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Jim Fusilli is the Rock and Pop music critic for the Wall Street Journal. He is also the author of six novels. His latest novel is Narrows Gate, an epic tale set in the years surrounding World War II in the city’s Italian-American community. He has also contributed short stories to various anthologies including “Chellini’s Solution,” which appeared in the 2007 edition of the Best American Mystery Stories. Of particular interest to Rory Gallagher fans is a short story Fusilli wrote that was included in Ken Bruen’s 2006 short story anthology, Dublin Noir: The Celtic Tiger vs. The Ugly American. The title of Jim Fusilli’s story is “The Ghost of Rory Gallagher” and deals with an unrepentant white collar criminal who is finally laid low by his obsession with Rory Gallagher bootlegged recordings. The idea for the story came from a chance attendance at a Rory Gallagher tribute night at New York’s Bottom Line Cabaret in 2002.

A buddy dragged me to tribute show at the Bottom Line a couple of years ago, and Rory’s family was there and a bunch of good quality Irish musicians. It was a kind of a middling show with a lot of high spirits. The last guy was this kid from Red Bank, NJ, and he was unbelievable. A total buzzsaw on a beat-up old pre-CBS Strat. Stunned, my mouth hanging open, I said, “That’s the ghost of Rory Gallagher.” Not long after, Ken Bruen asked for a story for “Dublin Noir.” — Jim Fusilli

Jim has graciously allowed me to post the story here. Be sure to check out his latest novel, Narrows Gate at Amazon.com.

 

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The Ghost of Rory Gallagher

 

HE’D LEFT LONDON in disgrace. A banking scandal, one of the worst. More than a half-billion pounds sterling in losses, bolloxed up every trade he made for months, going deeper and deeper. The end of days for the 230-year-old Ravenscroft Bank. Hundreds sacked. Pensions gone. Dreams shattered. Suicides, at least five of them, including Desmond Chick, for thirty-eight years the janitor at the Con Colbert Street branch in Limerick, a widower, raised three sons himself, working dusk till dawn. Sent away without so much as a plaque for comfort, he cried himself to death, they say, too old to start anew and as heartsick as if he’d lost his Minnie all over again.

The trader, meanwhile, was sentenced to four and a half years. Got out in three. Good behavior, though the arrogant shite never owned up to what he’d done. Eleven hundred days in Coldbath Fields and every one spent planning to cash in like Nick Leeson did—a book, Ewan McGregor on the silver screen, lectures—his reward for breaking the Barings Bank in ’95. Now you can play poker online with Leeson, punters thinking, Here’s yer guy, he’ll ride a bad patch straight to hell.

None of that for this trader, save a photo that went on the wires: scowling, bruised, itching, hollow eyes darting this way and that, maybe two stone lost to labor. No publishers, no producers; banking scandals old news now, a story already told. His wife gone off with an orthodontist, moved to Hamburg. Not even a word from his mott Trudi, tossed aside by the Sun after she told of their life together, all coke and cognac, laughing at regulators and the likes of Desmond Chick before they tracked him down.

Ah, Trudi, bleached-blonde and beyond plump, a hostess now at the Odyssey in Bristol, and she knows her time has passed. Her fifteen minutes and all. Let the Remy warm her belly and she’ll talk the ear off a man’s head, give him something she never told them at the Sun. “Ever hear about the only time he expressed regret? No? Well, Ducky, we were in that big comfy bed of his in that hotel in Tokyo, and he props up on his elbows, and he says, ‘Trudi, they can keep it all, the bastards. Every last piece, every last shilling. But I’ll tell you, I’d give my left thumb to have back my old guitar.’ That being what they call a white-on-white 1961 Fender Stratocaster. Owned and played by Rory Gallagher, it was. Rory Gallagher, love. Sure, you heard of him. Rory—Rory Gallagher, for fuck’s sake . . .”

As for the trader, the bitter prick, still thinking who he was, packed up and disappeared. Did a good job of it too. Four years gone by now, and not a word. Man barely qualifies as a bit of trivia these days. Funny, isn’t it? Sometimes, when the world is turning and the craic is good, it almost seems as if it had never happened.

