“Strong Independent Woman Singing”

Curmie is once again distracted from his growing backlog of things he’s promised himself and others to write about. This time, it’s to remember Sinéad O’Connor, one of the truly great artists of our time, who was taken from us far too young (age 56) a few days ago. That also was the age at which another of Curmie’s musical heroes, Warren Zevon, died. The difference is that whereas Curmie was several years younger than Zevon, he's over a decade older than O’Connor. It hurts more to hear about the passing of someone younger than oneself. 

The encomia are coming fast and furious now, and Morrissey, for once, is correct in condemning the hypocrisy of the music industry magnates and media moguls who are suddenly mourning the loss of someone they had long shunned for the unforgiveable sin of nonconformity. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, but not only didn’t exploit that fact but actively undercut the sex kitten image by shaving her head and appearing in t-shirt and ripped jeans rather than the flowing locks and cute (short) dresses the record company execs tried to foist on her. 

One of the things that struck Curmie in the aftermath of her death was the diversity of songs posted on Facebook by friends over the past few days. Of course, “Nothing Compares 2 U” shows up a lot; it was her biggest hit, after all. But there’s also a magnificent rendering of Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” from the Broadway hit Evita (a song which has a fair amount of relevance to her own life), the Irish folk song “The Foggy Dew” about the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916, and the contemporary social commentary of “Black Boys on Mopeds.” If it could be sung, she could sing it. Well. 

There were lots of others, too, of course: the autobiographical “Daddy I’m Fine” (which provides the title for this essay), straight-ahead rock-and-roll (with an edge) like “Mandinka,” traditional folksongs like “He Moved through the Fair,” 20th century chestnuts like “I Want to Be Loved by You” (yeah, she out-Marilyns Marilyn) and “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered,” and ballads of love gone wrong like “Troy” and “Last Day of Our Acquaintance.” She sings with the backing of big bands, of traditional Irish folk groups, of rock combos. Her rendition of “Irish Ways and Irish Laws” is a capella; it doesn’t matter who, if anyone, is with her: she dominates. 

Hers was one of those voices that was instantly recognizable. She could slide seemingly effortlessly from breathy romanticizing to a visceral roar; she could be almost unbelievably vulnerable and terrifyingly defiant… sometimes at the same time. There has never been, and will never be, a voice quite like hers. 

But “voice,” of course, has two meanings. One, having to do with pitch and timbre and the like, was cheerfully exploited by record companies and concert venues. The other meaning has to do with giving a voice to those who, metaphorically at least, go unheard. It was a problem that she wanted to be taken seriously for her artistry. That she often wrote and performed songs that followed in the tradition of protest songs from both sides of the Atlantic could be (barely) tolerated. Saying out loud instead of discreetly hinting that women can be interested in sex as well as romance no doubt bothered the industry execs, but at least she was selling records. 

It was not as a singer/songwriter, however, but as a woman, as a victim of child abuse, as an Irish citizen, that she took on the powerful elites by openly defending the Irish Republican Army, pulling out of a scheduled appearance on Saturday Night Live because the episode was to be hosted by the misogynistic Andrew Dice Clay, and withdrawing from the Grammy Awards because of their preference for popular success over actual artistry. None of this did her career any good, except with a few hard-core fans. 

But finally appearing on SNL and tearing up a photo of Pope John Paul II, declaring him “the real enemy” for his placing the interests of the Church above those of innocent children was widely condemned by the likes of Joe Pesci, Frank Sinatra, and even fans at a Bob Dylan concert. Her career was never the same again, although she did record a few more albums after a layoff of several years. 

That was a moment of considerable courage, perhaps of recklessness. What the pundits have gradually and belatedly admitted is that she was absolutely right. No, maybe the Pope wasn’t, perhaps, the embodiment of evil per se, but the Church hierarchy was unquestionably responsible for a disproportionate share of child abuse, shuffling predatory priests from parish to parish while protecting them from civil authorities. It is now, alas, a little late to say “oops.” 

Curmie admits to being somewhat complicit in all this, to the extent of not being a devotee when he could (should?) have been. He was not a fan of “Nothing Compares 2 U,” which remains one of his least favorite songs in her discography. (Curmie notes with a rueful smile that she might approve of his refusal to conflate economics with art.)  In any case, he had heard few if any of her other songs when that SNL incident occurred. He became a fan only in retrospect, hearing her first on Irish folk songs, then searching out her other work, both as an artist and as a social commentator… and sometimes at the intersection of the two, as in her advocacy for hip-hop and reggae. 

None of us—not Sinéad O’Connor, nor Curmie, nor you, Gentle Reader—can avoid making mistakes. But we can acknowledge and correct them. Let’s do that, and call attention to the force of nature known as Sinéad O’Connor. She had a voice—in both senses of the term—for the ages. We can disagree with some of her positions, but not with her willingness to speak her truth, consequences be damned. She suffered far more than anyone ought to have to endure, throughout a life bookended by an abusive mother and a son’s suicide, with worldwide fame supplanted by worldwide humiliation and rejection in between. 

Watching her perform on video, especially live, is always an experience. When we get a long shot, we often see a small woman with slumped shoulders, almost apologetically stepping up to the microphone. Then we hear that voice, and the shoulders roll back, and we’re on alert: this woman is anything but frail. The camera zooms in and we see those glorious flashing dark eyes. You can’t look at them without the certainty of the truth being shared with us; her truth, at least. We cannot not listen. 

Sinéad was a mass of contradictions, as only geniuses can be. She is gone now. She was mortal, after all. No. She was mortal. She is immortal. Or at least we can damned well hope so.