An Irishman's Diary

I was half-listening to a programme on RTÉ radio the other night – Off the Shelfwith Andy O'Mahony – when a comment by one of the panellists suddenly seized my full attention.

They were discussing a book about how exposure to music affects the brain. And the speaker was attributing his own musicianship in part to his father’s love of jazz and classical composers. On which theme, the speaker said this: “I grew up literally on a diet of Bartók, Stravinsky, Ravel, Debussy, Charles Mingus, Myles Davis, Charlie Parker . . .” Then he added, “This was Ireland in the 60s – I was incredibly lucky.”

Well, you can imagine the distressful images that his outlandish dietary claim provoked. Of course, even my casual familiarity with the biographies of the composers mentioned told me it couldn’t be true. Despite which, I found myself compelled to think up scenarios for how such a horror might have arisen.

Mark Twain's celebrated story Cannibalism in the Carscame to mind, concerning as it does a train-full of congressmen bound for Washington who become stranded in a dreadful snowstorm out on the great prairies, hundreds of miles from the nearest town, with no hope of early rescue.

Days of starvation pass. Their desperation grows. Finally the terrible truth dawns that, for any of them to survive, others must be sacrificed. The awful moment is postponed only by their need first to have a longwinded debate on procedural issues, such as whether the choice of victims should be delegated to an all-party committee, or whether the member for Missouri should take precedence as the inaugural entree over the honourable gentleman from Louisiana, and so on.

Unfortunately, or otherwise, there was no plausible scenario that could have placed all the composers aforementioned in the Ireland of the 1960s; never mind putting them in a position to be eaten by local music enthusiasts. Of the classical men, only Stravinsky was still alive by then and he was nearly 90. God knows, his music can be hard to digest. Imagine how tough he himself would have been.

As for the jazz musicians, yes, at least two of them were still extant in the 1960s, although even a committed cannibal might have had second thoughts about including them in his diet. Given their own dietary habits and lifestyles, they might have been a bit gamey, to say the least.

All right, I know. The speaker on the radio programme was doing only what many people do now: using the word “literally” in a non-literal sense, as a mere intensifier: a habit highlighted by the Plain English Campaign recently, when (see Irishmans Diary January 6th), it gave its annual Foot in Mouth award to soccer analyst, Jamie Redknapp, a recidivist offender. The word is sprinkled casually on conversation these days in much the same way as salt is added to chips. Sometimes, indeed, its no longer enough. The term “quite” must be added to it as a prefix, like vinegar.

And I suppose there’s no harm in a little exaggeration, if it serves to underline a point. But in this case, it was hardly necessary. To the man on the radio I would say it’s impressive enough that you grew up listening to Bartok, Stravinsky, Davis, Parker, and the rest. There’s no need to dramatise it. By all means, pay tribute to your father for exposing you to such an education. Then leave it at that.

I MENTION the incident, to be honest, only because in one of those coincidences that occasionally lighten the drudgery of a daily columnist’s life, a press-release arrived in my inbox today concerning – of all people – Ruby Murray.

As older readers may know, the Belfast pop singer was a sensation in the 1950s and 1960s, thanks to her “velvet” voice, which was at least partly the result of a throat operation in childhood. Such was her peak popularity that she once had no fewer than five singles in the UK Top 20, simultaneously.

But to subsequent generations, she is largely unknown. In fact, her latter-day fame rests heavily on the fact that her name became cockney rhyming slang for a well-known Indian dish. As a result of which, one may now speak of eating a “Ruby Murray”, or just a “Ruby”. And in cases where the name has no other meaning, linguistic licence will even allow you claim to have done this “literally”.

Having introduced the subject, I might as well mention the actual point of the press release, which is that another Northern performer, Duke Special, will next week feature in an RTÉ documentary about Murray’s life and music. This will be broadcast on Tuesday night. Following which, Special is to be joined by the RTÉ Concert Orchestra and guests for two Murray-themed evenings, at the National Concert Hall and Cork Opera House, in early February. Plus, to crown the project, he has recorded a three-track CD of Rubys greatest hits, all proceeds of which go to De Paul Ireland.

Born in 1971 (just three months before Stravinsky died, incidentally), the young Special would not have heard much of Murray on the radio. But he grew up listening to his mother sing the songs and, in this way, the music became a part of him. Let’s hope he wouldn’t put it any stronger than that – by, for example, claiming that he was reared on a “diet” of Ruby Murray. Literally or otherwise, that would probably not be good for you.

• fmcnally@irishtimes.com