THE WAYFARER - In celebration of The Waterboys
December 1988

I’d pull myself out from under a stockpile of quilts and blankets into the cold Saturday morning air from a sunken-in-the-middle single bed. Rosie and I would trek down the railway track, hands tight in coat pockets (dry, chilly wind blowing up from the sea), humming songs, and before long we would be in town, sitting in our favourite pub, having wholesome, home-made soup, with the sun shining in on the warm wooden interior onto the stone floor and through the green hanging plant that always swung a little because of a slight draught. The afternoon would be spent trekking about the swarming town and, of course, a quiet rest by the river was in order, munching and squelching into a cream filled coffee pastry. Then, it was home across the track, a quick dinner and back into town for a session or whatever took our fancy. We could often be seen at 2 a.m. or 3 a.m., wrecked as could be, trudging homeward along the same railway track, and the lights of Galway reflected in Lough Atalia never lost their splendour.

Lots of things happened in Galway at the week-end. There was usually traditional music in all our favourite pubs and when the Music Workshop got under way, the vibes around town were great. Clogs became an exciting venue for bands and many a brilliant session we witnessed here. Sunday morning was jazz morning in Galway, the afternoon brought more traditional music if we wanted it and the evening brought Country. We were always lucky when hitching to Dublin for gigs. This became regular business and even though we could ill-afford the tickets, we deemed it essential not to miss these great gigs. Having similar musical appetites was an advantage and since both of us loved The Waterboys, catching them playing around Galway added to the story.

And tonight, I sat down with the intention of trying to express some of my reasons for making this celebration. Being short on inspiration, I listened to “A Pagan Place” and was reminded of so many happy times, times that are on-going ; and I realise that these are some of my reasons. Music is powerful. If draws people together, is at the centre of many happy events and the maker of many happy memories. It is just one big buzz in that massive hive that is life. I hope that all of you who are just as buzzed by music as I am, will also want to spill some of it into this magazine.

Berni McCluskey



Tomás Mac Eoin and “The Stolen Child”

The evening after I learned of the album’s release date, I found myself sitting with Tomás Mac Eoin in a sunny room, and he chatting to me about life, music and his part in “Fisherman’s Blues”. He told me about the “beautiful, haunting” Yeats poem “The Stolen Child” and how he came to recite it on the album.

“There was some knocking on my window one night”, said Tomás, “just after I’d come home from the pub and was lying in bed”. At first he thought it was just someone who had followed him home from the pub and he didn’t answer because he just wasn’t in the mood for company. The knocking persisted for a while and then with the aid of a streetlight Tomás saw “two long-haired things” (Anto and Trevor) go out to a car, stand looking up and down the road for a while and return again to try once more. What puzzled Tomás, however, was how did these strange strangers know which window was his bedroom window. Eventually, however, they gave up and drove off but if Tomás had known that they had a bottle of whiskey with them, he would have let them in. As it happened, they had heard his cassette “LE FICHE BLIAIN ANUAS” and were very impressed.

Eventually, after leaving a few messages here, there and everywhere, Tomás was caught up with and they explained to him who they were, what they were about and asked him if he would recite “The Stolen Child” for the album. Tomás wasn’t sure at first. ‘I thought I was too old and my hair wasn’t long enough’ he joked to me, but finally he agreed and they said they would send a car for him on the next Tuesday. Tomás said he’d prefer to make his own way from his home in An Cheathrú Rua to Spiddal House.

By this time, the locals knew about the Waterboys’ interest in Tomás and he was given advice by one suspicious acquaintance to take care as he thought the Waterboys might be gay. They’d been seen hugging each other after various sessions in local pubs. Tuesday arrived and so did the car and off with Tomás to Spiddal House.

Tomás hails from An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe), a village on the Connemara coast, about 30 miles west of Galway city. Gaelic is the spoken language, although Tomás, like most others in the area, is proficient in English also. Like so many people in the West, his life seems to revolve around music. Although probably too modest to ever admit it, he seems to have an unending capacity for song-making. It has been said of him - “the man has forgotten more songs than most people would be able to learn in a lifetime of serious collecting”. Renowned for his old-style or sean-nós singing, he was voted the best sean-nós singer in Ireland in 1967 at the Oireachtas competitions and won the Ó’Riada Trophy.

His cassette, LE FICHE BLIAN ANUAS (For the last 20 years), is a collection of songs which must reflect a little of the many sides to his life. “Bleán na Bó” could be described, I suppose, as a comical “drinking song”, in which Tomás explains to us how he used songs to persuade his cow to give him milk. On the same amusing note, “Colcannon” can make a body hungry. There is a hymn, a song in remembrance of a fellow singer, many other songs, but most noteworthy of all are his love songs, “Me Féin’s Tú Fin’ and the most beautiful ‘An Cailín Álainn”.

Tomás, unwary in his talking to me about love, sadness and people, was charming and so comical. I left that evening feeling light and happy in the warm Galway sun. But, I knew there was more.

Club Conradh na Gaeilge have a small bar in Galway and that same night, a good crowd had gathered after a special occasion in town. It is mainly people who are deeply interested in Irish Culture who frequent this place and what really intrigued me was that I almost felt shifted back in time to the days of the bothánaíocht when neighbours and friends, adults and children gathered in on man’s cottage and had craic, ceol and drink until unearthly hours of the morning. Everyone in the club knew each other and everyone had to sing a song, play a tune or dance a little. To my horror, Tomás called on me for a song but when he sang himself, I could see that he is a very popular man among all. He had a fist full of charm and a bodhrán beneath his arm and is as friendly as anybody could ever be.

After the Waterboys left Galway to mix the album in Rockfield, Wales, they asked Tomás to go and do some more work on “The Stolen Child”. According to Tomás they are all fine musicians and he commented on how they sometimes stayed up until 3.00 a.m. or so, working in the studio. Tomás himself was treated very well. There seem to be great mutual respect between them all. And the result... “THE STOLEN CHILD”, written by a remarkable poet, W.B. Yeats recited by a remarkable singer/songwriter, Tomás Mac Eoin, accompanied by the Pied-Piper-like flute playing of Colin Blakey (of We Free Kings) and dreamed, brewed up and immortalised by Mike Scott. Listen to it. Close your eyes and be there. What can I say? I’m dumfounded.