The trader, clever man, re-emerged in Dublin, just another stranger brought in on the wave of the Celtic Tiger. Had a plan, he did: shaved his head, and when his auburn hair grew back he had it done blond and spiked. Put 80,000 miles on the Audi, nose redone in Nice, jaw in Seville. Teeth in Milan. Didn’t have to do much about the accent. Born in Sligo, he was, not London, as he claimed.

As for wardrobe: gone were the Spencer Hart suits, Turnbull & Asser shirts, Hermès ties, Fratelli Rossetti shoes. Would’ve run around like Kevin Rowland, scruffy Dexy himself, Come on, Eileen, if he could’ve, if it wouldn’t have drawn eyes. Instead, old jeans, T-shirts, a gray Aran sweater, and a brown knit, and he put holes in the elbows with a Biro, having tossed the Parker Duofold. (Not true: like all else, the fountain pen was seized and sold at auction.)

Figured now he could hide in plain sight, more or less.

With all the expenses, he still had about 300,000 euros stashed here and there. No one knew, not even Trudi.

Decided to buy himself a perch and look down on the world, laugh as the rabble passed by. But then it came to him: no, he wanted his nose in it, wanted to smell the stench of ordinary life, to listen to the love song of the forlorn, revel in their petty grievances, in their miseries, watch as the bloody stasis took hold, watch as the light dimmed and died.

The trader bought himself a pub.

A dump over on the north side of the Liffey, off the Royal Canal, a regular shitehole it was, a right kip. Entrance in a stone alley beyond mounds of rubbish, and you couldn’t stumble upon it without a map. Celtic Tiger, my arse, it seemed to say. Two steps down and the rainwater flooded the drain, and that was all right too. Mold and rotten wood, the floorboards sagging.

The place reeked of failure, of resignation.

Perfect.

“Welcome home, you bastard,” the trader said as he
stepped over the moat, dusted his hands, coughed.

It needed a name, didn’t it?

The trader, who by now was calling himself Eamonn or English Bill, depending, thought about it, and his first instinct is to call it “Rory’s.” No, “Ballyshannon,” after Rory’s birthplace. “The Calling Card,” that’s a good one, after Rory’s–

“I must be out of me feckin’ mind,” said English Bill to no one.

Which wasn’t far from true now, was it? Talking to shadows, the cobwebs: took more than one roundhouse to the side of the head in the community shower in Coldbath Fields, he did, though well short of what he had coming.

Pitch black now in the pub and he doesn’t know it, maybe his eyes have gone weak again. Thinking a little crank would do him good.

“The Rag and Bone,” he said, his throat feeling like he ate sand. Thinking of his childhood, and Yeats.

Yeah, and soon tour buses are parking out front and the Japs are snapping photos, thinking they’ve tripped over history.

Back to square one, and two hours later, still not a clue.

And then another hour after that, come and gone.

Cheesed off, he came up with “Póg Mo Thóin,” as in “Kiss My Arse,” but he let it float, and he fell asleep on the bar, woke up to the gnawing and cheep-cheep chatter of a rat inches from his skull.

Got up, pissed in the sink when the jax was two feet away. Cupped his hand and took a mouthful of brown water, felt the rust wash over his Italian teeth.

Soon, sunrise and thin white light through the veins in the painted windows, and he can see the booths against the mudbrick walls, drunk-tilted and ready to fall in on themselves, creaking even in the shouting silence, and who’d give a shite?

And then, like inspiration, like Yeats dreaming, “Cathleen Ni Houlihan,” it comes to him: “Desmond’s.”

Brilliant.

But he don’t know why.

“Desmond’s,” and he likes the sound of it. “Desmond’s.” Likes it because it don’t mean nothing.

They started coming within minutes after the Guinness and Murphy’s trucks pulled out, smelling it as they stumbled along, squat little men, and they were the dregs and had nothing to say. The same story, again, again: never had a break, this bastard or that, she was hell on earth she was; ah, but me dear sweet mother, I’ll tell ya, and me da, Fecky the Ninth he was, but, God, I loved him. Sitting but a stool apart, three, four of them, each brutalizing the same tune. Clay faces in the flicker of cheap candles, a motley bunch straight out of Beckett, and moths flew up from under their tattered greatcoats.

