Laethanta Saoire: The soundtrack to my coming-of-age summer, by Cónal Creedon

Irish Examiner

9 hours ago

Funny how the music of an era becomes the soundtrack for a generation. I was happy living my germ-free adolescence in a Glam Rock bubble, throwing shapes to the shang-a-lang sounds of the Bay City Rollers. But then, just when least expected – I came-of-age.
Coming-of-age is that monumental milestone when teenagers transition from childhood to adulthood. A life-defining change that usually occurs during the summer months; liberated from the restrictions of the classroom, our emotions become high on the first flush of freedom, and we take flight. This anarchic developmental stepping-stone is fuelled by a surge of invincibility and irreverence, powerfully portrayed in the primordial beat of Alice Cooper's anthemic School's Out.
Well, that magical moment of metamorphosis occurred in this boy's life in 1977. I was fifteen years of age, and with the idleness of an endless summer stretching out before me, my mother and my Auntie Eileen contrived to remove me from the temptations of the pool halls and street corners of downtown Cork city.
And so, I was dispatched by CIE bus to Bainnlann Cúil na nGabhar, my Auntie Eileen's shop on O'Connell St, Dungarvan. As the bus trundled Eastwards towards Déise that day, I had an epiphany. It was as if the ties connecting me to my mother's apron strings loosed, and a gentle surge of independence welled up deep inside my soul.
My Auntie Eileen was an absolute joy; a natural born storyteller, a lover of history with a profound understanding and appreciation of all aspects of Irish culture. She was a modern-day bard, a wise woman; entertaining, engaging and erudite, and I loved her company. Her shop doubled as the Dungarvan Bus Office, where parcels were dispatched and collected. And so, it became a meeting place for interesting people to drop by for a chat and a glass of lemonade.
It was nothing out of the ordinary to hear the Irish language spoken at Bainnlann Cúil na nGabhar; a trading post where social interaction took precedence over commercial transaction. And there in the side room of her shop, she taught me how to make brown bread. To this day, Auntie Eileen's brown bread is the standard by which I measure all bread – and none has yet to compare. 'The magic is in the simplicity.' she'd say.
My cousin Ben stepped up to the mark – and took on the role of big brother to me, his kid cousin. Two doors up the street, Ben's record shop offered a portal to an alternative universe for my soaring teenage spirit; a magical world of music, an Aladdin's Cave of sound and vision in the golden age of rock'n'roll record sleeve art, with more vinyl than you could shake a stick at – he even had a discothèque out the back. Ben's well-stocked newsstand had a stack of music magazines – bringing the subversive vibes of an outside world right to the beating heart of Ireland.
Ireland in the 1970s was monocultural and monochrome, isolated and insular. It was a world before internet, Spotify or YouTube. Sony Walkman, iPhone and compact discs had yet to be invented. Cassettes were beginning to needle the 12-inch LP – but vinyl was still king. Music was a scarce commodity, it was a time when contemporary culture was highly suspect, so a sanitised curated version was drip fed to a music-starved public by Larry Gogan from the government sanctioned national broadcaster.
In 1977 the Eagles had landed; in the record shop it was the summer of Hotel California. But at the end of each day, when the musicos went home, Ben would shut the door, put a record on the turntable, and I was introduced to a most eclectic broad church of sound: classical, jazz, prog-rock, traditional and all points in between. It was an education, a broadening of my mind, an awakening of my soul, instilling in me a love of all musical genres that has remained with me throughout my life.
Cónal Creedon with Never Mind The Bollocks, by the Sex Pistols, at a mural in Cork of a young Rory Gallagher.
Some summer evenings me, my cousin Ben and his dog Max, would go for a wander down the town, maybe across to Abbeyside, or all along the watch tower of the waterfront. We talked about music and life, and what memories are made of.
I had always been aware of Rory Gallagher. The Gallagher brothers were from our neighbourhood, and childhood friends of my older sisters. Apocryphal tales abound of teenage high jinks in the Cavalier Club across the street. Many years later, when the time came to commemorate Rory here in Cork – my sister Geraldine was selected to sculpt the bronze tribute that now has pride of place in Rory Gallagher Plaza.
June 26, 1977, was a stop me in my tracks red-letter day. Memory is an unreliable witness, but to the best of my recollection – it was more a van with seats than a coach, and we belched out of Grattan Square, Dungarvan at the crack of dawn. We were on the road to Macroom to see Rory perform at the Mountain Dew Festival; Ireland's first outdoor rock festival, it goes down in history as a watershed cultural event. It was our Woodstock, and I was living the dream in the company of my cousin Ben and fifteen of Dungarvan's finest. Our magical mystery tour was an epic odyssey.
It is said of rock'n'roll: If you remember it, you probably weren't there. And, what happens on tour stays on tour. So, keeping within those two tenets – not only has my memory of that most memorable weekend faded with time, but what happened on the bus, stays on the bus. But with the one-anecdote rule in mind - I shall relate one mirthful memory of that day that remains indelibly etched in the creases of my cranium.
About a mile beyond the Dungarvan hairpin bend we came across a cyclist. I believe he was from the Netherlands, and because we had a spare seat in the van we invited him along. We somehow jammed his bicycle behind the driver's seat, and he climbed onboard. But here's the mad thing, 24 hours later, on our return journey, we dropped him and his bicycle off at the exact same spot on the road – and off he cycled on his merry way, vanishing into the morning mist.
That summer in Dungarvan with my cousin Ben paved the way for my coming-of-age which I can pin-point to a specific date. October 28, 1977, The Sex Pistols erupted onto an unsuspecting international stage with Never Mind The Bollocks, and my world was never the same again. At the time, Rory Gallagher was riding high on the crest of a hugely successful global tour. He was in San Francisco putting the finishing touches to a new album. On a break from the studio Rory went to see the Sex Pistols at the Winterland Ballroom. The gig was cathartic. He returned to the studio and cancelled the recording, the tapes remained archived for more than 30 years. The session was posthumously released in May 2011 as the double album, Notes From San Francisco.
This boy's coming-of-age was a musical journey that carried me from Bay City Rollers to the Sex Pistols – stopping off along the way for a life-reaffirming immersion in sound in a record Shop in Dungarvan. 1977 was a formative summer, lost in music, when the foundations of a lifelong friendship between me and my cousin Ben was set in stone.
Cónal Creedon is an author from Cork city. He will be honoured as Laoch Reacaire at Féile na Laoch 2025 (July 31-August 3) in recognition of his contribution to culture. Féile na Laoch (The Festival of Heroes) is inspired by the life and work of Seán Ó Riada