Sinéad O’Connor: A Personal Appreciation (or What a Shy Queer Brit Learned from an Irish Firebrand) by Nick Myles
“For a confused adolescent who felt a long way from finding his place in the world, Sinéad was both a beacon of certainty and an assurance that it was okay – admirable, even – to rage against it.“
I became addicted to Sinéad O’Connor at an early age, and it’s been a long-lasting dependency that I’ve never had any desire to escape from. I couldn’t let the first anniversary of her passing go uncommemorated.
On the face of it, it wasn’t a very likely match. In the ’80s I was an awkward young teenager terrified he might be gay, with unadventurous musical tastes who mostly listened to Abba and the symphonic prog-pop of The Alan Parsons Project. But when my friend Mike Webb started to evangelize about Sinéad I felt I ought to see what all the fuss was about.
Mike was captivated by Sinéad’s image. Wide-eyed, he told of how she had a shaved head and wore Doc Marten boots. All I thought I knew about male skinheads (based on zero personal experience) was that they were violent thugs eager to head-butt normal people to the ground so they could stomp on them with their great big DMs. Why would a woman want to emulate such a distasteful look? (These days I have a fondness for skinheads and a sizeable collection of Docs, but this piece is partly about my evolution towards enlightenment, so I thought I’d confess my youthful twattishness early on).
As a Kate Bush fan, I was on-side with female artists bucking conventional musical trends, but Kate at least had the dignity to look traditionally beautiful, pouting seductively from under that cascading pre-Raphaelite hair. I had to concede, however, that despite Sinéad’s wayward fashion choices there was a certain something about her. Those absolutely candid eyes… That exquisite bone structure… I realised she would be beautiful however she chose to style herself.
Listening to Sinéad’s 1987 debut album The Lion and the Cobra I soon understood it wasn’t just her uniquely beguiling looks that had won Mike over. It was the voice. She sang like nobody I’d ever heard before. As opening track Jackie began I responded immediately to the ethereal poise in her tone as she floated purposefully above the subtly sinister whirring of the accompaniment. Her confidence and difference were arresting, and then a few lines in, the voice evolved to reveal a still more impressive quality. As the song’s protagonist is told that her lover has been lost at sea, she retorts, “You’re all wrong, I said, and they stared at the sand. That man know that sea like the back of his hand”. This was the voice of a woman who would brook no contradiction – who had within her deep reserves of determination, anger and danger. This was someone who wouldn’t back down – who you would challenge at your peril. By the time Jackie had climaxed in a demented surge of pure passion I was utterly in awe of its creator.
Jackie is a short song but provided a perfect introduction to the album. It was a prelude that laid the ground for what was to come: a collection of diverse musical adventures that shared in common bold sonic arrangements, an overwhelming sense of Sinéad’s personal investment in her music, and above all that startling voice, leaping instantly from a whisper to a howl, forcing notes out of shape to yield to the emotional ferocity of her intent.
Most art requires light and shade to achieve a balance that shows it to its best advantage. The Lion and the Cobra does this by juxtaposing the furious intensity of tracks such as Just Like You Said it Would Be and Drink Before the War with the clattering energy of Mandinka and I Want Your Hands On Me – infectious bursts of fun that proved Sinead had a playful side to counterbalance the angst.
For a confused adolescent who felt a long way from finding his place in the world, Sinéad was both a beacon of certainty and an assurance that it was okay – admirable, even – to rage against it.
On an almost perfect album (I’ve never mustered much affection for Just Call Me Joe) the crucial track for me was the epic Troy. An anguished tale of trauma and betrayal, Sinéad’s stripped-back live rendition in which she accompanies herself alone on acoustic guitar is rightly applauded, but I adore the album version’s gradual build from a delicate sparseness to the savage string section slices that precisely complement her distraught vocals as she shrieks “You’re still a liar!” over and again. It’s blisteringly brilliant.
I happened to be in Belfast when news of Sinéad’s death broke, and I was heartbroken. Although she was a Dublin girl, I expected the whole “Island of Ireland” would reverberate with shock and grief. But for all that the news was splashed across the front pages the next day, I couldn’t detect an emotional response around me. I mentioned it to a barman, and he as good as shrugged. Discussing it with friends I was surprised to find that although most expressed sadness and a degree of admiration, the majority opinion was that she was an artist who’d peaked with one global smash followed by a career-ending scandal nearly quarter of a century ago. Hence my desire to express a more complete view of Sinéad in this article.
