Drimnagh Road, Dublin via the Ring Road, Kilkenny

It’s been a late 1970’s sort of a day, and for no reason that I can understand. Maybe it’s the increasing light in the days, that little spring in the step we are feeling more and more. Either way, the humour was good and the synapses were making connections over under, sideways and down. Maybe I’m just more sentimental this weather. 

In any event, I had Joni Mitchell on my mind. And Steely Dan. The weather looked good and the bike came out, recently repaired, in probably better shape than its owner. I found the earphones, checked they had actually charged this time (result!) and headed out. 

Earlier in the week, I’d published/posted an interview with the hugely talented Irish songwriter and musician Edel Meade, whose magnificent album “Brigids and Patricias” has just been released. I’d remembered that we had intended to speak about Joni Mitchell (we’d discovered we’re both massive fans) but never got around to it. For another day. 

The day before, a friend had posted the cover of Joni’s 1970’s masterpiece ’Hejira’  (one among many) and I was off on a reverie. Two days before, another friend had made reference to Steve Gadd (the legendary drummer) and I had played two of his finest popular performances with Rickie Lee Jones and Paul Simon on Thursday night, so another little connection was made. These latter albums were the height of music in that late 70’s period before punk smashed the doors off and were, and remain, a soundtrack to my teen years. 

Then, this morning, the memories came flooding back as I kicked off the first track on ‘Aja’…

As I said, there I was, waking with the old, familiar Saturday morning feeling but, unlike back in the late 70’s, not late for work in McKeon’s shop. That would have been typical of me back then, usually as a consequence of a late night of some sort, reading or falling asleep way too late catching whatever was on the radio, transistor under the pillow but by then, most likely with the (one) earphone in. Back then we had no pods of any description. Your listening life was determined by the cable that came with the device. In my case, a pair of Sony headphones with an extension cable (that I had probably bought in Peat’s of Parnell Street) was the gear for the ‘stereo’. It was long enough for the front room but not long enough to reach the upstairs bedroom. I did experiment with a longer cable but it didn’t work. My bed headphones consisted of one awkward medical looking ‘yoke’ with a cable that was liable to snap at the least advantageous moment. Wearing them while asleep was usually a guarantee of strain and failure…The Walkman was still an item on BBC’s Tomorrow’s World. 

My Saturdays at work in a busy grocery shop could be hectic. The pattern was the same. Arrived in (on time), put on the newly washed and pressed linen apron, got the pencil and dropped in to the pocket. Wash the hands and in on the floor. You never stopped in a shop. There was always something to be done: filling, rotating, rearranging, making space, tidying, regular trips up to the store at the top floor of the house for cigarettes and sweets (mostly ‘broken’ chocolate bars of all shapes and sizes), orders from the cash and carry to be opened and priced. And lots of customers, thankfully. 

The relative lull at 9:00 would give way, nearer 10:00, to an army of customers, usually women, clutching shopping bags of all shapes and sizes with not a plastic bag in sight. This would be shortly followed by the veritable fleet of bakers vans delivering fresh bread, pulling up outside on Drimnagh Road. Johnston, Mooney & O’Brien, Downes, Mothers Pride and finally Bolands, and usually in that order. They’d have criss-crossed the city since early on with trays of steaming, fresh bread of all shapes, ready to be wrapped in tissue, the sliced pans and loaves, ready for the sandwiches to kick off the working and school week. 

My job was essentially to “head them off” at the pass (as the boss used to say) to guarantee we had all the regular orders ready for collection. Days like today were grand but a freezing cold, rainy winter’s morning would put manners on you and your balance. Woe betide if you missed an order. These customers, mostly mature women, were insistent and their tongues were sharp. That said, if you kept the head, all would be well and the peak would subside at around 11:00 and the you had time to then pick one of the various pastries that also arrived with the bread for the coffee break. If you were cute, you could also sky one away for the afternoon break (along a few minutes with World Of Sport). 

Shopping rhythms were very different then, of course. The ‘daily’ shop was the thing, getting the ‘messages’, food for the night’s dinners only. The country was changing for us, but not for the previous generation. Even the ready availability of the fridge didn’t change things radically. There was no stocking up and freezers were usually reserved for ice cream and ice cubes. The concept of the ‘big shop’ was a while away but coming steadily with the arrival of the supermarkets. Locally it was Superquinn that opened in the mid 70’s, with Dunne’s at the nearby (legendary) Crumlin Shopping Centre, but we’d had a taste of things to come in nearby Crumlin Village, of 5 Star and Liptons and the subtle change to shopping habits. Many things were changing but shopping habits were slow to change for the older customers. Big fridges, freezers and station wagons outside malls were for the American families on the television shows. 

Pictures of the rows of shops pop up occasionally on social media and with them come the flood of memories: today was no exception and I was off again on the road, ar boithrín na smoainte. Long forgotten names, businesses long closed and with them, the art of signage and the special smells and colours of each different business premises. 

