Drying off after a taxing photoshoot in HP Towers (we put our cover stars through the wringer), Ryan Sheridan is recalling some golden moments from his career thus far. The one that changed everything for him, however, was more of a Marigold moment.
“I’m kinda hands-on at home,” says the Monaghan man. “I’m into the DIY. The washing machine was broke, so I thought I’d fix it. Just then I got a phonecall from my manager Brian. He goes: ‘you’re number one in Germany!’ I’m there [shocked expression] with my rubber gloves on. It ended up being a funny moment, more than anything. Thinking ‘WHAAAT?!’ in the middle of the kitchen, soaking!”
You have to wonder whether David Hasselhoff was in a similar domestic situation when he received that particular phone call back in the day. “I don’t think he was.”
Nope, KITT probably told him. Or someone in a tight swimsuit on the set of Baywatch.
“Yep, he was having the time of his life and I was getting roared at to fix the washing machine!”
Never mind, Ryan, we’d rather listen to your music any day (although ‘Jump In My Car’ is worth a Youtube and, come to think of it, ‘Hooked On A Feeling’ was way ahead of its time).
That dream call two years ago came after years of dead-ends, dedication, hard work and a concerted effort not to let the flame of his creative desire be snuffed out. A call earned the old-fashioned way, in other words.
The success of 2011 debut album The Day You Live Forever, not only at home but abroad, has afforded Sheridan freedom and lifted a weight from his shoulders. Even if it means second album Here And Now is only arriving four years later.
“The overseas promo was definitely the main reason,” he told me in Whelan’s Parlour Bar the week before his “Watergate”. “It took legs.”
Not only did Deutschland’s affections lead to a deal with Universal Germany, but the fact he’s a hit Down Under means he’s just back from touring in the Aussie sunshine. You imagine he draws a strong ex-pat contingent, making the gigs feel like Irish shows, but with better weather. Oh wait, it’s their winter...
“Better weather my arse!” he laughed. “I’d 10 pairs of shorts packed, and factor 50, and they are still in the bag. I had to buy a coat when I was over there. It was pissing rain. Freezing!”
Still, it’s not all about topping up the tan. A keen GAA fan, he recently performed at the Munster GAA Football Senior Championship Final – though his mind was probably on Monaghan squeaking past Donegal in the Ulster final.
“It was pretty surreal but I’m not sure it was quite up there! I did some weird, mental stuff when I started off. I sang the national anthem at the European Boxing Championships in Dublin... And I had Donegal Irish as well! Then playing the Obama gig at College Green? That was completely surreal. What a moment. One song and it’s like ‘whoosh’ – hold on a minute here! It was just such a historic thing to be part of. There were 80,000 people in the streets. People everywhere. An amazing day. A crazy day.”
In terms of other perks, he has been able to approach Here And Now at a less pressurised pace than his debut (more on the frankly insane construction of that later). It turned out it was needed.
“I recorded the album twice. The first time I recorded it was last May with Jim Lowe but it didn’t have the sound I wanted. I had a full band but it didn’t have that raw acoustic sound. I had the opportunity to re-do some stuff with some new songs, so I went back and re-recorded it in Germany.”
Capturing his propulsive approach with a set of more considered songs, Here And Now is good to go. Needless to say, Sheridan has been itching to bring new material to the stage that the audience will actually recognise. Touring is on the cards.
“I never really make long-term plans though. I just see where the cards fall. I have a kid now as well, which takes you back a bit. You just go ‘relax’! That’s what I want to do – live in the moment.”
Being back on the road will be a bit of a juggling act with a young family, though FaceTime helps. His son is only two and a half, but already he’s showing an interest in music.
“I’ve been forcing him a little bit!” More importantly, is he a Ryan Sheridan fan? “He’s on board! I’d have him listening to mixes – have them blaring – and he’s dancing in the corner. I’m like ‘Yes!’”
It sounds like he’s taken a leaf out of his father’s book. Sheridan grew up in a musical household. As a young child, trad was all he knew. Coming full circle, we return to a room in Hot Press and our trip down memory lane.
“I remember being put into music when I was about five, into playing the fiddle. That’s where it all kicked off for me. That’s when the drug started...”