You won’t be surprised to hear that after falling hard for Sinéad’s debut album I craved her next release. From a more mature perspective today, I can understand the fallacy of expecting an artist’s subsequent output to replicate their original calling card. But back then I just wanted more of the genius that had bewitched me on The Lion and the Cobra. I wanted more Jackie! More Mandinka! More Troy!
What I actually got with 1990’s I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got was not more of the same, and I confess at the time that disappointed me. Lead single Jump in the River was grungy in arrangement and murky of vocal, and as exquisite as Nothing Compares To You is, it probably wouldn’t make my personal Top 20 of Sinéad tracks.
It was as if Sinéad had calmed down a bit, leaving behind the pained yelping and yowling on that explosive first album in favour of a more measured artistic persona. Not that there weren’t occasional flashes of the fire that I had fallen for in the first place: the noisy fun of The Emperor’s New Clothes is the direct descendent of Mandinka, while Three Babies is a gorgeous devotional ballad to children that never were, and yields as astonishing a vocal as any she ever produced. The swoop from the brutally broken “The face on you…” to the otherworldly cry of “The smell of you!” was spine-tingling then and still is today.
Elsewhere, The Last Day of Our Acquaintance is a cunning structured break-up song that begins tender and regretful before crashing into an almost triumphant second half with Sinéad’s extraordinary ululations encapsulating the dark joy that can be the flip side of despair.
Then there was Black Boys on Mopeds. I was at an age when I was just beginning to become politically engaged, but I had no comprehension of the protest song, and the opening line “Margaret Thatcher in TV, shocked by the deaths that took place in Beijing” went completely over my head. When the chorus began “England’s not the mythical land of Madame George and roses. It’s the home of police who kill black boys on mopeds” I was similarly bemused. Why was my country being accused of such horrible things? It started a realisation that pop songs were not always just about the domestic trials of love and desire, but could be used to comment on the wider world – on issues and injustices that inspired the artist to attempt to expose them and hope for change.
Black Boys on Mopeds is a darkly beautiful song, with Sinéad’s performance an impeccable balance of passion and subdued sadness. It also includes the lines “I’ve said this before now – you said I was childish, and you’ll say it now” and later “These are dangerous days – to say what you feel is to dig your own grave”. Which was to prove prescient in terms of her commercial career.
As an atheist – one of the things I was certain of from an early age was that God was as made up as Darth Vader or Bilbo Baggins – I had no notion of how vehemently religious believers could react to attacks on their spiritual leaders. So Sinéad’s famous ripping up of the Pope’s photo on Saturday Night Live mystified me as to both in her motivation and the furious backlash of the American audience who had so recently made her a megastar on the back of Nothing Compares...
Sinéad’s lone voice denouncing sexual abuse in the Catholic church has since become a consensual chorus of condemnation, even (eventually) drawing acknowledgement from the Vatican. While the truth of Sinéad’s claims has since been borne out, back then she was alone in her anger, but stood up for what she believed and bore the consequences without complaint. And through my gradually dissipating fog of ignorance I saw a woman who was not only possessed of astonishing creative gifts, but one who was acutely conscious of suffering, and determined to use her platform to speak for the voiceless. I began to admire the activist as well as worshipping the artist.
Not all Sinéad’s “controversial” pronouncements landed comfortably for me. Her statements of support for the IRA (long since disowned with a frank admission of foolishness) seemed at best clumsy at a time when the paramilitaries were universally condemned as terrorist thugs with little connection to the legitimate political will for a united Ireland. But it was also the first time I’d come across the concept of “one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter” – a nuanced way of seeing the world which holds true of many of the conflicts still raging in the world today.
People predisposed to dislike Sinéad would often denounce her political statements as either the ravings of a loon (subtext: “That mad Irish cow”) or else disingenuous attempts to attract publicity. I don’t agree with either of these positions – I choose to believe that no matter how uncomfortable or unfashionable her pronouncements, she genuinely felt she was speaking truth.
In a similar vein to the dismissal of her activism, Sinéad’s personal circumstances were a long-term source of smirking ridicule for newspapers who used her notoriety to harvest sales as they editorially rolled their eyes at the latest developments in her life. Statistically, it’s not hard to present it (for those motivated to do so) as a series of car crash relationships incorporating swerves into several different religions and world views. Four children by four fathers, multiple brief marriages, and allegiances to Catholicism, Rastafarianism and finally Islam were used as evidence of an underlying instability. She had a swift stab at lesbianism, but then back in a straight relationship announced herself content to bake cakes and make herself “sexually available” to her new man.