The trader wanted entertainment, stories of the long, long fall, and soon he realized he had put Desmond’s at the end of the shite funnel, and who but them was going to appear?

“Jaysus,” he said as he rinsed a glass in foul water, “the sin of pride, my arse.”

“What’s that you say, Eamonn?” asked one of the sagging men, spider veins, rheumy eyes, fingers stained piss-yellow, paralytic before noon.

“I said, ‘Get the fuck out.’ All of you.” Shouting, bringing it from the bellows. “You and you and you!” Finger stabbing the air, and there’s the door. “Out! O. U. T.”

The men shrugged, plopped down, hitched up their trousers, and slouched out, forearms a shield from the sun.

And then the trader made a mistake.

He jammed the bolt across the door, poured himself a
pint to wash the crystal meth off the back of his throat, went into a threadbare carton, and dug out Rory’s BBC Sessions, cut in ’74 but released when he was in Coldbath Fields, four years after Rory died. Whipsnap “Calling Card,” “Used to Be” like a cold knife against yer skin. The trader blasted it, oh did he blast it, and they heard it in the alley through the cracks, the ancient splinter wood, rattling bricks. The trader had every piece of music by Rory Gallagher that was ever recorded—all the officials, bootlegs too, bits of tape, third generation copies; snatches of solos, rehearsals, sound checks, Rory turning the white Strat into a chainsaw, Rory levitating.

The bastards didn’t get the trader’s stash when they sent him up, the pricks, they let his lawyers cart it away; and he could tell you which was the solo in “Walk on Hot Coals” on Irish Tour ’74 and which was the night before, two nights hence, thanks to some boyo who smuggled in a recorder under his coat. The trader had twenty-one versions of Rory doing “Messin’ with the Kid,” one more kick-ass than the next, and he blasted every one of them, and more, for four days and nights straight, shaking Desmond’s to its foundation.

And when he opened the door, they were lined up halfway to the Liffey, shivering in the cold, shuffling, frozen fingers tucked under their arms. Hopeful eyes now. Expectations.

Word was a Rory pub was opening by the Royal Canal, and they wanted in. Rory was their man. Rory pushed the
blood through their veins, and if someone was going to pay him tribute, they were going to be there, ice and snow and wind and hunger be damned.

“What the fuck?” the trader said, squinting against the silver light, suddenly wishing he hadn’t the need for more crank and something other than stale crisps.

By 8 o’clock they were three deep at the bar, totally jammers, and the snug was swollen, and Rory wailed, setting the fingerboard ablaze, and the trader had hired himself a bouncer and a lass to clear the tables. The next day he needed a man to pull the taps, and a plumber to fix the jax.

By the time he closed on Saturday night, he’d netted 1,100 euros on nothing but beer and Rory. The guy from the chipper round the block offered him a stake, saying business tripled since Desmond’s was born, thinking he’s on to the new Temple Bar. The Black Mariah pulled up, the Gardaí came in, and the trader prepared to slip them a gift, “Sinner Boy” pounding the walls and all, but they loved Rory too and as long as no one lit up a fag and the coppers got in, Desmond’s was sweet, at least for now.

“Jaysus,” the trader said as he made a neat stack of his notes, “the whole country’s full of eejits.”

He folded the bills, crammed them in his pocket, and wasthinking he’d found justice. Finally, he told himself, he was getting his due.

He did the lass on the cold floor, ripping her from behind, and she went home in tears, mascara running down her baby cheeks.

A week or so later, past closing time, but the little pink man in the far booth stayed glued to the wood, though the power had been cut and the votive candles gave little light.

The bouncer was in the alley, tossing them off cobblestone, so the trader, his ears ringing, went across the beersoaked boards.

“Thinking of moving in, are ya?”

The little pink man reached into his coat and placed an ergo machine on the tabletop.

The trader blew onto his hands, the chill returning now that the crowd was gone.

Suddenly, a piercing note from a Stratocaster split the air, followed by a blinding flurry that knocked the trader to his heels.