It strikes Sheridan that the rhythmic, contagious energy he attempts to conjure onstage is directly related to the Celtic sounds and performances of his youth.
“When I got into the ceili bands at 12 or 13, the energy onstage was unbelievable. I’ve been trying to harness that. I didn’t notice it until I started busking but that’s where my influences come from. That’s the sound I’m chasing. But really I was like every other 15-year-old when I started playing guitar. In the ‘90s, bands like Oasis, The Verve, Blur and Radiohead were everything. Anything with a guitar, I was trying to learn it all.”
At the same time, dance was taking over. At a young age, he was swept off his feet when he joined the cultural phenomenon they call Riverdance.
“It was crazy. I’d just turned 16 when I got the call to do it and my bags were packed at the door before the phone call was finished! I didn’t finish my Leaving Cert or anything. It was a massive thing for my parents to say I could go. You arrive over, you’ve got your hotel and a wage. And you’re in this massive city, having come from Monaghan town.
“A different world. Jesus. It was a shock for me. But it was like a family. We toured for a full year and I was home for two weeks at Christmas. That was it, then back out. I did that for four years.”
Did he really harbour ambitions to be the next Michael Flatley, or was it just an easy way to meet girls?
“Absolutely! It really, really was! There was never any slagging at school. You couldn’t. I’d say: ‘okay, slag away, but I’m off for a week with loads of girls. I’m away! Bye bye.’ That was fantastic. But again, I can’t remember really getting into it. It was part of my life straight away.”
Riverdance obviously has quite a clean-cut image. Was it more debauched in reality than anyone would imagine?
“Near enough. You would be very surprised. I think it’s changed but at the time it was crazy. It really was a rock ‘n’ roll thing. The good thing was you could dance your hangover off. It was pretty intense. All I can say is that I’m glad there weren’t picture phones around at that time!”
At the back of Ryan’s mind, however, was the nagging feeling he should pursue his own musical career.
“We were playing to 10,000 people a night in massive arenas and I used to come on stage before anybody else and think ‘wow, I’d love to be standing here doing my own thing.’ But at the time I wasn’t writing many songs.
“It was when we moved to Broadway that I started writing songs. I was 18 at the time, and had my own apartment in New York. That age is weird for anybody, because you don’t know what you want to do with your life. New York is such a massive melting pot of culture and inspiration. Everything coming at you in full force.
“I used to write songs in the toilets of the Gershwin Theatre. Between performances. I’d be up, do a dance, run back in and grab a guitar and go into the big shower unit. I’d be there writing songs until I had to go do another dance. Whenever I and a day off I’d be trying to get down to the East Village to play a show there. Arlene’s Grocery [home of The Strokes’ early shows] was where my very first solo gig was. It was great because everybody came down. I had a full room for my first gig! But then, I thought that was the way it was going to be all the time – that quickly changed!”
When Riverdance left, Sheridan stayed on in the Big Apple, working as a barman in Paddy Reilly’s Irish Music Bar.
“A mental place. Great tips. You have to learn how to be a great barman because you get fuck-all wages. You have to be a psychologist... all things to all people. I absolutely loved it. There was a lot of trad in there, bluegrass as well, which took over for me for a while.”
All the while, his taste was developing. Picking up tips on performing and pleasing punters behind the bar; poring over classic albums in his time off.
“I started listening to Tim O’Brien. His harmonies were perfect. The production on his albums... everything about him was amazing. Tim got me into a lot more stuff. And I really got into the songwriting. Albums like Jeff Buckley’s Grace and Closing Time by Tom Waits. At 18, you don’t really know what Waits is talking about but it’s great. He knows more than me, he’s been around the block, I’ll go with it. Fantastic stuff.”
A return to Ireland was a return to earth.
“I moved back home for a year and did labouring work. Unloading trucks of PVC and travelling around. I was like ‘fuck, I gotta get out of here.’ Friends of mine were doing music in Glasgow so I went over there and started up a band. I was done with the singer-songwriter thing and wanted to expand what I heard in my head.
"At that time, Glasgow was fantastic for music. Snow Patrol and Franz Ferdinand were kicking off, Biffy Clyro were just starting. It was an amazing time to be in Glasgow. You’re trying to follow in their footsteps and make your way on the scene.
