a secret. It was a great way of generating interest, speculation and media hype. It was a great way to sell tickets. Every major artist in or out of retirement had been nominated by pundits. The favourites now were McCartney, Springsteen and at 7 to 1 a Jackson 5 reunion. As a marketing ploy it had worked brilliantly, the donations had come flooding in, smashing all expected estimations. She felt that this was Jackson’s doing. Right up his alley to pull the wool over the worlds eyes and then reveal to them the aurora borealis on the very stage before them.
Back home he played down his status in America. Before arriving in Ard na Ri that soggy February Sunday he had been a music producer in Minneapolis. Before that he had run a radio station in Massachusetts. He had made his mark, his money. Then opted out. Sought peace and found it in the still streets of Ard na Ri Village in Co. Kerry. Ireland.
The waves that washed him to the harbour, where Alice waited for her seafood supplies to arrive off Gerry Dwyer’s ferry, were the same waves that took her first and beloved husband, John. The same waves that lapped cold and heavy at her heart since the sea took her love from her. She swore she would never love again.
The Police wound down with ‘Walkin on the Moon’ and bopped off stage to ecstatic applause. Bob Dylan was up next.
When alive, John had loved Dylan, aka Robert Allen Zimmerman. He’d strum tambourine man for her as she’d sing. She had the voice of an angel. They called their son Allen - with two L’s, John was quite subtle for a fisherman.
Three years after his death Jackson’s capped cowboy boots came clicking off Gerry’s ferry and onto the weathered stone of Ard na Ri harbour. Not the kind of gaudy statement the widow Costello would be known to be accustomed to or approve of in 1980. The widow Costello was 36.
Even in hindsight she can’t say for sure if she immediately liked him. She grimaced at the clicking, and asked him for no help with her delivered stock. But he helped Gerry unload a basket of fish to her anyway.
Despite the atrocious boots he was handsome. Thick dark hair hung loose around his square jaw. Strong and slender. Graceful in his movement. He dressed well enough, American obviously, but more subtle than the others that breeze through this neck of the woods on their way to more popular tourist spots along western Ireland. She expected it was to one of these places he was headed. He wasn’t. He was looking for Alice Costello. He asked the bearded Gerry where he might find her.
‘Your in luck Mr. America’ said Gerry ‘You’re just after handing her a box of cod’.
Alice, a solitary thoughtful presence amongst the thronging crowd in her mind is miles and years away. Dylan sang ‘Like a Rolling Stone’. She briefly wondered if the Stones might headline then returned to her reverie.
She recalls the alarm in her stomach and her eyes widening with surprise at the mention of her name. She didn’t know a soul in America. What did this stranger want of her?
Although flabbergasted she kept her usual outward stern. Gruff as ever she announced indeed she was Alice Costello and ‘who the hell are you and what do you want of me?’
Smiling and almost charmed by her abrasiveness, he offered her his hand and said in his deep accent ‘Pleased to meet you Ma’am, I’m Jackson Delamare from Minneapolis. I’m hoping to discuss the sale of your public house with you’.
She scolded, didn’t take his hand, and walked off with her trolley of fish, ‘it’s no longer for sale’ she shouted back. But she knew he’d follow.
The village of Ard na Ri. Population 412 had hit on hard times. Alice felt it happened when John had died. But it had been happening for a good while before then. In 1977 the aluminium plant closed and the town suffered serious damage in an awful storm. With little income the town struggled to rebuild its roofs and walls and return to the quaint little oasis it once was. No, the absence of her dear John merely compounded the fact. It could have rained all year and she wouldn’t have noticed whilst John was still there to strum her a tune and hold her hand.
1n September 1979, she reluctantly hammered a ‘For Sale’ sign outside ‘Pot O’Gold’. The pub where she and John laughed and gossiped with the locals. The pub where they had danced atop the bar on their wedding night. The pub above which they made love so many times and conceived their son.
Many of the townsfolk turned to the sanctuary of stout and the warmth of whiskey after 77’. Alice felt the management of the pub and the mothering of her 5 year old weigh on her broken heart, not to mention the financial difficulties. Anyway, the atmosphere had all but dissipated over recent years. In happier times the ‘Pot O’Gold’ Inn was a wonderful refuge of hospitality and conviviality. chatter and song. The community bickered and bonded there. Sports celebrated, deals bartered, romances born, newlyweds toasted, wakes tended and new arrivals cheered. For a while it was the heartbeat of the town.
The locals did their best to console and motivate and support Alice through her bereavement. But they had each their own woes to tend to. The spirit of the town had been wisped away like the last smoke from the dying embers of a once hearty fire.