The music continued for almost four minutes, burning ice daggers, an angel blasting pure light. Pinwheels, butterflies, blood spatter on virgin walls. Grace.

Neither moved, the little pink man starting intently at his enraptured host.

“Where’d you get it?” the stunned trader asked when silence returned.

“It” being a Rory he’d never heard.

Little Pink Man eased back toward the brick.

“Well?” the trader repeated. The crystal meth had him pumping nitro, bugs crawling on his lungs, and yet it had
been Rory, beyond doubt.

In a small, eerie voice, Little Pink said, “We call him up, is what we do.”

The trader frowned, scratched the top of his head. “Listen, just what’s your game—”

“We call him up and up he comes,” Little Pink repeated. “Now, for someone like yourself, that is all and more. A mystery, true. But all and more, is it not?”

The trader couldn’t focus to study the visitor, there in his too-big hound’s tooth, his black tie pulled tight to his pink neck. Nose a ball of putty, a hint of an impish smile.

Little Pink reached with a translucent finger, popped open the machine and pointed to a silver disk much smaller than a standard CD. Candlelight skittered across its surface.

“Take it,” Little Pink said as he wriggled out of the snug. “Take it and know there’s more.”

The top of the man’s head, covered in curly red hair, sat below the chin of the trader, who had snatched up the disk as if it were the gold of Magh Slecht.

“Who are you?” His accent slipped, revealing his years far from home.

Little Pink turned up his coat’s collar, the darkness carrying a chill. “I’m the man who’s knowing how to bring you to Rory, I am.”

The trader watched as the little man leaped the moat and vanished.

A moment later, the bouncer, whizz-wired like his boss, said he hadn’t seen a little pink man, “No, Eamonn, why? And if you don’t mind, I’ll be on me way . . .”

“Lock it behind ya,” the trader said, turning his back.

Pitch black save the light of the player, cranked to the gills he was, listening over and over and over to the guitar solo until near dawn, the hair on the back of his neck up, Rory, Rory, and the trader knew whatever the little pink man wanted he’d get. All of it, the hidden 300,000 euros, the money in the till, the money yet to be made. Desmond’s, if need be. All of it.

All. Of. It.

It took four days for Little Pink to return, four unbearable days, and he brought Fat Pink with him. They stood in the doorway on the business side of the moat, deadpan and composed.

The trader saw seraphs, and he tried to turn off the frenzy in his mind and under his skin.

The bouncer, dim bastard, held them back, being it was past midnight, and the trader had to scramble across the room to halt their dismissal, freezing the dope with an X-ray stare as he grabbed Little Pink by the forearm.

“Come,” he said, almost desperately, “come.”

They went to the little office he’d fashioned out of the storage room.

“Jaysus, where have you been?”

“It’ll cost you,” Fat Pink said, his voice a throaty growl.

“Huh?”

“What me brother is saying is that the ghost appears at no charge, but we have our expenses,” said Little Pink, collar up on the hound’s tooth.

He saw they had not a mind for charity.

“Sure,” said the trader. “Expenses.”

The Pinks kept still.

The trader took a breath. “Go on.”

“We all get what we pay for,” Little Pink said. “In the end, the accounts tally.”

And with that, the trader had found his hitching post. Negotiations had begun.

“But you’ve seen this place,” he said. “Be flattery to call it a dump.”

Big Pink looked askance at the beam an inch or so from his head. The cobwebs had cobwebs, and the wood wore moss.

“Suit yourself,” Little Pink said, with a faint shrug.

The visitors spun slowly toward the door.

“No, no. No,” said the trader, groping again for Little Pink and to hell with negotiating. “What I’m saying is I don’t know what I can raise.”

“Sure you do.” Fat Pink said it.

Little Pink dipped into his pocket: the machine, the button, and this time it was Rory on the twelve-string acoustic guitar, a slow, agonizing, gorgeous blues. No singing, not yet, but pain released from deep in the heart of Ireland filled the musty room. The sweet chirping of blackbirds too, and platinum rain, and yer ma’s tears.

“Oh,” the trader moaned. “Oh, sweet Jaysus.”

The music stopped when Little Pink popped open the
device.