I tried to keep that together, but it was tough. I was working at everything in Glasgow. I worked in Virgin Megastore for a while, worked in Sky. Just anything to keep me there and pay the rent.”
A return to Dublin led him to strike up a partnership with cajon player (look it up!) Artur Graczyk, but things were fizzling out.
“As any band knows, when you’re playing original stuff, it’s tough to keep the band together. Tough to pay for rehearsals. You’re rehearsing all the time and you’re paying to play at some places. You’re playing to the barman, trying to get people down... It was just fucking tough and we couldn’t keep it together.”
Work took over. Life got in the way. Bills got in the way.
“I went into a bar job in Eamon Doran’s and then I managed Eamon Doran’s for a while. Music was gone at that stage. And it must have been for six or seven years.”
Did he think his musical ambitions were dead in the water at that point?
“I did, to be honest, I really did. But I wanted to do two things in my life: I wanted to play music and I wanted to open a venue. I did it in Monaghan. Friends and family all pitched in and got it up and going. I got a load of bands on. But then one night, a band was playing and they were brilliant... And I thought ‘oh fuck!’
“Everybody’s shouting at you: ‘get me a pint!’ Fuck that. I made the decision. I thought I had to give it another go. Luckily I had a chance to get out of the bar and I went to Dublin. Gave up everything and went busking. Artur got back on to me and said ‘I’m busking, do you want to come in and give it a try?’ At this stage I had ‘Jigsaw’ written so we were playing that.”
His biggest hit to date, did he have an inkling straight away that it would be an important song in his career?
“No. Not at all. I didn’t even have that sound. It was a lot slower as well. It was only when I sat down with Artur and he had the cajon going [that it took shape].”
How did he find the street? Competitive?
“No, there wasn’t really competition. There was actually a lot of comraderie in it. You’d say ‘Do you want to jump down here, we’ll take an hour off?’ A lot of that. We’d sell 100 CDs a day, leave it at that and be happy. It was amazing. You learn your trade. And it was freedom. You can play what I want. People can stay if they want, they can buy CDs. It got me out of a bit of debt as well.”
Not thinking long-term, it took a chance meeting with his now-manager Brian Whitehead in 2010 for things to really take off.
“I was playing in Temple Bar and I was heading home because it was pissing rain. But I thought ‘feck it, I’ll stay on an extra hour.’ So I sat down and played on. At the end, there was a card with a number saying ‘RING ME’. I thought he wanted me for a party or something – cool! I rang him, we had a meeting and it just took off from there. The record deal came shortly after that.”
It came so quickly, he didn’t actually have the songs for a full record.
“Thinking back, I wrote the majority of the album in about four days. I wrote eight songs in a cottage. It was frantic: ‘what am I doing here!?’
I didn’t have a backlog of songs. I was too busy working. And, going back, I didn’t want to use the older songs. That was a different time in my life; it was too far back. I was 18 then, I was now 28. Different person. So when you go into the studio, they’re not matured songs. The way they sound on the album is completely different to how I play them now. But I love listening back to it. It brings me back in time. Back to a time when I was shagging myself!”
Within a couple of years, Ryan’s washing machine broke down and his phone started ringing. His twin aims of opening a venue and making music have been fulfilled. Is there a new bucket list?
“I want to be a songwriter,” he concludes simply. “I want to collaborate with people as well. And I’m mad about producing.”
Talking up his favourite gigs of all time, Sigur Ros and Mogwai feature heavily. Can he see himself completely changing tack and going down an instrumental, post-rock route?
“Absolutely, absolutely. I’d use my vocal as an instrument, more so than lyrically. ‘Wailing’, would be the best word! I’d love to get into that and I think I will very soon. Bring in brass and all that stuff and make it a completely dynamic album.”
Other ambitions are equally as surprising.
“I’d like to write and produce my own short movie at some stage. I’m into that. I have little ideas. I directed one of my videos and really, really enjoyed it.”
What did he enjoy about the process?
“Again, it’s freedom. If you see something, there’s nobody else to tell you that it’s wrong. Complete freedom. I just want to be as creative as I can.”