I had a date with a legend. Back in October, Christy Moore had agreed to come to The Music Show in the RDS for a public interview – and I was privileged to be asking the questions.

The setting was an unusual one: press interviews don’t normally feature an audience hanging with bated breath on every word, and so we can usually afford to be as sloppy as a parish priest after an indiscreet feed of altar wine. Not on this occasion. There was an element of performance required, of making sure that the modus operandi was tight enough and the content entertaining enough to keep a packed house from getting restless or falling asleep. The real pressure was on Christy – it was his life we were talking about, after all – but if I made a balls of it, well, at the very least his job would be that much harder to do.
As it turned out, the man was in fine form and gave liberally of himself over the guts of two hours – a long time to be talking. There were some great moments during the interview, some hilarious ones and some very touching – especially in the question and answer session at the end, during which the audience got the chance to put their own teasers to Christy.
I knew that we had the bones of a great story for Hot Press. But not everything that happens in a public setting like that translates effectively into print. And, as in most big interviews, there were strands that had to be revisited after the initial conversation, for the purpose of clarification and accuracy, or to add a bit of extra detail or heft to a story. There was work to be put in before it would be ready for print.
Well, it’s done. There is a lifetime in music covered here – and so it is, as the fella said, a long story. But it is, I think, also, a fascinating one, which reflects in all sorts of revealing – and frequently challenging – ways, on what it is to be a musician, a performer, a writer, an artist, an activist and occasionally a joker-in-the-pack, in a country that has undergone quite an extraordinary level of change over the past forty-plus years, between when Christy Moore first hit the road as a song-gatherer towards the end of the 1960s and the release of his current, magnificent album, the mighty Listen.
Niall Stokes: Christy when did you first get the idea that you might be a singer?
Christy: Well, I grew up in Newbridge, County Kildare in the pre-television era. There was always live music and singing in our house. Our mother was a singer and she played the piano. Our father also sang and from early on we were all encouraged to sing. I was a boy soprano, if you can believe that, and I also sang in choirs and school musicals. Singing came naturally to me.
Did you ever resent that thing where the parents would say to you ‘get up and sing us a song there, Christy’?
Never for a moment. I was an exhibitionist from the very start. We used to have little concerts at home. We had sliding doors between two rooms and sometimes the grandparents and parents would sit in one of the rooms. The sliding doors would create a stage and we would do our little gig. 
You got a job as a bank clerk. How the hell did you think Christy Moore would make a good bank clerk?
I was a disaster of a bank clerk. In those days I was a different fella altogether. I was 18, I’d just done my Leaving Cert and I sat an exam for what was then The National Bank. For some reason I got accepted and went to training school in Rathmines for three months. It was all pretty boring stuff. Move on quick, for Jaysus sake, or I’ll start singing!
So there was a bank strike and that was the point where you decided to hit the road?
Prior to that I was working in The National Bank in Dublin. I was sharing a room with Donal Lunny. At the time he was in a band called The Parnell Folk with Mick Moloney and Dan Maher. I used to go around watching them. There were a lot of really good clubs in Dublin back then – I played the guitar and sang. Occasionally I would be asked up to do a couple of songs so the seed was sown early on and right through my three years in the bank I really wanted to be playing and singing. In 1966 there was a bank strike and I went over to England and never came back until 1971. I got involved playing in the Irish pub scene in London – mainly vamping jigs and singing the odd song. The Grehan Sisters from Boyle were friends from The Fleadh Ceols. I knew nothing about folk clubs ‘til they brought me up to Manchester and introduced me to the folk scene. I began to get floor spots and guest bookings and my life changed very quickly. There was an audience out there who wanted to listen to songs. That was quite a revelation. 
Tell me about the first time you got into the guitar. Was that hard work?
I was about 16 when The Clancy Brothers exploded into my life and I really wanted a bit of that. I managed to get a guitar. I remember it was the Leinster Fleadh Ceol in Portarlington, and I bought it from Ned Bulfin for three pounds. It was my pride and joy and I thought it was fantastic. Donal (Lunny) taught me G, C and D and with those few chords I was able to do quite a few Clancy Brothers songs. Then Donal taught me A-minor and things really started opening up.
So do you have a favourite chord?
Ah, sure you can’t bate the auld A-minor.
Do you have a favourite key? 
