John Steinbeck’s masterwork, The Grapes of Wrath, culminates with the key figure, Tom Joad, recounting the story of a traveling clergyman who joined the Joads on their arduous journey after being expelled from their property during the infamous Oklahoma dustbowl. This was the monstrous epoch of the Great Depression in the 1930s when banks were seizing the land of farmers burdened by insurmountable debt.
The erstwhile preacher, Jim Casey, had abandoned his evangelistic pursuit, succumbing to alcohol and licentious indulgences. However, his life took a turn when he embraced the role of a workers’ rights leader, who eventually faced a brutal end at the hands of villainous mercenaries hired by the landowners. The character that Tom Joad portrays was driven by the belief in a grand, universal soul.
“…there was a time he ventured into the wilderness to explore his own soul, only to affirm that he didn’t possess an individual soul. He claimed he only had a mere fragment of an immense soul. The wilderness, he argued, was of no value, for his petite fragment of a soul had no worth unless it merged with the larger soul, making it whole.”
The grand soul idea resonates in this turbulent era coloured by deep scepticism in nearly every sphere of life. As a man well into my sixties, having observed for over thirty years the darkest aspects of human interactions, I recount preacher Casey’s words in memory of a dear friend radiating an abundance of warmth. His life, dedicated to songwriting, singing, chronicling life at grassroots, advocating for the marginalised and less fortunate, all while being one of the last true troubadours, eloquently counters the mounting ire and prejudice prevalent in Ireland and beyond today. Even as he presses on into his eighties, he tirelessly prepares his musical gear for another road journey. He joins the chorus of his own song: “Never weary from travel; Never tire from the spinning wheel; Never estrange from the worldways.”
In the heart of the 1970s, I encountered Andy Irvine in Cork, as he delivered a performance as part of Planxty. This concert was my inaugural gig. It was during the sobering era of the Republic. Even the induction into the EEC did little to change my daily trek to school through Mardyke. Music was my sanctuary. I dabbled in a band. We frequented Crowley’s music shop located on MacCurtain street and Pat Egan’s records positioned across St Patrick’s Bridge, discovering the astonishing wonder of stereo headphones to listen to albums.
However, the thrill of watching and dancing to the tunes of Planxty alongside hundreds kitted in jeans and check work shirts (a staple influenced by Rory Gallagher) as they brought the roof down with The Blacksmith, Follow Me Up to Carlow and other masterpiece pieces from the Planxty and The Well Below The Valley albums is an unparalleled euphoria I can never forget.
Planxty’s music was a nod to tradition, a sound reminiscent of our ancestors, but through their lenses, it became appealing to a generation eager to separate from a petrifying past. A memorable incident involving the band comes to mind from my early days as a junior reporter at the Limerick Leader. I penned an article about a local nightclub denying entry to several black students. The story gained nationwide attention leading to a phone call.
A voice introduced themselves as Dónal Lunny from Planxty. He proceeded to explain that the band had a performance booked at the nightclub but would be cancelling due to the treatment of the students. They shifted their concert to the university proving the band’s solidarity despite the possible financial repercussions.
Planxty’s music felt like a gust of wind, baptising us in joy, sorrow, passion, and poetry. It was a liberating force that was indisputably ours but approachable by everyone. During times of intense dispute in the region and between Britain and Ireland, they introduced us to Scottish and English folk tradition through their songs.
Their rendition of The Jolly Beggarman, a Scottish seduction ballad that inspired Lord Byron’s poetry, remains a fond memory.
We won’t be wandering or roving in the night any longer, content to allow the moon to shine as brightly as it pleases. Planxty, a band established by Andy Irvine, Dónal Lunny, Christy Moore and Liam Óg Ó Floinn, with significant contributions from Paul Brady, Johnny Moynihan and Bill Whelan, was instrumental in guiding a new generation towards the beauty of folk music. Particularly, Andy introduced the music he found during his travels in the former Yugoslavia in the late 1960s.