So far, so perplexing, maybe. But rather than the tabloid playground of batty behaviour she was framed with, wasn’t she simply a roaming soul in constant search of happiness and fulfillment, just like the rest of humanity? Despite her conflict with the Catholic church, she was at pains to point out that her denunciation of the Vatican’s complicity in child abuse was not a denial of God, in whom she believed all her life. As she said, “We need to rescue God from religion – all religion”.
Sinéad’s third album was 1992’s Am I Not Your Girl?, a collection of cover versions of songs that had moved and inspired her as she was growing up. Was part of me still hankering for The Lion and the Cobra Part 2? Well, yes, but it was a smaller part than would have been the case a few years before. Perhaps I was growing up a bit and learning to appreciate that a true artist’s calling is to follow their muse wherever it leads them, not just to replicate previous work. Nowadays, as a writer (and sometime musician) the thought of regurgitating the same creative beats is totally contrary to my process and my ambition. Perhaps Sinéad’s example of change and eclecticism has contributed to that stance.
Am I Not… contained Sinéad’s interpretations of songs I was familiar with – Love Letters, Don’t Cry For Me Argentina, I Wanna Be Loved By You – as well as introducing me to several I was a stranger to. Backed by a full orchestra including a superb brass section for the “Big Band” numbers, Sinéad’s voice is often in delicately hushed mode, making the contrast all the more remarkable when she occasionally unleashes more full-throated cries.
One of the songs on this album that was new to me was Gloomy Sunday. A lament for a lost love, the song (most famously sung by Billie Holiday) has a truly gorgeous melody set among gently sinking minor chords. Telling the story of a bereaved lover who can’t face life after the death of their partner, the song lives up (down?) to its title, and since it was written in 1933 by Hungarian composer Rezso Seress its bleak melancholy has been associated with multiple suicides, and reportedly been banned by various institutions including the BBC who apparently felt it could be damaging to national morale.
Some of the stories of the song’s fatal influence may be mythical, but there’s no disputing the fact that the combination of beautiful music and tragic subject (“Let them not weep – let them know that I’m glad to go”) is a compelling one, and hearing Sinéad breathe “My heart and I have decided to end it all” is achingly sad.
Sinéad was characteristically open and honest about her mental health struggles and suicide attempts. I was in my early 20s when I first heard Sinéad’s version of Gloomy Sunday, still hiding from my sexuality, wallowing in self-hatred and misery, and it was around this time that I too started thinking that an early exit might be best all round – a mindset that persists today, even with a bit of therapy now under my belt.
1994 saw the release of Universal Mother, an album of original songs (plus a whispering cover of Nirvana’s All Apologies) which opened thrillingly with Fire On Babylon, the latest chapter in Sinéad’s fierce denunciation of her abusive mother. Elsewhere, we’re treated to the quasi-rap of Famine (“In truth, there never really was one”, we’re told), the strikingly compassionate Scorn Not His Simplicity (about a mother’s love for a child with special needs), and Thank You For Hearing Me, a hauntingly hypnotic devotional written at the end of her affair with Peter Gabriel. The song was Sinéad’s last solo single to make it into the UK charts, peaking at number 13.
There are a couple of acapella tracks on Universal Mother – “a capella” of course being Italian for “Where the feck have all the musicians gone?!”. When I finally saw Sinéad in concert she performed In This Heart. At first she was alone on the stage, then one by one her backing singers joined her, adding their harmonies as the song swelled incrementally. Sinéad put her arms around the shoulders of the first two, and they in turn embraced the next to join and so on until a huddle of half a dozen singers brought the song to its full-bodied conclusion. On record In This Heart is a lovely song, but there was something about the physicality of that live performance, with the singers clinging to each other as if in solidarity, that raised it to something magical. I was with my friend Georgina, and it was the sort of gig whose shared experience can forge a special bond. I don’t see Georgina that regularly, but when I do the chances are we’ll reminisce about that concert. We’ll always have Sinéad…
2000 brought Faith & Courage, a strong album that showcased an impressive range of musical styles, from trancey opener The Healing Room to the final clatter of a Kyrie Eleison that bizarrely references “Irish vampire slayers”.
Five albums into her career, Sinéad was neither resting on her laurels nor settling into any sort of routine. She was as restively questing in her music as she was in her personal life – an indication of her consistent inquisitiveness and openness to new perspectives. In the joyfully upbeat Daddy I’m Fine she proclaims herself to be a “strong independent pagan woman – singing!” and a few tracks later (in The Lamb’s Book of Life) she asserts that “Every prayer ever prayed is heard – take power in the power of the Word!”. If she never settled on a single religious identity, we can at least be in no doubt that she was always a deeply spiritual person. As an atheist I sometimes find it difficult to empathise with believers who wear their faith very publicly, but I didn’t find Sinéad’s beliefs intimidating, probably because her impulses were so transparently liberal and compassionate.