At the moment the key of A. My voice has changed radically over 40 years. I got a bit of a shock this morning. I heard a radio play of Woody Guthrie’s ‘Plane Crash at Los Gatos’, which I recorded in 1983. I couldn’t believe the sound of my voice. As you get older your voice moves down a bit, until eventually it moves six foot under.
In terms of the way you were looking at songs in those early years, was there a particularly important influence?
The first influence was my mother because of all the different songs that she sang: trad songs, folk songs, opera and church stuff. I got into the early rock’n’roll listening to Radio Luxembourg and I played piano a little. Then The Clancy Brothers arrived along. I started going to the Fleadhs, hearing different styles of ballads. The next thing that really caught my ear was the singing of John Reilly. He was a settled traveller up in Roscommon, who sang big songs like ‘Lord Baker’, ‘What Put The Blood’ and ‘The Well Below The Valley’. I hadn’t heard these songs before and he had a style of singing that really went in deep. All John’s songs have stayed with me and I still sing them today
And you met John Reilly? 
I met John on a few occasions. I met him when I was young and didn’t really appreciate him until years after he had passed. It was then I came to realise the enormity and importance of his repertoire and the great songs he kept alive during his short life.
At what point did you make the connection between the folk revival in Ireland and the folk revival in Britain and the U.S.?
It was all a gradual process for me. There was no big moment. For six years I travelled around British folk clubs and heard a wide variety of singing. I just drank it all in and borrowed from everyone I encountered – from Ewan McColl, Luke Kelly, Martin Carthy, Annie Briggs, Nic Jones, Jeannie Robertson, The McPeakes, Hamish Imlach, Sara Grey, Archie Fisher, The Watersons, Noel Murphy – just a small number of the many singers who influenced me. Back here I heard Ronnie Drew, Al O’Donnell, Andy Rynne, Maeve Mulvanney, Jessie Owens, Andy Irvine, Johnny Moynihan, Johnny McEvoy, Danny Doyle. It was an exciting time; I was discovering songs and singing styles. I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing… 
I was at the Dylan gig in the Adelphi Cinema in 1966 – on the tour when he went electric, and there was the shout of ‘Judas’ from the audience at the Albert Hall in London. How did you feel at that time about Dylan’s decision to go electric?
 Jaysus, Niall, I have met 25,000 heads who were at that Dylan gig and most of them were in The GPO in 1916 as well! I had no interest in Bob Dylan in 1966, or The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. I was totally immersed in my own thing over in England. All I wanted was jigs and reels, big dramatic ballads and John Reilly. I came back to Ireland in 1972 and became aware of all the other stuff that was going on. I began listening to the music that my wife Val liked. She turned me on to a new world of music. I was a pure finger-in-the-ear-head-up-me-arse folky until 1972. 
You came back to Ireland and you made a solo album Prosperous – and with the musicians from that album you formed Planxty. Do you have any sense now of the impact that Planxty had on Irish music? 
I suppose for me it was a wonderful, happy, fun time. I came back from England where I had been playing in folk clubs and spent the next few years in the back of a white Ford Transit with Liam O’Flynn, Donal Lunny and Andy Irvine. We transversed every town in Ireland and we had the time of our lives. It was just about music and songs. We got something going together that was very special to us. Whatever it has become is totally different to what it was. When I think of Planxty, I don’t think of the importance of Planxty – I think of the craic and friendship that we once had. I think of Liam playing ‘The Gold Ring’, Andy singing ‘The West Coast of Clare’, Donal holding it all together and making the amalgam work, and Nicky Ryan on sound delivering it out to every corner of the room...
One thing Planxty did was make a connection between songs and tunes – were you conscious of the way that moved things on, in terms of understanding the relationship between different aspects of Irish music. 
The first piper I ever heard was Liam O’Flynn and I heard him when we were all very young – he lived ten miles away. We used to meet up in Pat Dowling’s Pub in Prosperous, Co. Kildare. I would sit and listen to him play. Later, we started putting reels after songs and there was no big deal about it. It was – I keep coming back to the word – fun. We did not attach any gravitas to it. I’m glad people still listen to Planxty. Sometimes I listen to it myself and I always get a buzz. It is aging well. The music is aging a lot better than the fellas who played it.
Except Donal Lunny, he doesn’t get any older.