Andy soon began composing his own music, with many of his songs reflecting his vast understanding of history and his deeply held beliefs. He confided in me recently, recounting that about three decades ago, he noticed a scarcity of songs conveying the stories of crucial subjects. Inspired by Woody Guthrie, the renowned American folk-singer and activist, Andy sought to craft narrative ballads echoing the style of Guthrie’s iconic song – Tom Joad.
His ballads honoured a variety of heroes, from Michael Davitt, the Land League activist to Raoul Wallenberg, the Swedish envoy. Wallenberg bravely rescued many Jews from the deathly grasp of the Nazis, only to later be captured by the KGB and disappear into the Russian Gulag.
Wallenberg was honoured for bravely and astutely saving numerous Jews, though, when he himself required assistance, there was a lack of support. Frustration and outrage are sparked every time his name is sung in Wallenberg’s ballad.
Bill Whelan, our mutual friend, and a pioneering composer in his own right, always fondly recalls his memories of Andy. He specifically remembers Andy’s sense of humour, forthrightness and unwavering interest in music. Bill lauds Andy as a “true musical point of reference”, and credits him with creating a valuable collection of music and songs that will continue to inspire generations of enthusiasts in folk and traditional music. Bill reminiscences their countless shared laughs, though he also notes how Andy never took his eyes off the work at hand.
The unique fusion of wisdom and idealism in Andy’s songwriting is quite exceptional. His astuteness and generosity of spirit prevent him from resorting to simplistic catchphrases. Fame and fortune hold no allure for him, apart from what he needs to support his musical journey. When he vocalises against self-interest, avarice, and racism, his voice rings true and unburdened by any semblance of superstar status.
It was initially through his music that I became acquainted with Andy, and later we met in person, thanks to a shared friend, Kevin Nolan of London fame. Kevin, whose story is well-known in Enniskillen for decking a priest who assaulted him at his school, joined me at Andy’s matrimony to his Japanese partner, Kumiko. It was then that I first heard of his upbringing. Andy, a London native born to an Antrim mother and a father hailing from Glasgow, was dispatched to boarding school at an incredibly young age. I recently inquired about his earliest memories and questioned how they moulded him.
“As a solitary child, I was sent away to a boarding school when I was just three-and-a-half years old for reasons never made clear to me. The shock of being separated from my mother nearly erased my earliest recollections, but I distinctly remember lying in bed in the evenings, around the age of five or six, as the only time I truly felt safe. I conjured up an imaginary girl as a maternal figure who kept us boarders safe. But, I was her special one and I could slumber under the warmth of her affection! Undoubtedly it was a solitary childhood, but not devoid of positives, for I attained a quality education and learnt to fend for myself. I moved around from one boarding school to another until I was thirteen. Finally, the monotony broke when I became a child star and started residing at home, which felt quite overdue,” he shared.
Following in his mother’s footsteps, Andy ventured first into theatre, then cinema, before being enchanted by the guitar. Influenced heavily by Woody Guthrie, he set course towards Dublin just when the folk revival fervour was picking up in the 1960s. Six decades on, Andy is still on the road, allowing the music to guide him while spreading a universal message of humanity that he feels, is now more pivotal than ever.
In 1945, when I was just three years old, the resurgence of the extreme right and neo-fascism that I would witness within my lifetime was unthinkable. Indeed, forgetting history leads us to repeat it – a statement rich in truth. To observe the parallels between the treatment of the Irish populace by native Americans in the 1840s and contemporary events in our nation is nothing short of startling.
Let’s revisit the starting point of this discourse. The character of Tom Joad in Steinbeck’s narrative is about to abandon the labour encampment due to being pursued by the law. Upon his mother questioning where she might locate him, Tom responds that he will be omnipresent. Wherever justice demands his presence or where brutality is unleashed upon an innocent, he will be there. He will be present in the furious cries of the enraged and the laughter of children anticipating a meal. With the people living off their own produce in their self-built dwellings, he will echo their existence.
The roving minstrel, Andy, would share a similar fate. Tirelessly journeying from one location to the next, like Clonmel, Enniskillen, Liverpool, London, Hamburg, Sydney, Ljubljana, Cork, and Oslo, he would continue to dispatch melodies from bygone times, coupled with his own lyrics that would still be sung long after his departure.