Martin Bridgeman

This is one of the hardest pieces I have ever had to write and yet it was one I was honoured to write. As I type this, I’m not really sure it’s happened. Harry was one my oldest and dearest friends and the shock is still very real and raw. His family asked if I could speak about out friendship and early life, outside of his family, so to speak. Joe, Harry and I were very close for many years.

(This was, apart from typos, pretty much what I got, first time. I also realised after the event, that I wrote it to be read, not heard, if that makes sense. Still, it was from the heart, broken as it was at the time of writing)

How? How do I even try to represent Harry?

First, I have to say that our hearts go out to Zack and Sarah, to their gorgeous daughter Daisy, to Aidan and Mary, and to Fergus and Adrienne. 

Nothing I can say will do any more than – perhaps – give a sense of the man as we knew him. 

Joe and I met Harry in second class of Drimnagh Castle, CBS. We think in 1968. Our teacher was Brother Hayden, named “Rubber Head” for reasons we could never fathom. And still can’t… 

From that on, though, there was a bond between the three of us that we never questioned nor understood, if we were honest. 

Harry was clearly the bravest of us, not afraid to speak his mind or venture an opinion. We left him to it and saw how he got on. Then did the opposite. 

But, he was, even then, assured of his right to question, and to hold a differing, dissenting opinion. He was also a born messer. It was quite the mixture when you added us two in, and I almost feel sorry for some of our teachers. 

Almost. 

We shared a love of Monty Python and competed to see who could remember the routines and sketches and we three fashioned our world with one liners, obscure references and music. He was blessed with a deep and dirty laugh, and getting him with a punchline was like scoring from a ridiculous angle, which I did the odd time. Our humour could be and probably remained dark, never punching down, but giving good taste a run for its money. 

Did I mention music yet? 

Shortly after we met, we collectively landed in the strange world of David Bowie. Only Harry had the hair for it, but we all muddled through. Endless conversations in the school yard, in and out of the Kokunut, rambling, spoofing, smoking, plotting. 

When we could afford music, we’d record cassettes for each other, and in the  pre-walkman years, carried our not terribly portable cassette players around the musical roads of Walkinstown. Harry had the best one, though: a Phillips job, looked like something Mr. Spock would have carried on the Enterprise…See? Cool even then…

Mind you, his batteries were the same as ours, so it was a leveller when Marc Bolan started to sound like Leonard Cohen. 

Music surrounded us, hugged us, defined us, set us apart (or so we thought anyway), but it was a cocoon and it strengthened that bond again. We may have been cool, but never as cool as we thought we were.

Harry’s only musical problem, if I can call it that, was his obsession: much as we liked some of the Moody Blues music, we grew to hate it, but he got the message. I still smile when I hear “Nights In White Satin”, because we knew that the albums were better, because Harry told us so. A Lot. 

Bowie was fine, as was Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Barclay James Harvest or Savoy Brown and Weather Report.

Back in the day, your Golden Discs bag could make or ruin your reputation. Being seen with the ‘wrong’ album through the plastic could be instant and eternal shame. Harry always had to good sense to put the cool records in front. And in any event, he cared little what others though of his tastes. 

Endless nights replaying albums, criticising or arguing about articles in the NME and plain, old fashioned slagging became our routine for many years, and I’d give a limb to have one more night with him. The arguments were sometimes fierce, not always respectful, but always agreed to disagree. 

And then, every so often, Harry would drop a proverbial mic and our lives were genuinely never the same again. I have the clearest memories of the first time I or we heard It’s A Beautiful Day, Duncan Browne, Nick Drake and Frank Zappa. All first heard in in Sperrin Road, usually accompanied by his smile, saying “you’re welcome”. 

Proust had his madeleines, we had our albums. 

Steely Dan, Kate Bush and John Martyn followed, as did the Blue Nile. Needless to say we preferred their early stuff… I think we may have modelled ourselves on the enigmatic Scottish Trio, but only one of us went and made an actual album. 

The Beatles were a given. I have the clearest memory of us singing John Lennon’s version of “Stand By Me” on the night the Beatle died, us singing together at the top of our voices, indulged by Kathleen. Passion and feeling, yes. Pitch? Maybe not. 

We did apologise. Frequently. To Kathleen, to Livvie, Jimmy and Maisie too…

Which brings us to our evenings in one of the three houses: Sperrin, Kilworth or Brandon Road. Our parents had conspired to allow us have our evenings there, safe in the knowledge that at least they knew where we were. We were too dumb to realise this and just thought we had cool parents. We did but we didn’t know how cool they really were. 

Fast forward a few years and the plotting continued: gigs, festivals, mischief. All arranged and conducted without the aid of mobile devices, the internet or social media. Memories locked in, deep in our memories and not a hard drive nor a USB stick to be seen…

Just saying. 

Many long evenings of slagging carried on. It was an unwritten rule that should one of us be missing, the other two would tear strips off the absent friend. One third party wondered what, while we actually cared for each other, how appalling we were to each other verbally. Harry replied: ‘Imagine what we’d say if we hated each other?” He was speaking for the group, of course. 

We lost touch, as friends often do. There were texts, the odd conversation, an occasional meeting and plans, well…John Lennon said that life happens when you’re busy making plans…

Harry was cosmic at the best of times, just that step ahead, going a little deeper, not ruling anything out, making his path and his own mind up. 

I want to mention two physical memories that I can clearly point to anyone who would look. 

The first, on Joe’s album, “Sundrive Road”, is a dedication to Harry and Me. 

The second is a picture from Joe’s dad’s funeral. There’s no time to go into it, but suffice it to say that Jimmy was one of the gang, one of our mates bonded by music. 

I hated my picture but I love the memory…It may be the only one of their three of us..

Some one commented and called us “The Three Amigos’. 

That’ll do.

Now the two of us miss the one and only you. 

I can’t finish without mentioning Helen. The fourth; Helen, who cared for Harry in ways we can never repay and the one who kept us in touch.

And finally, I know I can say that he was so very proud of Zach and musical accomplishments. And every time I hear a wind chime, or temple bells, I think of Harry’s. 

The Big Bleedin’ hippy…

Codhladh sámh, a chara uasal, ár ghile Mhear. Ni bheidh do leithéad arís ann.