True enough!
It seemed as if you might have found a home with Planxty, but then you struck out on your own again. Is there a bit of a loner in you?
Ah yeah, definitely.
And is that something that is part of you – or is it something that happens to you because of the road and the experience of being out there?
I don’t really know. It is only something I have realised later in life. I seem to get by OK in my own company. But then again, when I am alone I always have the songs with me. If I didn’t have music and songs in my life I would often find myself in a very lonely place. This obsession with songs and music has been a positive force in my life.
And there is a lot of loneliness in being on the road.
I’m not going to buy into that. I have a very privileged life. There are eight of us directly involved in putting our gigs together. I do spend time on my own but who doesn’t? Traffic wardens, editors, priests, prisoners… I heard an interview with Nick Jones from 1978. He was being interviewed by Peter Brown, who asked, “All these gigs must be very hard work Nick?” and Nick replied: “Not at all. Being on the road is like being on holiday. When I am at home cutting grass, helping to rear the kids, that’s hard work.” Sitting here today, that is how I feel – I am not going to gurn on about how difficult life can be when I’m out gigging on the road – it’s a privileged existence. I read guys moaning about the hardship of touring – fuck off and get a job on a building site for three months in winter! Go change nappies or nurse a sick child all night...
In a way you couldn’t have been less alone than when you were with Moving Hearts because that was a big collective, with a lot of people involved. What was the original thinking there?
Myself and Donal Lunny got together and talked about ideas. We were both available. Donal had come out of a band, I was knocking around and had a fresh repertoire of songs coming together. We talked about developing a band. Donal was into having bass and drums. I fancied pipes and sax. The next one to join was Declan Sinnott and then came Keith Donald and Davy Spillane. Eoghan O’Neill was recruited from Rosegreen and Brian Calnan brought up the rear. We started off as a three-piece playing acoustically and gradually it built up into the seven-piece. It was a real good time.
You managed Moving Hearts for a period.
That might not be quite the way I’d put it myself but I suppose I did drive it a bit, alright. In the early days I made the phone calls and had the connections. I might have talked to bookers and agents, to Charlie McGettigan about The Baggot. The collective made the decisions and I made the calls. Terry O’Neill came on board and later Keith Donald took up the task. As far as I know, Moving Hearts are still a collective.
How hard was it to work with a collective that large and to get decisions across the line, so that the band could continue to move forward.
Initially when the band got together it was enormous and exciting – around the time of the first album, Moving Hearts was a powerful band playing great music. The music and cameraderie just carried it along. When we went to do the second album, difficulties began to emerge within the music. That made life more awkward for everybody. However it was a good time and the first Moving Hearts album still does it for me…
‘After The Deluge’ is a song from that era that you continue to sing.
Yeah. Also ‘No Time for Love’, ‘Irish Ways and Irish Laws’. Those songs from the first album are still in my repertoire.
There’s been fresh talk about nuclear power and that it might be the most economic way of generating the energy that’s needed. So are we in danger of forgetting the message of ‘After The Deluge’?
We certainly are in danger – but it’s gone way beyond the danger of Nuclear Power.
Do you get the same kind of response to the song now as you did then?
We played it in Limerick last night, Declan Sinnott and I – Declan was on fire at the end and the crowd got right into it. As regards what the audience might or might not have taken from it, that’s a mystery. Come to a gig and maybe you can tell me.
You’ve had a few brushes with authority on the way – which one was the scariest?
There was a number of frightening incidents up North during the H Block campaign. It was a time when a lot of H Block activists were being murdered. I remember doing a gig one night in Derry, a H Block gig, and afterwards I was stopped at a road block and they knew where I had been and where I was going and, somehow, they knew the number of my hotel room. I didn’t go back to the hotel. I just legged it back down to Dublin. That was a scary night. There were many similar incidents. Earlier on, Planxty were stopped one night at a roadblock manned by drunk B-Specials. John Martyn was in the van with us and he flipped. It was a tense time. There were death threats too, but let’s face it – thousands died and were maimed and injured. I got off very lightly.
You also spent some time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure when you were detained and kept overnight.
Oh yeah, well, that was an entirely different matter. That was more to do with illegal substances.
Tell us about it.
There is nothing to tell really. I was caught with a bit of hash in my pocket in Heysham back in 1969 and got locked up for three nights in Morecambe.