He held out the disk. A gift, and Fat Pink didn’t mind.

“Recorded not twenty-four hours ago,” said the little man.

The trader swallowed hard. “Name your price.”

They settled on 75,000 euros—Little Pink knowing the US dollar was weak—and the Audi. In return, they’d record for as long as the ghost chose to play.

Driving in the rain through Ballsbridge toward Kill o’ the Grange, headlights sweeping across the diamonded windscreen, the trader had it figured. He’d report the Audi stolen before he left Stillorgan Road for the meeting, record Rory, glorious Rory, and then he’d double-back on foot to grab his money, putting the sight of the bouncer’s Ruger MK right between Fat Pink’s googly eyes.

He’d pick up a new set of wheels in Spain and be in Seville by tomorrow noon.

That was fair play to the boys in Coldbath Fields, and he wasn’t too far gone with the beatings and the crank to have forgotten what he’d learned in the yard. A real tutorial it was, day in and out.

The call made, he put the mobile back in his pocket, and rolled down the window, searching for a sniff of Dublin Bay. None, his nose as numb as stone.

“Eejits,” he said to the night air. “Eejits and wankers. Come to rip off Eamonn the barkeep, and look who’s here. The man who broke the Ravenscroft.”

He was still chattering when Fat Pink opened the door to the cottage on a grainy road two rights and a left off Kill Avenue, and there’s yer open field and the black tree branches groping for the indigo sky.

“You’re early,” Fat Pink said, filling the door frame, all but
blocking out the light.

“I got the money.”

The rustle of wings, or his imagination, all too alive.

“Well?” said the trader, who’d left the Ruger in the glove box.

Fat Pink stepped aside.

The wobbly stairwell was his only choice, and he all but leapt from his head when Fat Pink killed the lights.

“What the—”

“Whisht now,” Fat Pink warned as he joined him on the creaking stairs. “Remember what we’re on about.”

“I can’t see,” the trader mumbled. He stopped at the landing, wondering where to go. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw a white knob and started for the door in front of him, but Fat Pink grabbed his shoulder and led him along the banister.

The floor creaked too. The house 200 years old if a day.

And in the room, gaslight.

Little Pink and another guy, bulldog snarl, neck as thick as a post, his melon flat on top.

“This him?” Pug asked.

Little Pink nodded.

The trader squinted and he saw an old table, longer than it was wide, and two chairs. The fireplace had been shuttered a while ago, and the green shades on the windows were drawn.

Fat Pink nudged him in.

“How do we do this?” the trader said, his voice cracking. Darting bees xylophoned his ribs, the march of wind-up ants, barbed wire made of licorice and lace.

Pug took a sip from a half-pint, offered it to no one.

“We wait,” Little Pink replied. He pointed to a chair.

The trader walked in, and the trader sat down.

Fat Pink took the chair to his left. The flickering gaslight made his features quaver and dance.

Leaning against the slate mantel, Pug twisted his head until his neck cracked.

As if anticipating the question, Little Pink said, “Hours, minutes. You never can tell.” He took out his silver machine, set it on the table.

“That’s what you’re using? No microphones? You’ve got no facilities?”

Pug grunted and Fat Pink pushed down a laugh.

“It’s what we use.”

Dumb bastards, the trader thought. You get the ghost in a recording studio and you’re John Dorrences, you are.

He folded his hands on the table, and Fat Pink turned round to Pug, but neither man spoke.

Skeleton key in hand, Little Pink locked the door.

Five minutes later, felt like five hours, the trader sat tall when he heard the snap-squeal of an electric guitar going into its amp, and a quick punch on the strings to make sure it was in tune.

“Calm yerself,” Fat Pink said.

Little Pink nodded toward the machine.

And soon the sound of a Fender Stratocaster filled the room, and the ghost was running his blues scales, warming up, and soon he was toying with some old Muddy Waters lick, and the trader knew his man was working his way to something brilliant. And then the guitar let out a cry and a hole in the sky opened and here it came, lightning and molten gold and, God in heaven, it was glorious.

The trader shut his eyes in bliss.

