A Little Birr Of What You Fancy

It’s the gloriously sunny afternoon, and in a Dublin city centre hostelry, Edmond Enright – better known to me and you as Mundy – is recalling the mixed critical reaction to his debut album, Jellylegs, almost 20 years ago.
“I remember when my first album came out in 1996,” the 39-year-old singer-songwriter says, speaking in an Offaly accent undiluted by years of touring the world. “It got really good reviews – except George Byrne fucking slated it. He really annihilated me on that one.”
We’re meeting to discuss Mundy’s soon-to-be-released, self-titled, sixth album. Sadly, given that George Byrne was laid to his eternal rest just this very morning, the world will never get to hear what the legendarily contrarian rock critic would have made of it.
Mundy didn’t attend George’s funeral, but not because he was holding any grudges. “I would have gone except that my week is a bit crazy,” he explains, shaking his head apologetically. “I actually met George after that review. I supported Lucinda Williams in the Olympia after I did an album in Texas. And he came up to me after and said, ‘Well, I fucking love the new songs... hated your first album, though’. The fact that Lucinda Williams let me support her, I think he was pretty impressed with that. But you know, before that I fucking hated him. Then when he liked me, I kinda liked him, you know what I mean?”
Chances are that George would have liked Mundy – or at least not hated it too much. To this writer’s ears, it’s easily the Birr native’s best work to date. He certainly thinks so himself. “It definitely showcases my broad span of song-writing ability from the heartfelt ballad to the upbeat rock ‘n’ roll Mundy,” he enthuses. “I would say it’s a collection of songs, definitely. I would say the thread through it is the sound of it: the production is what holds it all together. I’ve never really written a concept album. I would hate to write a whole album full of love songs: it would be boring to me.
“I like a little bit of choice, and a little bit of flair and flavour, and I think every song has its own story so it’s a different chapter. There’s many albums out there that are all love songs, and they sell bucket- loads. It infuriates me how one person can feel so one-dimensional. So this has got a lot of options.”
The album was recorded in UK musician and producer Youth’s studio in Spain. Youth actually produced Jellylegs, but this is the first time they’ve collaborated in two decades. A lot has changed in Mundy’s life. Back then, he was a carefree, wet behind the ears, 19-year-old, freshly signed to Epic Records. Today, six albums and literally thousands of live performances in, he’s a married father of two young girls, and without a record label. Not that that particularly matters in this digital day and age. He’s played the Royal Albert Hall, been bigged up by Bono, and performed for President Obama at the White House. Despite all this, when he bumped into Youth backstage after a Killing Joke gig in the Button Factory a couple of years ago, Mundy was in the creative doldrums and really feeling the pressure.
“I hadn’t seen him since I finished up my album in ’95,” he explains. “I went up and was telling him ‘I’ve got kids now’ and ‘I’ve been finding it hard to write, a lot of pressure’ and all that. And he said, ‘Come on over to London and we’ll try to do a bit of co- writing together’. So I did that, and then I asked him how much it would cost to do an album in my situation, because you know I don’t have a major record deal – and so we worked something out.”
As things transpired, Youth didn’t just produce the album; he also provided a band. “We recorded it in a place called Andalusia. From Grenada it’s about 45 miles, up in the mountains. Youth owns a studio there, based on an old studio in London. He just said to me, ‘Listen, we can do it in London but, by the time you’ve paid for hotels and musicians, you’ll be fucking skint’. So he said, ‘Don’t bring your band, come over and trust me’. So he played bass, his assistant engineer [Eddie Banda] played drums, his sound engineer [Michael Rendall] played keyboards, and I played all the guitars. We got Simon Tong in on a couple of songs back in London, and a couple of other people. It was mostly just me and three guys. It was very hard work, but it was a very enjoyable experience.”
Mundy offers a mixed bag of songs. One of the most romping and raucous is the Pogues-influenced ‘Glory Hole’, a glorious blast of foot-stomping noise that’s surely destined to be a live favourite.