Was there a more recent occasion when you were stopped and questioned?
Yes, but nothing serious. A couple of years ago I was stopped for a few hours at Holyhead. It got into the media and it became rather more than it was. Michael Devine and myself were held in Holyhead and questioned in a heavy, ignorant and inappropriate manner. They held us for four or five hours. They wanted our family details, our parents’ names, what kinda houses we lived in. They were a right bunch of wankers. But then after a while we were on our way, so it was no big deal. But I was glad to get out of that shedful of bears.
You had a legal battle over the lyrics of ‘They Never Came Home’, the song about the Stardust disaster. That must have been a very difficult time. 
It was, yeah. Being in that situation was intimidating. I didn’t know what was going on. Sean McBride represented me in what may have been his last case. We lost but the song is still sung. “Put one song down and another song is born”…
What was your feeling about the legal system in Ireland when you went through that?
I just thought it was ridiculous. The way the judge spoke to me was so condescending and it was obvious that he disliked me. Interestingly, he quoted lyrics from previous songs and said: “Well Mr. Moore you don’t seem to have a very high opinion of the legislature or of the State.” It was an interesting time.  
And do you think there was an attitude in Ireland that some artists are troublesome creatures and that they should be pushed to the margins were they belong?
Yeah, but it wasn’t happening across the board to every artist in the country. I don’t think artists in Ireland are looked down upon generally. Whatever breed of artist you might be, Ireland is not the worst place to be. Especially if you play the game and lick the right arses. You might even end up on the pig’s back.
There was a panel here yesterday on the idea that the arts may be under attack now with An Bord Snip in action and the cutbacks that they are suggesting in various areas. Is there a potential difficulty there for people involved in different areas of the arts?
Everybody should be in the same boat, everybody is in for a rough ride. Why should artists be any different? If there are cutbacks in hospitals and areas of social deprivation, why should artists be singled out for special treatment? Let’s be in it together. It’d be much better if we stood together, instead of protecting our own wee patches. Remember the power of Brendan Gleeson on The Late Late Show. Artists can and do make a difference in society. It works at many different levels.
You have written and sung songs in support of the republican struggle, including your brother Barry’s ‘Section 31’, ‘Armagh Women’ and Bobby Sands’ song ‘Back Home in Derry’ – were you happy with the signing of the Belfast agreement?
I also wrote and still sing ‘The Time Has Come’ and ‘On The Bridge’. I sing two Bobby Sands songs, the one you mention and another called ‘McIlhatton’. It’s worth saying that I sing these songs not because of who wrote them – if they were shite songs I wouldn’t sing them. They are aired frequently because they are both very good songs. What has happened these last ten years has been great. There is a peace up North now; it is a very different place. I know we are entering difficult times, but up North, the last ten years have been very different from the previous thirty.
And does that make the songs seem any less relevant to you now?
Songs come and go, some stay, some fade away – if a song is a good song it will always find relevance.
You’ve written songs from a Republican perspective. Have you ever felt the need to turn things around and look at what was happening in the North from the point of view of a British soldier?
I have. I sang ‘The Dying Soldier’ by Ger Costello. ‘All For The Roses’ was written from the perspective of a young Finglas lad, who joins the British army and dies in the Falklands. It’s a very powerful song from Wally Page: a wonderful writer, underrated in Ireland, you should have him on the cover of your next Hot Press. Here is a verse that might answer your question: “The Blue Bitch sent her squaddies on the water/ Geordie don’t be afraid to die/ In blackened face he dreams of his darlin’ bairns and hinny/ On the watchtower overlookin’ Aughnacloy/ In Long Kesh Tyrone boys are dreaming/ Of making love upon the strand some day/ On the Downtown news comes a Mid Atlantic accent/ Karen Livingstone has just been blown away.”

How important is it for you to have a visual sense of what you are singing?
I don’t know if it matters initially, when I’m struggling with the song, getting the feel, getting the fit. When it all gets into shape then the images come. When I don’t have to concentrate upon the act of singing, then I can be transported.
Does that happen every time you play live?
More or less.
How did you feel about the sentiments in U2’s song ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’? 
I just thought it was a good song. I didn’t really think too much about it to tell you the truth.