And Fat Pink grabbed him by the left forearm and wrist, pressing the man’s hand flat on the table, and with one brutal swoop of a hatchet, Pug took off the trader’s thumb.

Blood spurted, and it ran in a river toward the machine.

The trader howled and the trader howled, and he was almost as loud as the guitar, the blizzard of blues notes, the screeching feedback, the beauty.

Pug took off his belt, wrapped it around the trader’s left arm, cutting the flow.

Standing, Fat Pink put his hands on his shoulders, pressed the trader deep and hard into the chair.

Little Pink, off the door and tapped the machine. Silence. Absolute silence, save a man’s agony cry.

“And you had to name it after him, didn’t ya?” Little Pink said, glaring at the trader, his eyes colder than cold.

Pug was digging in the trader’s pocket for the Audi’s keys.

“Desmond’s,” Little Pink went on. “That’s your idea of a joke?”

The trader’s thumb lay on the table, pointing with recrimination at its former host.

“I don’t—Jaysus, my hand. Look at my—”

Little Pink smacked him, and then Little Pink smacked him again.

“My name is Chick,” he said through grit teeth. “His name is Chick, and the man going to your car is named Chick. We’re from Limerick, and we don’t forget.”

“I don’t know . . .” Near shock, the trader blubbered and whimpered. “My thumb . . .”

“Our father was a good and decent man who didn’t deserve to die ’cause of the likes of you.”

Despite the searing pain, the trader was starting to get it. Ravenscroft, and some people won and some lost, but who the fuck is Chick?

Little Pink stepped back and he smiled, and when he smiled, Fat Pink smiled too.

It was Fat Pink—Larry Chick being his real name—who came across Trudi in Bristol, and it was Bernie Chick—him the one that the trader dubbed Pug—who heard about the guitar player over in the States in Red Bank, New Jersey, who could play it like Rory done. Little Pink, who was Paul but went by the name Des to honor his father, put it together. The club off the Royal Canal was a gift, it was. The crystal meth situation too, meaning the trader didn’t think to see if Bernie was behind him when he finally stumbled back to his ratty flat.

“We’re going to take your teeth too,” Des Chick said.

“And the nose,” Larry nodded.

“And the nose,” Des agreed, “if Bernie comes back emptyhanded.”

The trader could not believe he had been duped. Better than them all, and smarter, and yet he’d been duped.

Des said, “And then we’ll talk about regret.”

The trader looked at his thumb on the table, and he heard the one he called Pug trudging up the creaking stairs.

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They may not have been the very first band to pay homage to Irish legend Rory Gallagher, and they certainly won’t be the last, but Barry Barnes and Sinnerboy are regarded by many of the Gallagher faithful to be the ultimate in tribute bands. Rory’s brother and longtime manager, Donal Gallagher has called them his “favorite boy band”, and considers them “the definitive Rory Gallagher outfit.” One of the few bands that play all Rory all the time, they were Donal’s choice to play the first London tribute to Rory Gallagher at the Irish Arts Centre in Hammersmith in 2003.
For Barry Barnes, the singer, guitarist and driving force for Sinnerboy, it is all about keeping the memory of the late, great Irish legend alive. He first saw Rory Gallagher live with his band Taste in 1969 and has been a fan ever since. “Rory walks in, plugs his Stratocaster into the Vox — and, well, it changed my life really. It was magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and I’ve been a total fan ever since.”
After Rory’s death in 1995, Barry resolved to keep the Irishman’s memory alive by playing his music wherever and whenever he could. His band has played all over the world, and his annual tribute show in England is the longest running Rory Gallagher tribute festival in the world. Recently I had a chance to ask Barry about his life on the road, and his unceasing promotion of Rory’s music.

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Take That Sinner Boy Home

Shadowplays: Barry, thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule for this interview. You’ve recently reformed the band. How’s the new line-up coming along?

Barry Barnes: My pleasure! The band’s coming on really well, we’ve been doing a full day each week at Nick’s place in Wales. We’re going out to Ireland the week before the first gig and staying at a friend’s empty house in Co. Donegal where we’re going to set the gear up and rehearse solidly to really tighten things up.

