And so, she is gone....

When, five years ago, I went with my husband-to-be, to visit my friend Tom in Belfast, he presented us a with curious gift. It was, he said, to celebrate our engagement.

“It didn’t cost me a penny” he explained “it will last forever and I am pretty sure it will be the most unusual present you’ll ever receive”

He was right.

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You’re reading Home Truths, a newsletter from me, Susy Smith. I am many things: a parent of grown-up kids, a dog owner, a gardener and a compulsive mover of vases (I worked for years as a stylist). I am also a writer/editor and former Editor-in-Chief of British Country Living Magazine.

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Tom bade us sit quietly at his kitchen table while he turned on his music system. Into the silence came a voice that was so clear and absolutely pure. A voice singing with the barest of accompaniment, that rose to powerful creshendos and then fell again to almost a whisper as it told the tale of two lovers and the fact that it would not be long until their wedding day. I was unsure why it sounded so sad and forlorn until in the second part it became clear the singer was grieving for the wedding day that never came, because her loved one had died.

I sincerely hoped this would not happen to us of course, but this detail was irrelevant, not what this gift was about. This was a piece of work that Tom had discovered and loved, and that he had chosen to offer to us to mark a special moment in our lives. He felt it was a piece of treasure and so too, having heard it, did we.

Aside from it being a beautiful song, what was completely extraordinary about this rendition, was the clarity and power of the voice singing a cappella so that we could hear every breath and intonation. As the final note drew to a close, there was a moment’s silence and then, rapturous applause. We couldn’t believe it! This was not a practiced studio piece, a recording made after several takes until it was pitch perfect: this was live, sung effortlessly in one precise and perfect take in front of a studio audience. We were astounded at the mastery of it, the raw, undiluted beauty of it. By presenting us with it, Tom had indeed given us a unique and precious present. It was played at our wedding.  

The song was the Irish folk ballad “She moved through the fair”, the singer was Sinéad O’Connor. I had been aware of O’Connor as part of the music scene in the eighties and nineties but never knew her work well. She was rather too angry and anti-establishment for me. I was as shocked as anyone else when she shaved all her hair off in some sort of two-fingers-up revolt, and by her regular outpourings of rage and frustration against the world into which she had been born. I had never quite appreciated what an incredible voice she had and how, when she used it to express sadness rather than anger, she could summon tears from a stone.

Then, during lockdown, I read a review of her just released autobiography “Rememberings”. I was attracted in the first instance by the cover. I had forgotten how striking and utterly beautiful Sinead O’Connor is. How, with only the faintest stubble of hair, her skull looks so vulnerable and exposed but also so honest and authentic. It was the perfect cover image. I bought and read the book.

I found her life fascinating: the fact that she defied convention entirely and how, in everything she did, she was making a statement of some sort. She never cared what others thought about her, which must be so liberating, and, given her abusive childhood, she had plenty to be angry about. Despite this, she told her story with good humour and a distinct lack of self pity.

There are tales here too of her life in the music world, crazy encounters, such as that with Prince at his home in Hollywood when she was invited to meet the Purple One after she had a global hit with her version of his song “Nothing Compares 2 U” in 1990.  It seems he was angry that she had much more success with the song than he did, and when they ended up, at his insistence, having a pillow fight, she discovered there was something much heavier than feathers in his and he meant to use it to best effect. She ran from his house only to have him chase after her in his car down a highway until she rang on the doorbell of a stranger’s home to escape.

Look at the reverse of the book jacket and, above the picture of O’Connor in her school uniform, a paragraph of words from her leaves you in no doubt about what you’re getting as a reader:

‘I was very young when my career kicked off. I never had or took the time to “find” myself. But I think you’ll see in this book a girl who does find herself – not by success in the music industry, but by taking the opportunity to sensibly and truly lose her marbles. The thing being that in losing them, you find them and play the game better’

The difficulties of her upbringing and her mental health issues – she was bipolar – along with her early induction into the rarefied world of the music industry, created in her a constant and restless search for something undefined.  She was committed to psychiatric units on a number of occasions, experimented with different religions, was married and divorced four times and had four children. Despite her unconventional life, she was determined her children would be in no doubt about the fact they were loved and she also remained on good terms with several of her past lovers as they became a valued part of her extended and much-cherished family.

There was, however, always the feeling that things would end badly. O’Connor was a tortured soul and around her constantly hung the question about what it might be that would finally push her over the edge. It seems the death of her son Shane, by suicide, was the point she could not come back from, despite 18 months of trying.

I felt a real sadness when I heard of her passing and over the last two days have listened to more of her music. I have read the many obituaries that describe her voice as one we shall never hear the likes of again and I have been captivated by her spare and haunting beauty in the portraits of her that stare out at me. Her gaze is direct and uncompromising, her features almost perfect, her trademark shaved head still so distinctive and provocative.

I am not prone to taking part in the public outpourings of grief when someone famous dies, but with Sinéad O’Connor I mourn the loss of a voice, so perfect and pure, so evocative and true and so unique. I feel sad that she had fought so hard and for so long and yet was still beaten by tragedy in the end. I leave you with the Youtube video of her singing “He moved through the fair” in 1997. Or better still, find the live performance of the song on Spotify, sit somewhere quietly, close your eyes and just listen. Then tell me you are not touched by that incredible voice.

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