Remembering RonnieIreland lost a legend when Ronnie Drew lost his battle with cancer earlier this year. But the gravel-voiced Dubliner will never be forgotten. Last week, this newspaper launched Ronnie's last album and his posthumous autobiography is out on Wednesday. Now Phelim and Cliodhna Drew reflect on their extraordinary father with Aengus Fanning
By Donal Lynch
Sunday Independent
Sunday November 23 2008Full URLOLD father, old artificer. When Ronnie Drew died last August, he orphaned more than his children Cliodhna and Phelim. A whole nation grieved the loss of a musical father.
Aengus Fanning didn't feel particularly filial towards Ronnie, yet during the seven months -- seven months of terminal illness -- that it took to record his last album, he found himself taking on the role of an errant son, working as driver, dogsbody and amanuensis.
"Ronnie was a romantic, but he was acerbic too. He was well able to give you a bollicking. Even when we were doing the album and I'd drive him to the studio. I'd take considerable criticism over my driving. You'd almost think I'd tried to kill him a few times."
"A real case of the pot calling the kettle black," says Phelim.
Ronnie's bollickings were always delivered with gentle good humour, however. He had a way of tartly putting someone in their place without ever being malicious. Stopping in a pub, he was asked by the only other patron if he hadn't gone off the drink. "I have," he replied in that gravelly basso profundo. "But I like a gin and tonic every now and again. I find it helps me to mind my own business. Would you like one?"
These are the anecdotes that capture the playfulness and devilment of the man far better than a mere tribute. As Phelim and Cliodhna look back on the life and times of the man, they spoke of how, as the children of a star, it became necessary for both of them to accept that his every excursion took on the quality of an "appearance".
"He loved the fact that he was known by ordinary people," recalls Phelim. "He was so used to it that part of his daily life, you know. Dad could be in Kilkenny or Sligo or Grafton Street, or even walking down the street in any town in England ... it was just a way of life."
Ronnie never demanded preferment based on his celebrity or pulled rank, but he became accustomed to being offered the best table at a restaurant. The emergence of the New Ireland, of Polish newspapers and Asian markets, was somewhat bewildering in that regard.
"At times, when he got older he found it disconcerting if he went into a restaurant and there was a waitress, say, from Eastern Europe who wouldn't know him. He found that very strange in latter years because he had been known by everyone everywhere he went," says Phelim.
Aengus got to know Ronnie really well back "when he and Peter O'Brien were playing and they'd get these Concert Hall ideas where Peter would dream up a title, and they'd put together a show, and he did stuff for us in the Birr Music Festival, and he was unique. You know, 'unique'."
Ronnie had been (mostly) dry for many years at that point, but some of his friends still viewed this a little sceptically. A few years ago, he was struck by an attack of vertigo while driving and pulled into the side of the road feeling nauseous. He thought he was having a heart attack. His friend, Muiris Mac Conghail, happened to be driving past and pulled over. Muiris drove him to the Montrose Hotel and rang Ronnie's wife, Deirdre.
"But Muiris wouldn't give Dad the keys of his car," says Phelim. "He insisted on giving them to the concierge and said: 'You are not to give these to anybody except Deirdre Drew, his wife', because he was convinced that Dad had been drinking, whereas he hadn't had a drink for about 12 years at this stage!
"It was hilarious because Muiris and Dad would have soldiered together years ago, but the assumption was that he was gargled and Dad was saying to him: 'No, Muiris, I'm not drunk.'"
It would have been a weary, bemused denial, for in his heyday, Ronnie had, in the words of writer Colin Irwin, "come to define the archetypal image of the raffish, hard-drinking, carousing Irishman of popular myth".
Leading the Dubliners' bawdy choruses and searing ballads, he helped explode a complacent folk scene in Sixties Dublin and would go on to imbue the music with elements of the raunchiness of rock, winning international renown in the process.
Behind this public image, though, there was a quieter, introspective man. "More than anything else, he loved conversation and he loved the whole social aspect of being Irish, everything that that entails sitting with somebody at a fair or at a festival -- an older man, maybe, or an older woman -- exchanging stories, talking about rural life of 50 years ago. He was very interested in social history," says Phelim.
The social history he himself helped write is well known. After stints working menial jobs in London and Spain, he returned to Dublin and struck up friendships with guitar player Barney McKenna and another man who would become a legend of the Irish folk scene -- Luke Kelly. At a time when live music was rarely heard in pubs in Dublin, the three friends got together with Ciaran Bourke, who played the tin whistle. The group, along with fiddle player John Sheehan, began playing around Dublin, initially billing themselves as The Ronnie Drew Group, but then changing it to The Dubliners after the James Joyce book, which Ronnie was reading at the time.
At that point, the Irish music scene was dominated by the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, who, with their Aran sweaters and sensible arrangements, contributed to the perception of Irish music as being somewhat staid and polite.
The Dubliners looked and sounded like The Clancy Brothers' wild city cousins; they were rougher, coarser and altogether more fun. Unlike the folk artists that came before him, Ronnie sang with ragged soul, but also had an edge of cool. Bono said that even the hardest rock bands would look like "a bunch of girls" playing beside the Dubliners.
Deirdre was a steadying influence on Ronnie, providing a ballast for him and an emotional refuge from the constant touring. Cliodhna says of her mother, "Like Dad, she'd a huge social conscience as well. She kept everything on the straight and narrow."