Back at the harbour, as Alice paced steadfastly away from the boat, she was resolute in her determination not to sell to this yank. A local would find the money to buy her out or she would advertise further affield. She slammed the door on her Morris Minor quickly so she wouldn’t have to talk further with this impudent stranger, but was not quick enough to escape his tapping on her window.
‘Is there any chance of a lift…’ he began.
‘No’ Alice yelled, and sped off.
Alice was sure to lock the bar door behind her and threw the cigarettes onto the shelves. She knew he’d come knocking. Ten minutes later he did. She would not open that day. She went to bed and cried.
Bob Dylan looked old. She didn’t feel as old as he looked. And she thought Jackson, although a little older than Bob still looked better. He, like her, had aged well.
She wanted this carnival to be over soon. She wanted to see Jackson and fly home with him. She worried about the melee after the concert had finished. But Jackson assured her total accommodation and a swift exit over the phone.
She believed him this time about it being the last time. Although he was a fit seventy something, he had had enough of this malarkey years ago, and she felt it from him. He never talked much about the musical wheeling and dealings of his past. She felt that it was a thing he wanted left behind, but knew he had certain obligations from time to time. He had always kept a low profile. Never hit the headlines or took the limelight, just an honest music producer. She wanted to pry more, know more than the anecdotes he occasionally divulged to her. She felt there was more to him. However, there were moments from her past that she kept secret only to herself. So she respected his secrets too.
The day after she had cried herself to sleep, Alice had to go into the street to face the world and most likely the American named Jackson again. She had made up her mind to bite the bullet and sell. But she’d up the price and tell him like or lump it.
She found him quickly enough, chatting, quite amicably on Main Street with Mikey, the normally sombre grocer. He turned to see her coming, again she walked with an angry determination. Her amber hair tossed and wild in the wind, her jaw set beneath soft pallid cheeks where roses once bloomed. His eyes, meeting hers properly for the first time, were now those of a man at sea, drowning in her sorrowful wells. He was a man disarmed.
In that moment he let his guard down and he reminded her of someone, and her heart too skipped a beat. Quickly regaining their composure, she cut him off before he had a chance to talk.
‘If your serious, you can have the pub but the price is gone up I’ll have you know’ His tanned face smiled, ‘Ma’am, I don’t wish to buy it off you, if you don’t mind I’d just like to help you run it, if you’re interested in a business partner’
Alice had felt a lot of things for a long time now; she had been a churning mass of anguish, emptiness and despair. Now she felt as though a gold coin had just been thrown, into this deep well of hopelessness, like a wish, and in those wonderful stormy Atlantic eyes there appeared a tiny reflection of sunlight, like a dawn.
She walked away from the American at pace again. And said over her shoulder the same nonplussed manner, ‘I’ll think about it’.
He could not see the tiny smile that curled to her lips as she walked by the first blossom of daffodils of the village green.
Jackson liked this hard Irish woman.
Tiny candles mottled the heaving masses. Dusk and ‘Blowin in the Wind’ brought lighters to the sea of swaying hands. It looked very pretty. Fireflies of optimism for a greener planet. Alice mused how this act, ironically, might be contributing to global warming.
The penultimate performance was Madonna; she blasted onto stage amidst fanfare and fireworks with ‘Ray of Light’. Her arrival brought rapture to the audience, now a landscape of rippling limbs and lights. Alices’ heart lightened a little now too, just as it did that cold Spring morning long ago.
Although Alice felt guilt for the tiny ember of hope that glowed faintly inside her, she had to think of Allen. She saw this Americans’ offer as a way to keep her beloved pub, raise income and keep her son schooled nearby. To deal Jackson in was the right thing to do. Soon after, they met again, hands were shook, generous investments lodged, papers signed and mounting affections contained and tensely guarded.
The business partnership was good and the new impetus breathed life into the old Bar. No he wasn’t the greatest barman, his deftness with the Guinness tap had the locals amused, bemused and at times horrified. But his enthusiasm and easy humour made up for his apprentice bar skills in spades.
It began a turning point not only for her, but for the village as well. Mr. Delamares repartee with Mikey the grumpy grocer seemed to extend to almost all he met. One felt in the village, and indeed the rest of Ireland that an American with a sense of humility and a quiet humour were a rarity.
With his looks and manner, the ladies of Ard na Ri, so familiar with the usual faces and stories of the locale, made him an overnight favourite. While not having the same immediate effect on the townsmen, aside from Maurice the well manicured barber, it didn’t take too many short drinks and tall tales to win them over.
He initiated ceilis and quizzes, raised funds and donated generously towards the GAA teams. Free sandwiches on the weekends, and first drinks free for the returning football players on a Sunday, win lose or draw. Music again played. Lock-ins stealthily provided. Stout, smoke and smiles were abundant.