I’d hazard a guess as the following: Around the corner on Balfe Road was Dan’s (greengrocers), then Clegg’s shoemakers, then around to: Michael’s Corner (a grocery with barley fed ham a particular speciality and items illustrated gorgeous handwritten signs and script on the windows themselves), Grealish’s for sweets and newspapers) and delicious ice cream with wafers, cut with big knives that rested in a brown jug of water when not in use), the Bank of Ireland, a drapery shop (whose name escapes me), Grattan’s Electrical Shop, McCanns pub, Joe Brownes (Turf Accountants), McKeon’s Grocery (actually run by the Sadlier family), Larkins butchers, then The Abbey (newsagents and tobacconists), McElwees (and then McLaughlins) chemist, a dry cleaners and then the chipper run by a variety of owners over the years and finally Val Hattons (later the Eleanora). On the top floors were, over the years, a dentist, hairdressers and the barbers over Brownes with the gentlemen in purple shop coats with ready smiles, racing tips and endless wells of hair oil on mirrored shelves.

Further up the road, heading towards where Superquinn would emerge from the ruins of an old doctor’s residence on Walkinstown Road, stood the Halfway House on guard at the intersection of the Long Mile Road and Walkinstown Road, the edge of our previous universe. This was before we were old enough to go ‘into town’ on the many buses that passed along the main roads. These were the days with mothers going between shops, with the excitement of heading in to a shop on your own with the note and the exact money wrapped inside (disappointingly), gradually adding more and more responsibility as you graduated to long trousers and became a chore.

As the 70’s rolled on, part of my routine on a Saturday evening would be to bring home ‘the tea’, usually the makings of a fry but sometimes an egg and bacon pie if the time allowed. Summer salads largely consisted of salad cream, scallions, tomatoes in quarters, boiled eggs and some cold meat with ‘lettuce’ on the side. As I got older, this meal was usually referred to by Maisie as ‘soakage’, looking at me over her glasses as I wolfed it down to get out to the mates.

As I grew older, my musical tastes grew away from the top 40 and, particularly with the advent of Radio 2, there was a new part of the radio day and a structure to the Saturday night, bookended by then broadcasters Pat Kenny and Mark Cagney. Pat was the host of a wonderful programme of what would probably now be called Adult Oriented Rock called “The Outside Track” where he featured albums rather than singles and artists that didn’t appear during the daytime schedule. He often had reviews by musicians rather than journalists and there was a camaraderie and easy way of delivery that remains with me still. He had a cool older cousin vibe to his show, if you follow my meaning. 

Evenings varied as girlfriends appeared and disappeared. Nights would often be spent with my two oldest mates at one of our houses, in the front rooms, countless albums on the go. The drinks got stronger as we hit our late teens but at least we had comfortable seats and our parents knew where we were. Later when we could get in to the pub we would usually retire at closing time to my front room for the other Saturday bookend broadcaster, Mark Cagney. 

He was the doorman to a new room of great non mainstream music. I heard many of my favourite artists here, including Joni Mitchell, Steely Dan, Paul Simon around midnight. I heard ‘Tom Traubert’s Blues’ by Tom Waits there one night and things were never the same again: new music from the greats, great music from the new and so many other great artists that only came out at night, or so it seemed. Mark spoke like a fan and his enthusiasm was infectious, more like a mate who introduced you to new music. If Pat was the cool cousin, Mark was the older brother or neighbour who had all the best albums which he might let you borrow. We listened and noted down the albums and artists he recommended. He introduced me to the Blue Nile and for that I hope to meet him and shake his hand firmly one day. I’m sure there are legions of record store owners who would thank him and Pat (and many more DJ’s of course) for the increased business for the non-chart acts. All this came back to me on that slightly unreal set of thoughts, as vivid as ever. Looking at pictures there’s sometimes a brown tinge but that’s the mark of time on photographic paper. My memories are crystal clear, and in full technicolour. 

So, there I was cycling across Kilkenny, Steely Dans ‘Aja’ on the way over and Joni’s ‘Hejira’ on the way back via the Ring Road. 

More memories came flooding back with each track on ‘Aja’, hitting with a welcome familiarity. I had a clear, level run of road or Steve Gadd’s solo on the title track and a little respite on Rose Inn Street just as ‘Deacon Blues’ rolled in. Once again, I marveled at the vocal on Peg (from Michael McDonald) and the finest players on the scene. 

I stopped, shopped and plugged back in the earphones. My only niggle the ping of emails every so often, but that is the consequence of the 24 culture and a subscription to papers and blogs from the United States. Their breakfast mail briefings are my lunchtime updates. And so it goes. 

With ‘Hejira’ for company across the Ring Road, I barely noticed the gradual hills and dips. Each track was like an old friend, one who reminded you of your best self, reminding you of the apparent ease that Joni showed in recording track after wonderful track, the lyrics coming back, eventually landing just as you thought of them. Again, some of the finest players of their generation put in the graft and added layer of musicality to weave around her deft lyrics and musical adventures. 

As sometimes happens, as I breasted the final hill to the house, the last notes of ‘Refuge Of The Road’ came sliding to an end, Jaco Pastorious’s glorious fretless bass ringing, Joni’s lyrics coming back like an old book I’d read again. Old musical friends, no ravages of time, no wrinkles. 

I say ‘breasted’ but it was probably more like a breathless, red faced last push, dismounting and, despite a good effort, looking like a new born giraffe, jelly legged. 

Stick on your favourite album. 

I think I’ll have a fry for the tea.