You later wrote ‘North and South of the River’ with Bono and Edge and I took that as a song about reconciliation.
Spot on. 
That evolved from an earlier version of a song of yours. How did you find that process of collaboration with Bono and Edge? 
I found working with Bono really interesting. He is an inspirational guy to work with; the auld art just flows out of him. I had a great time with him in the studio as well. I loved the way he sang. I learned from him. 
Tell us what. 
He doesn’t have any reverence for the recording process. He puts it exactly were it should be. The most important thing is what you’re singing and the way you’re singing it. No need to engage too much in the technicals, unless something is buggin’ you.... 
In One Voice you wrote: ‘I’m a bit paranoid of the word artist’. Can you explain why? 
Artists and Art are two interesting words. They both cover a lot of very diverse ground. I used to be a bit paro about them. Some artists exist within their art, while others use their art to gain self-importance and grandeur. For a long time I resisted the title “artist”, I was uncomfortable with it – but I don’t really give a shite anymore. I was a piss artist too, but that’s another story. 
Do you trust the political leadership in Ireland right now? 
No. To me, most people who become successful in politics are there primarily to gain powerful careers. There are always exceptions, people who step up to the mark and become successful politicians without abusing the democratic process. But they are in a minority. I mean, would you buy a second hand car from Bertie Ahern TD or Ray Burke or Senator Ivor Callely or Michael Lowry TD – all those guys held ministerial positions and were re-elected repeatedly so their constituents must have trusted them, but I certainly do not.
How do you feel about the observation, which is often made, that we get the politicians we deserve?
Well we do, don’t we? We vote them in. We voted Bertie back in three times. Michael Lowry has topped the poll in Tipperary since 1916. It doesn’t seem to matter what they say or do just so long as they look after our own. The pump in the yard for the grandfather, the cushy job for the slow brother, a pot hole here, a medical card there – we have a flawed and corrupt system which most people apparently find acceptable. We need new politics in Ireland. Bertie bumped some quare hawks into the Senate before jumping ship. “Who is that eyin’ up Áras and Uachtaráin? It’s only me sez Bertie…”
How important is it that artists within the folk tradition, where there was a background of singing protest songs, should be prepared to oppose the mainstream? 
What singers think is no more important than what anybody else thinks, or does or says. You might get your mug on the box a bit quicker. Singing protest songs is just that – some listeners might alter their view of things after hearing Bob Dylan’s ‘Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll’ but still go out and vote for Michael Mc Dowell or Mary Harney.
At the same time, you have sung songs that dealt with the treatment of travellers in Ireland and you talked about John Reilly earlier – so what is your view of the attitude of people to travellers?
What I personally feel is reflected in the songs. There is a song called ‘Johnny Connors’, which I wrote 20 years ago and the last verse is “My name is Johnny Connors, I’m a traveling man, I have taken everything you’ve thrown at me now I’m going to make a stand”. 20 years on, and heavy violence is creeping into every sector of society. 
Do you think travellers can still live the migrant life? 
It’s very difficult. The life I grew up with in the 50’s in Kildare is gone. For my father’s people, there was no running water, no electricity, no jacks. That life is gone, it’s over. I had a romantic view of it and longed to be back there, but the bottom line is: it’s over, get over it. You can’t manoeuvre a horse and covered wagon around the mad cow roundabout. It don’t work... 
It is a very difficult question and one that the Irish people haven’t yet addressed in a way that is going to give travellers equal opportunity. 
Travellers too have their part to play. If people want to maintain their own ancient culture they too must realise certain things if we are all going to share this space. Both sides of the settled line must learn more tolerance and understanding. I sometimes feel that Travellers’ Rights Organisations need to protest about errant behaviour in all quarters. 
There was a discussion here yesterday about the question has ‘Irish Music Lost its Soul?’ – one way this idea was expressed was that musicians had become too interested in doing the Paddy’s Day thing in the White House. 
Or the Arthur’s Day thing in Temple Bar… 
…Or being inside the tent at the Galway Races. So were you ever invited to do that? 
No. 
But you have written a song about the Galway Races. 
I have. 
That song existed first of all without the Ruby Walsh chorus. 