"I don't think she was ever confrontational," says Phelim. "If she disagreed with you, she'd keep her counsel. She didn't speak badly about people and didn't tell you if you were doing something wrong or badly. She was always very gentle. She had her moments; we all have bad days. She was very switched on and clued in, and she'd very good instincts about people."
The Dubliners recorded their debut record in London in 1963, but they really exploded into the wider public consciousness in 1967 with the release of Seven Drunken Nights, which they had learned from Connemara sean nos singer, Joe Heaney.
The record was a hit in England -- but, despite the fact that Heaney's Irish language version was still freely available, the Dubliners found their version was banned in Ireland, even after Ronnie made a direct appeal to the then Taoiseach Jack Lynch, who was not for turning on the matter.
No matter: the Dubliners came up with another hit, this one acceptable to the Irish censors. Black Velvet Band became a worldwide hit and confirmed that The Dubliners were no longer merely niche folk artists. Ronnie's earthy delivery made the band's sound instantly recognisable and would influence a generation of vocalists.
If Ronnie welcomed the success, it was only because it allowed him to lead the only type of lifestyle he could truly imagine. "The reason Dad became a ballad singer and enjoyed the whole process of performing was because of the social side of it as well," says Phelim. "He loved that sort of an environment. He said to me once, 'I have nothing in common with straight people.' He really only felt completely comfortable in the company of people who lived the way he lived."
Of the band's musical success, Ronnie would say that they "had a party which started in 1962 and ended around 1970". Thereafter, The Dubliners were jostling for popularity with new, more modern bands who had a different take on the folk tradition: Planxty, the Bothy Band and Moving Hearts.
The high-octane lifestyle also began to take its toll. Ciaran Bourke had a brain haemorrhage in 1974. Luke Kelly collapsed on stage with a brain tumour in 1980. But Ronnie continued making music, releasing a couple of solo albums during the mid-to-late Seventies.
Phelim recalls that Ronnie had "zero musical snobbery" and always kept an ear out for the latest artists and sounds. It was an attitude that would serve him well, as in the late Eighties, the Pogues, who owed a huge musical debt to Ronnie and the Dubliners, brought the older band back into favour. This culminated in 1987 when the two bands collaborated on a version of The Irish Rover and Ronnie's distinctive wit and gravelly voice were introduced to a whole new generation of fans.
In 1995, exhausted by the touring, he quit the band and retreated to a quieter lifestyle in Greystones, Co Wicklow, where he revelled in what Yeats calls "the little round of deeds and days".
"There was a man from Greystones called Eddie Evans, who was into horses," says Phelim, by way of example. "One time, Ned [Kelleher -- a jarvey friend of Ronnie's from Tralee] came up to Dublin and my parents persuaded him to come back to the house.
"In the morning, Ned made his excuses and rambled down the road and two hours later we walked down to see where he was and he was in the pub. Of course, he'd found Eddie Evans and the two of them were ensconced in the corner like they'd found each other out of the whole planet. Dad had a huge affection for people like that."
He would still come into Dublin, though, reserving it for those little "event" outings, where he saw and was seen.
"One of the clear images of Ronnie in my mind is walking up Grafton Street on a sunny morning in the middle of the week. You'd meet Ronnie striding down the middle of the street, immaculately dressed, colourful scarf, coat and a hat," recalls Aengus.
In October 2006, Ronnie was diagnosed with throat and lung cancer -- a particularly cruel condition for a man renowned for his voice. Soon after that, Deirdre fell ill. Seven weeks later, cancer claimed her. "She had a lump and that was removed. Dad was just home after treatment and he'd got good word that he'd responded well and that he should go home and rest up," says Cliodhna.
"Two years prior to that she had had a tumour removed and it was an encapsulated tumour, so she just had half her lung removed and it required no further treatment," adds Phelim. "They had told her that such tumours can reappear, but she had got the all-clear the previous August, before Dad was diagnosed. Because she got the all-clear, we were all convinced that, whatever it was, it couldn't be serious."
Her death came as a huge blow to Ronnie and the entire Drew family. In his grief, he found some solace in the music. "When the recording of the new album came, as far as he was concerned it was a reason to get up and out," adds Phelim. "While he would be reluctant to say that he was passionate about something, he would definitely be enthusiastic. He hated going out, but he always came back in good form. He loved working with good musicians, he loved the craic, he loved the music he made -- he loved everything about it, so it brought him back to some form of normality."
There was an overwhelming reaction among ordinary people to Ronnie's death and the new book is to be a tribute to that resilience of spirit, a look back at Ronnie's life in his own words.
"There was a body of work there that Dad had done himself in preparation for a book and it would be a shame to leave that sitting in a drawer somewhere," says Phelim. "Really, it was Patricia's (Deevey, of Penguin) professionalism in that area that has brought the book to where it is now. It's a wonderful celebration of stories of his own life, of photographs, of background information in terms of his upbringing that people will be interested in."
When someone has died there is the danger of sentimentality creeping in, but the new book will feature Ronnie's characteristically clear-eyed tell-it-like-it-is wit.
"He takes quite an objective look on the way he was brought up and it's quite an amusing look at it," says Cliodhna. "There was no sort of self-pity," she adds. "It was just 'this is the way it was and here are the stories'."
'Ronnie' by Ronnie Drew is published by Penguin Ireland, priced €25, available from Wednesday.
- Donal Lynch
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