Faith & Courage is a very fine album – in particular, I find Sinéad’s vocal on Hold Back the Night one of the strongest of her career, and Emma’s Song is a great example of her instinct to nurture songs gradually from gentle beginnings to mighty climaxes.
By the time Sean-Nos Nua was released in 2002 I was finally out and proud – or at least no longer ashamed of my sexuality – Hurrah! Perhaps it was my new-found self-acceptance that allowed me to greet an album of Irish folk songs with interest rather than impatience – I was just curious to see what this latest project would yield. Highlights for me were the lilting tragedy of Lord Franklin’s doomed expedition to the Arctic Ocean, and the supremely gutsy Paddy’s Lament in which the narrator rails against the fate of Irish migrants to America who got caught up in their civil war – “There is nothing here but war, where the murdering cannons roar…”. Plus, if you need to own a version of Molly Malone then Sinead’s mournful account of the sad history of the “cockles and mussels” vendor is as good as they come.
I have to admit I was less taken by 2005’s Throw Down Your Arms and Theology (2007), respectively a reggae covers album and a collection of spiritual songs I found it difficult to get excited by. I own both and listen to them occasionally, but for me they’re not “peak Sinéad”. However, by this time I’d grown up enough to stop yearning for a repeat of former glories and was happy for Sinéad to go her own way. Not that she needed my – or anyone else’s – permission.
Worth mentioning of Sinéad’s other releases is a rather lovely gem: a cover of Abba’s Chiquitita released as part of a charity project in aid of the victims of the Omagh bombing of 1998. Always an activist, Sinead contributed tracks to numerous causes – after her death many people cited This Is To Mother You, released as a duet with Mary J Blige in support of GEMS (Girls Educational and Mentoring Service) as a favourite track. Sinéad’s Chiquitita was accompanied by a video in which she simply makes a cup of tea for a visitor. She turns the song into an ode to friendship, and the “I’m here to listen” vibe is delightful.
For me, 2012’s album How About I Be Me (and You be You)? was a welcome late flowering. Lead single The Wolf Is Getting Married – complete with weird fabric-fetish video – is full of energy and ballsy vocals. Take Off Your Shoes is a ferocious critique of hypocrisy that twins an unforgiving delivery with words that remind you Sinéad was as idiosyncratic a lyricist as she was a singer. “I say you’re running out of battery! And I don’t see no bunnies around here…” – no one says it quite like Sinéad.
Elsewhere we find the tender Back Where You Belong (which I still find acutely moving, even since I found out it was originally written for a fantasy film about the Loch Ness monster), the celebratory wedding song 4th and Vine, and the acapella V.I.P, in which Sinéad takes aim at materialism and assures us that the only “real V.I.P” is (spoiler alert) Jesus.
I listen to this album a lot, and one reason I’m especially grateful for it is that it introduced me to the music of American singer/songwriter John Grant. Sinéad’s cover of Grant’s punchy Queen of Denmark (sample lyric: “Why don’t you bore the shit out of somebody else?”) was my gateway to Grant’s velvet voice and witty and emotional songwriting. The pair forged a friendship, and Sinéad provided backing vocals on his second album Pale Green Ghosts – one of Sinéad’s many dozens of collaborations with other artists.
As an occasional songwriter and a perpetual dreamer, I used to fantasise that even I might one day work with Sinead. She would sing my haunting Christmas ballad If It Snows, leading to a resurgence in her career and putting me on the musical map. We would form a close bond and be good chums until a stupid argument caused one or other of us to flounce away from the friendship.
Alas, such dreams must remain forever figments of the imagination. But even though we never met, Sinéad has felt like a huge presence in my life. I wish I had so much as tiny fraction of her talent, her courage and her compassion. I don’t go in for role models or hero worship, but if there’s one person who I would be proud to say was an inspiration to me, it would be Sinéad O’Connor.
Sinéad’s death came as a shock that I’m still processing. In the course of writing this and listening to her catalogue chronologically, I’ve had many sorrowful moments as I’m reminded of how captivating I find her music, of which there will be no more. I’m trying to channel my grief into something celebratory, to appreciate how fortunate I was to feel a connection to this extraordinary person, whose time on this Earth may be over, but whose voice will sing out forever.
❉ A regular contributor to We Are Cult, Nick Myles is a London-based writer and director. His stage plays have been produced at numerous London theatres, and at both the Edinburgh and Brighton Fringe Festivals. He has also contributed to Big Finish’s range of Dark Shadows audio plays. Twitter: Nick Myles
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