“Some people don’t like that song,” he grins. “I was having a drink with Gavin Glass the other night, and he said, ‘Love the album, but I hate that song’. How it came about was, I was in Perth a few years ago on tour with Mark Stanley, who used to be the drummer in The Mary Janes. He was kinda tour-managing me. The only place you can drink in Perth after 1am is the casino. So
we met all these guys that had the week
off from the mining. So they had been 21 days in the hole, seven in the city. So Mark was telling me there’s a huge problem with gambling in Australia, massive, and the government are well aware of it but they are making so much money out of it...
“So I just thought, I’m in the situation in Ireland where I have an apartment, can’t get rid of it because I bought it in the boom. I just felt for these guys who went over there, where you can make money very quickly
if you can keep your shit together. But a lot of people can’t keep their shit together because they’re Irish and they’re thirsty, you know? So that's what ‘Glory Hole’, is about.
“So in Spain Youth said to me, ‘What was that song that you were well known for in Ireland for a while?’ And I said, ‘‘Galway Girl’? I didn’t write that’. He said, ‘Well, let’s try and write something like that’, and he just put up a beat. He said, ‘What do you think you should write?’ And I said if it had to be close to ‘Galway Girl’ then something like ‘Country Girl’ by Primal Scream. You know that song? And he said, ‘Well, I actually produced that song’ – so he produced ‘Country Girl’ by Primal Scream! So it ended it more like ‘Sickbed of Cuchulainn’, bit more of a Clash-y vibe to it. It’s only two-and-a- half minutes long, and I reckon when people are drinking they’re gonna get into it.”
Another song that’s bound to go down well with drunken Irish ex-pats is ‘UAE’. “In the last four or five years, I’ve played nearly more out of Ireland than I have played in Ireland. So I end up playing in Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Australia, America. The whole idea with that song is there is a whole lot of work out there, but you’d always rather be in San Francisco or somewhere like that, where all your buddies are.
“It’s a culture I don’t understand in the UAE. I find it hard to be there for a couple of weeks, although it’s been very good
to me workwise, it’s just a very strange culture. Anytime I get asked to play there, it’s complete carnage, the drinking is off the fucking scale over there – because it’s so strict, when they get a chance they go completely bananas. I wrote it about someone who’s got work over there, but doesn’t really want to be there. It’s a goof more than anything else.”
Mundy will be finding out just how well these songs go down when he hits the road for the umpteenth time to promote the album over the coming weeks and months. As a father of two, he’s finding it increasingly hard spending time away. However, he accepts it’s the life he chose.
“It is a tough gig,” he reflects. “If the recession wasn’t here it would probably
be a lot easier. We’re just fucked to the floor, you know, as a couple. My wife works in advertising. I’d say like every other relationship in the country, the pressure is massive. And you know, to make time to be nice and carefree and everything is very hard. I worked really, really hard last year, as in I had a lot of work. I went away for six weeks and stuff. And that’s not easy on her. A lot of people would say, ‘Jeez, you’re having the time of your life’. Three weeks into it you’re missing the kids and missing her.
“I remember I was in San Francisco and I went for a swim one day, just to get some endorphins back into my system. There was this guy with two kids, two girls same as myself, and I just had a melter in the pool. I just got out and I walked for miles and miles and miles that day just to not think about it. Couldn’t keep it together, you know?”
Having said that, Mundy doesn’t have any real regrets. “It’s had its ups and downs, really,” he says of his peripatetic career. “It’s never been completely depressing, and I’ve never not wanted to do it. But about three or four years ago, I did start thinking that I needed something else a little more stable. I was thinking I’d be great to have a radio show once a week, and a steady income. But then the minute I made that phone call, a bunch of gigs came in. I’ve always been lucky that way. It’s like this year – up to Paddy’s Day, I had no idea what I was doing, and then a three-week tour came in two weeks before it actually happened. So it’s been a very turbulent career. But I’m not complaining.”