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I initially met Sinéad in 1985, around the time she had worked with The Edge from the band U2 on a track titled “Heroine.” She attended a gathering at his residence and when she entered the room, draped in a lengthy cape, she was a stunning sight. Time seemed to stand still. Her aura was not solely based on her physical appearance, it ran much deeper. And when I heard her sing, I was blown away.
I didn’t have the chance to see her for a long time after that. Then, in 1993, I collaborated with director Jim Sheridan on the soundtrack for his movie about the Guildford Four, In the Name of the Father. Bono and I had both recorded versions of the song You Made Me the Thief of Your Heart for the film, but Jim felt they were too gloomy. He wanted a female voice for the song and I recommended Sinéad.
I presented a preliminary version of the movie to her, and she agreed to do the song without hesitation. We recorded it at a demo studio in Temple Bar, Dublin. Sinéad showed up wearing all denim and carrying a baby doll. It was unclear if she was pretending for dramatic effect or not. I inquired about the doll, and she explained, “It’s mine – I never had one as a child, but now I do. Her name is Sinéad.” This caused the other musician and producer to quickly leave the room.
I have a clear memory of her devoting a considerable amount of time to preparing for the session. She brought a large bag filled with candles and strategically placed them throughout the small studio. Before we started, she mentioned wanting to grab a drink with me to discuss the lyrics, so we headed to the nearby bar at the Clarence hotel. She ordered a pint of Guinness and, after taking just a few sips, asked for another one. I was unsure of what was happening, but I obliged and got her a second pint. As I returned to the table with it, she picked it up and made her way to a secluded alcove where she poured it slowly over the head of a well-known Irish tabloid journalist while shouting at him to never write about her family again.
It was pretty wild – like Bambi had suddenly turned into Darth Vader. Then she came back over, sat down and started asking me about the lyrics to the song. What I remember is the laser intensity of her anger and, at the same time, the calmness of purpose.
We returned to the recording studio around 10 PM and she delivered a flawless vocal performance by midnight. After a few warm-ups and two complete takes, we were done. It was perfection. Then she left. This marked the beginning of our friendship. The song received a Golden Globe nomination, but at that time, just a few months after she famously tore up the pope’s photo on Saturday Night Live, her music was not receiving much airplay, especially in the United States.
Around 2006, Sinéad returned to Ireland and I started spending more time with her. She purchased a home in Bray and we would often meet at Ragazzi’s pizza restaurant in Dalkey village. She would order pints of Coca-Cola and talk about her children. I felt a sense of paternal instinct towards her. I felt the need to protect her and I believe she sensed that and appreciated it.
In 2011, I released an album titled “Catholic”. My friend was upset with me for not inviting her to sing on it. We had the opportunity to perform together at the Olympia in Dublin, and it was an incredible experience. I recall her children playing on stage during the sound check, and I had to kindly ask her to stop them as no one else would. She had a well-known reputation, but with me, our relationship was effortless. Although she could quickly become confrontational, she remained calm around me.
During Sinéad’s difficult years, it was challenging to reach her due to her changing phone number and email frequently. I received occasional messages, but then there was complete silence. After her son Shane’s passing, I attempted to reach out through mutual acquaintances, but I was unable to reach her. This was the worst situation, and honestly, I couldn’t see how she could bounce back from it.
Around 7pm, while listening to an arts program on the radio, I heard the announcement of her passing. My tears flowed upon hearing the news. All scheduled programs were cancelled and her music was played on all radio stations. As I went for a walk, I could hear her songs playing from open windows, creating a collective living wake that was spontaneous.
I believe that Sinéad’s early rise to fame was both a blessing and a burden, as she craved the attention and recognition. However, I was frustrated with the Irish media for initially labeling her as mentally unstable, only to then attempt to portray her as a beloved figure like Princess Diana after her passing.
I shared a strong agreement with approximately 90% of the views she expressed about the world, especially in regards to Ireland. When I was younger, I also strongly opposed the Catholic church, but she had the recognition, influence, and bravery to do so more successfully. As an advocate, she was ahead of her era. However, what truly proved her significance to me were the common women who showed up on the streets to honor her at her funeral. Many of them had silently endured horrible experiences in Catholic Ireland. It was evident how much she meant to them.
What remains ingrained in my memory is the untamed beauty of her natural singing ability. Whenever she performed a song written by someone else, she didn’t simply sing it, she took complete ownership of it. Take a listen to her rendition of Nirvana’s All Apologies, the crystalline quality of her voice and the depth with which she immerses herself in the song. Music was the only thing that could keep her grounded, but even that couldn’t rescue her.
Source: theguardian.com