Oh yeah it did. I mean one of my favourite songs of all time is Luke Kelly singing ‘The Galway Races’, but the Galway Races is a very different thing now than what that song describes. I felt it would be interesting to have an up-to-date song about the races – and little Mickey Fingleton and Seanie Fitzpatrick and the Celtic helicopters, crocodiles and alligators swimming around Fianna Fáil in a feeding frenzy, while Beverly whips the cream and Bertie skims the gravy or, God forbid, “Deputies upon their knees lookin’ up at lap dancers, Ministers of State acceptin’ drink from terrible chancers.”
It’s a great song. But I was curious about how the Ruby Walsh idea came to you? 
It was about 18 years ago! Ruby Walsh broke his leg and was in hospital. I got a phone call from Liam O’Flynn saying “Ruby is in hospital and maybe if you rang him up and sang a song for him it might cheer him up.” And I rang him up and I sang ‘Ride On’ over the phone to Ruby Walsh in Naas Hospital. I met his father Ted a few times. He was helping me to make weight. I was at Punchestown races some years ago with the late Donal McCann. Ted Walsh asked me “When are you going to write a song about the racing crowd?” – and that stayed with me. Last year I started to re-write a song about the racing crowd and Ruby rode all round him at Cheltenham. And there it is. 
But did it exist beforehand and then you found the chorus later? 
Well I recorded a different version of it about ten years ago but it never took off, nobody liked it. 
And, how did the chorus of that come to you? 
I was in a VIP suite in Punchestown. They were all getting’ locked on free champagne but I was playin’ it cool drinkin’ tea, studying form and keeping a close eye on movements in the ring. I was sweatin’ on Ruby in a 2-mile steeplechase. Comin’ to the last I was offering him some loud advice. Luckily enough a friend of mine, the late Ronnie Nolan, was on the phone to his bookie and all my roars were recorded. “Hould her back Ruby/ Hould her back... now give her a crack Ruby/ give her a crack.” Anyone could write these auld songs!
Are you a pen and paper man?
Oh definitely. All the time. Coming back from Sligo last night, I got two verses in the back of the van. I’m trying to write all the time. 99.99% of it ends up in the bin but every now and then… I’m very engaged with the process of writing at this point in time – last year I wasn’t at all.
Was there a moment, going back, when you thought, ‘Okay, I’ve been doing the interpretative thing – but there’s stuff I have to get out, and I can do it through songs’?
That certainly was the way… I can’t describe what way it is now. At the moment I’d love to – have you heard of Jinx Lennon? I really like what Jinx is doing. I think Jinx Lennon is a great writer and performer. He doesn’t get any airplay. Have you covered him?
We have, yeah. And he was here yesterday talking to us.
Well, there’s a song of his that I’d love to do if I can find my own way of doing it. He has such a distinctive style of delivery – it’s very hard for me to take in – but he’s given me permission to fool around with a song, and it’s really, really good. It’s about the Conquistador’s Gas and Oil in Mayo. How Shell carry on in the same way no matter where they go, be it the Land of the Ogoni or the plains of sweet Mayo. To them we’re just a third world country. They snap their fingers at the Gardai, who jump to attention. Shell are so crafty they got the bishops in to bless the sea, like when Don Cortez mobilised his mob to deal with native people – I just love that. It’s spot on. Jinx Lennon.
Songs like ‘The Ballad of Ruby Walsh’ remind me of a Bruegel painting in that all human life is there in the one canvas. ‘Lisdoonvarna’ is another. What was it really like in Lisdoonvarna?
Bruegel was very influenced by Irish ballads! Were you never at Lisdoon yourself? Well, it went on for five years and it was a bit different every year, but it was magnificent, it really was. I remember particular things – I remember Seamus Ennis playing the pipes on the main stage one Sunday afternoon – I think it might have been the first year. He came out onto the stage with his pipes, and sat down and played, and there was just something really, really beautiful about it. I know I have this kind of mixed-up melange of romantic ideas about it, but Lisdoonvarna was a great time. I can remember being in a guesthouse one Sunday morning and the place was thronged with people trying to have their breakfast. BP Fallon came downstairs in a dressing gown holding up a Lesbian Tea Bag. It was just a wonderful moment: “Excuse me, madam, could I have some hot water for this tea bag.” Old Beep is a folkie at heart, he just hasn’t realised it yet. Maybe when Iggy Pop takes up the tin whistle.
Do you ever get fed up with singing a particular song? Do they ever become like an albatross?