Over time the uplift in mood had farmers out fixing old walls and barns still damaged from the storm. Onto the dull facades of shops and cottages paint was lavished once again. Telecom Eireann, after much demand erected a new phonebox. Window boxes potted and floral baskets hung. In summer it was the picture perfect postcard Irish village.
Pat Behan, unemployed since the factory closure, opened a small timber yard. In two years he employed 20 people and prompted other tradesmen to also set up shops of their own.
Sunday sermons, once heavy and sombre were now light and thankful.
Ard na Ri Athletic won the regional final in 1983. Say no more.
He developed a great relationship with little Allen, who’s guitar skills were blooming under his tuition. Over time Alice allowed her reserve and scepticism to drop a little and the relationship warmed and eventually blossomed between them.
Initially he found lodgings down the road from Costello’s in Madgie Brady’s back room. After a little while he would find himself being allowed to sleep on the sofa above the Bar if he’d had a few too many. Inevitably, as their feelings grew, so did their passion.
They did well to hold out for nearly eight months, and kept their secret for a further two. When their relationship was announced officially to the villagers, there was not a begrudging heart amongst them. Except maybe for Madgie, who knew she’d be soon losing her well off tenant.
‘Madge’, she reminded herself that this was the light hearted moniker attached to the energetic and jubilant performer on stage right now. A name quite prematurely tagged to Madonna judging by her fantastic performance. Alice again briefly wonders who could possibly follow Madonna’s’ stunning showcase.
“Just like a dream, you are not what you seem…” Madonna bounced youthfully around the stage, startlingly fit and energetic and clearly enjoying herself as she belted out ‘Like a Prayer’. Alice had been so far off dreaming in wonderland that she had lost track of time. The last act of the evening was almost upon them. She decided to try and beat the crowd and use her backstage pass to try to meet him before the show ended. All she wanted was to hold his hand, apologise for her ill tempered behaviour over the phone and get him home, away from the noise and hysteria and madness. How anyone could stick the life of a megastar was beyond her reasoning. How far this world was from the tranquillity and remoteness of home. They’d be there again soon.
Madonnas’ act finished as it started with brilliant fireworks. Alice could feel the heat warm her cheeks from the elevated VIP area. She left stage to thunderous applause. It was well earned after a fantastic performance.
Upon showing her pass and Id backstage, a senior member of security was radioed for assistance. A huge black man arrived in a neat suit to greet her. He shook her hand gently and introduced himself as Jerome. He had a very kind face and he beamed at her. He addressed her rightly as Miss Costello, and announced that we’re so glad you could make it, arrangements had been made for her. He led her to a crescent shaped VIP area just in front of the stage.
Jerome then ordered champagne to be brought to her and assured her that everything has been arranged to have them whisked away directly after the last performance. He shook her hand again and said it was a pleasure to finally meet her. He then hastened off, walkie-talkie pressed close to his ear.
Alice was elevated and exhilarated by Jacksons’ consideration and thoughtfulness. She felt this volcano of love erupt in her chest. She knew he wasn’t mad at her now. It was so selfish of her not to want to be there for him, when it’s all he wanted of her. Just to be there.
Now, there she was, in awe of her own circumstance, champagne in hand, tiny bubbles popping and misting her hand, literally rubbing elbows with the world’s glitterati.
In her excitement she didn’t notice the gentleman beside her.
’That’s a fine Irish accent you have.” He said.
When she turned to see Pierce Brosnan smiling at her she nearly coughed Champagne on him and let out a giddy yelp of disbelief. Alice managed to giggle to him, “That it is Mr. Brosnan. Look at the state of us. It’s a long way from champagne on ice we were reared”
Amused, he smiled his perfect smile at her and clinked her glass as the house lights dimmed. “Well let’s see who our mystery guest is eh?” he mused.
With the lights lowered, an enormous sustained cheer came from the crowd. There had been a ten minute break in performances, allowing the excitement to reach fever pitch, which was now climaxing all around them in emphatic fervour. The atmosphere was like nothing felt before at any concert. Electricity seemed to fizzle through the air. The VIPs around her, usually starchy in demeanour clapped wholeheartedly, they too in awe of the occasion. A billion viewers worldwide held their breath in unison as they awaited the final, undisclosed act of the night.
One billion viewers, 80,0000 spectators and one elderly Irish lady were now transfixed on a darkened stage. Every thought poised on who might upstage the performers who had gone before, every single heart thumping with anticipation.
A low rumble began, heavy bass. Some thrilled yelps amongst the hushing noise. Sustained synthesiser notes gained momentum and joined the bass. Then a solitary spotlight grows to the left of stage. More and more screams, the audience delirious, ecstatic.