I just stop singing them if they do. Just drop them. Songs fall off the list all the time. Last year, Declan and I, we did an album and there’s 11 songs on it, and some nights we do 6 or 7 of those songs, which means another 6 or 7 songs have to make way, you know? I’m always looking for songs. I’m always listening to songs. But some will never go away. I literally have to sing ‘Ride On’ every night – people want to hear it. I wouldn’t not want to sing it. Jesus, it’s beautiful. There are some songs you just have to do. But only if you enjoy them – if you don’t enjoy them you shouldn’t do them.
In some of those Rabelaisian songs – ‘Joxer Goes to Stuttgart’, ‘Lisdoonvarna’ and so on – in some ways they make light of the drinking life. But you’ve made no secret of the fact that there’s been a dark side to that for you.
Oh Jesus, I’ve made no secret of that is right. I’m sure everybody knows all about it. I could never find myself in the Dark...the fuckin’ Rabelaisian got the better of me!
So tell us about ‘Riding The High Stool’? That’s a great song.
Thank you. That song is very much about growing up in Newbridge and the excitement of the early drinking days and the crack we had and the things we did and then where it ended up for some of us. That’s really it. I mean, most people can enjoy a drink, it’s not a big deal... except for the rest of us who can’t.
But you also sing songs about the effects of drinking and people feeling lost or defenceless and lonely. Is there one of those songs that stands out for you?
I love Floyd Westerman’s ‘Quiet Desperation’. I don’t do that too often, but when I do it gets me. I also love The Handsome Family’s ‘Butterfly’ – it’s a wonderful song, just a very deep and moving song. And ‘An Bonnán Buí’ (‘The Yellow Bittern’) is a deep well of a song. It was translated from an eighteenth century Irish poem by Tomas McDonagh.  ‘Away You Broken Heart’. ‘Hurt’. All great songs. MacGowan’s ‘Aisling’ too…
You sing a few Shane MacGowan songs. Is Shane one of the greatest songwriters we’ve ever known?
One of the greatest songwriters we have ever known? Shane wouldn’t thank me for answering that question. And to tell you the truth, time alone will judge songs. The great songs are the traditional songs that we sing now, and we neither know nor care who wrote them. The songs have totally outlived the memory of whoever it was that wrote them. And I suspect that Shane MacGowan songs – some of them – will be like that. They’re utter classics.
There’s a lot of love songs. Might there be too many love songs out there?
I don’t think so. I mean there’s a lot of shit love songs and there’s a few good love songs, so we can never have too many good love songs, songs that really express the true meaning of love. Most of the love songs we hear on the radio, they’re not worth listening to.
And what is it that makes a love song authentic or real?
When it touches the heart. When it gives you a lump in your throat, when it makes you think of the one you love or reminds you of someone who’s gone, when it fills you with love and good feeling, the songs of emotion.
When did you first hear ‘The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face’? It strikes me as that kind of song.
I heard Peggy Seeger in the Singer’s Club in London. She was first one I heard singing it. Her husband Ewan wrote it for her. Roberta Flack did the big cover, that’s a great version. I enjoyed recording it, but only gigged it once. I can’t do it live. Ewan MacColl was a great writer. I found out recently from his son that he used to write melodies before words. He had a small room under the stairs. He had a little desk and a small Casio. He wrote that song on a little Casio under the stairs. Can you imagine? ‘Travelling People’, ‘Dirty Old Town’, ‘Shoals of Herring’, ‘Go Move Shift’, ‘Tim Evans’, ‘Companeros’ are just a few of the hundreds of songs he wrote...
In ‘Rory Is Gone’, a song written with Nigel Rolfe, you pay tribute to Rory Gallagher. He was a hugely important figure.
The first time I remember seeing him was in the Carlton in ’72 or ’73, and he was so exciting. I didn’t know anything about that kind of music but straight away I just recognized a man who was totally involved in what he was doing. And he did it so well. I met him a few times but invariably it was backstage – I never had any social interludes with Rory. I remember the last time I met him particularly well, back stage at a festival in Glasgow Green. It was kind of sad and it was kind of lonely. In retrospect, I was really sorry that I didn’t get to spend more time with him on that occasion. But he was a bit of a loner too. What a wonderful player, and what a lovely man. God rest you Rory.