The music stops. A figure in a hat enters the spotlight. A weird delight reigns over all.
Murmurs, “Who is it..?”; “I think it’s…” “I can’t make out…” “I can see…Its”
A gentle high pitched voice, cracks from the wall of amps…
“Ladies and Gentlemen…”
Roars from the crowd as they realize who the star performer is, making his first public appearance out of his exile after five years it was…
“Michael Jackson” the crowd screams his name and applauds and whistles and roars.
“Ladies and Gentlemen…” he repeats and continues, “It is with immeasurable pleasure and humility I present to you the final performance of the evening…”
He said no more, gestured to the curtain in centre stage, and bowed offstage again leaving the watching world and the stadium guests bemused and bewildered. Confused expressions on every face, Alice too was mystified.
All eyes now on the slip of light that was widening as the curtains parted. The strong backlight blurred and silhouetted a solitary figure, who slowly walked out of the light, like an alien from Close Encounters, towards the front of the stage where a guitar awaited.
The mass of flummoxed features stood agape and searched for recognition as this shadow picked up the acoustic and began to pluck gently.
The tune was familiar to the audience, but gave no clues as to who the singer was, he continued to pluck the familiar melody in as the backlights dropped and the spotlight found him and presented him to the world, again.
An old man, grey and unimposing, holding himself still with stature and poise, had all the world in his thrall, all scratching their heads while he plucked this gentle tune. All but One. Alice.
He lifted his eyes over the crowd and smiled. FLASH. Something triggered in the hearts of millions. Then he sang and the world froze, skin prickled and eyes illuminated in wonder, as a global epiphany dawned…
“Maybe I didn’t love you
Quite as often as I could have
Maybe I didn’t treat you
Quite as good as I should have…”
ELVIS HAD ENTERED THE BUILDING.
At a well run event between the security and stewards the bulk of a crowd of 80,000 can be cleared of the arena in a little over an hour. Tonight it took four hours to clear just half the crowd.
People wandered listlessly or remained rooted in a quite stupor. There wasn’t the usual onus to rush or be rushed home. Many stayed till dawn in huddled circles of quiet reverence. It would be a while before this could sink in.
The man they once called Elvis played five simple songs.
‘Always on my mind’.
‘Suspicious Minds’.
‘ Jailhouse Rock’, (adapted to Greenhouse Rock)
‘Love me Tender’
And ‘An American Trilogy’.
Between Always on my Mind and Suspicious Minds he spoke to the silent audience. He apologised for being away so long, that he was once a very lost soul and needed to just go away disappear. He said he loved all his fans who kept the spirit of his music alive. He joked that the Aliens had treated him very well. Then said there was no need for suspicion anymore.
He spoke again before his finale. He said he’s seen a lot of change since his retirement, he saw how greed, suspicion and jealousy have bred hatred and spread war. He saw how prejudice and fanaticism has polarised people. He saw how ignorance, apathy and recklessness had poisoned our planet. He saw how power had grown stronger amongst the richest and least conscionable people and weaker amongst the millions with good hearts and the right intentions. He also said he saw the miracle of kindness, he said he saw flowers bloom in the most unlikely of places, devastated hearts mend and love again, despair turn to hope. He urged the miracle of our humanity to endure and persevere against tyranny and continue in this united struggle towards keeping the planet beautiful. He thanked God for his long life and this opportunity to help in this momentous effort. He thanked his adoring fans once again with his infamous ‘Thank you very much’ drawl and said he sadly won’t be signing autographs after the show. And finally he thanked Alice.
Beside Pierce Brosnan, an attractive elderly lady, overcome with awe, confusion and amazement began to cry. Click. All the tiny mysteries and oddities about this man she loved fell neatly into place. Overwhelmed with happiness she began to sign along with her husband. Jackson Delamere. Elvis Presley.
His departure was as secretive as his arrival. He did not join the encore of stars on stage for the farewell song of the night. As the chorus of Uberstars led by Sir Paul McCartney performed ‘Let it be’, an old man in blue jeans slipped away. Alice too was quickly ushered backstage by Jerome and entourage. It is believed that when the two estranged pensioners met Alice delivered the mightiest slap to her beloveds left cheek, then hugged him closely and dearly as the small contingent applauded.
A lady close by announced ‘I hit him that hard nearly 30 years ago’.
Alice turned to see Priscilla, who smiled warmly at her. ‘I suppose he has a few questions to answer for you Alice,’
Sheepishly Jackson looked Alice in the eye. ‘Honey, I’m wondering if we could all just head back to the bar and discuss this over a few pints’
And with that they all left the building. Towards a remote Irish village that was very good at keeping secrets.