Shadowplays: I understand Nick Skelson is on bass and Jon Clayton on drums. They were both members of “Nunz with Gunz”. Has “Nunz” disbanded then? Or are the boys double dipping?

Barry Barnes: Well the boys seem to have suspended all activity with ‘Nunz’ at the moment, but that’s not to say the band’s defunct – I’ll have to ask them!

Shadowplays: With the new rhythm section, has Sinnerboy’s sound changed a bit? Jon’s old band, Brutal Deluxe, was a heavy, heavy metal band. Will Sinnerboy have a heavier sound? A “Top Priority” Rory sound?

Barry Barnes: Yeah I think that’s bound to happen with a drummer like Jonny but Sinnerboy has always had a ‘heavier’ edge whoever was playing with me which is probably because I’m a bit of a rocker myself at heart. I do have to pull Jonny back from his double bass drum pedals though!!

Shadowplays: Speaking of lineup changes, One of the topics of discussion in any Rory fan group is what everyone’s favorite Rory lineup is. Obviously any lineup with Rory is good, but what’s your favorite lineup and why?

Barry Barnes: That’s a tough one, each lineup produced it’s own magical moments but I have a soft spot for the Ted McKenna era, the memories of Rory running onto the stage, plugging in and belting out ‘Shinkicker’ are really strong. I think as far as creativity in Rory’s playing goes the 75-78 period always leaves me gob-smacked!

Shadowplays: Sinnerboy has also undergone several lineup changes. You, Steve Richardson and Dave Burns were the original lineup? When did Steve Tansley come on board?

Barry Barnes: About 2005/6 he was a friend of Daves’ already so a natural replacement when Steve Richardson left.

Shadowplays: Barry, the splitting up of Sinnerboy took us by surprise. Did you see it coming? Steve and Dave have joined up with Tony Dowler. Steve was with Tony Dowler before, wasn’t he? Back in the old Bill Baileys days?

Barry Barnes: Yeah it took me by surprise too! I was heartbroken at first because I thought I may have to stop – Finding a replacement for one musician would be hard enough but both at once? It was a real body blow, but fortunately for me Nick and Jonny saved the day and now all I can think of is the future, and how lucky I am to be able to keep going onwards and upwards!

Shadowplays: Was the split mainly a financial decision? I imagine it’s hard to make a living as a tribute band, particularly a Rory Gallagher tribute band home based in England. Much easier as a Cream, Zep, or Hendrix tribute band, don’t you think?

Barry Barnes: I don’t really know what motivated their decision, but what you say is very true – lots of miles, lots of discomfort, lots of time away from loved ones and for very little financial reward – I see the tribute bands to the more populist groups making really good livings but I don’t envy them – I’ve got the best job!

Shadowplays: Do members of most tribute bands have day jobs? Or play in other bands? Do you have a second career as well? I saw something about Barry Barnes Photography.

Barry Barnes: I was a still life and fashion photographer for 35 years and enjoyed that career but Rory’s death really shook me and I wanted desperately to keep him in people’s minds, you could say Rory’s passing galvanized me into changing EVERYTHING!
My Rory Career is all I do now – I play grueling solo tours too, hours and hours on the road on my own, setting up equipment, and sleeping where I can. It’s a tough life especially when you’ve driven hundreds of miles to a gig, then set up and sound-checked, sometimes all I want to do is go to bed but then the Rory fans arrive and I’m in my own little heaven!

shadowplays: So why Rory, Barry? Why put in all the long hours and hard work and little pay to play the music of a man that most have forgotten?

Barry Barnes: Good question! But easily answered, it’s not to do with hardship, or finances or anything more than I absolutely adore what I do and I absolutely adore Rory and his music! – when I look at the pleasure on the audiences faces as they remember Rory always thrills me – It’s all worth it!

shadowplays: I first started doing the Shadowplays website because I just couldn’t believe how many had forgotten Rory. I just wanted to smack them upside the head and say, “How could you forget this?” And then there was the media and supposed “blues experts” who would parade out your usual suspects: Clapton, Page, Beck, etc. when talking about the Blues Revival, but never a word about Rory. Did it grate on your nerves as much as mine?

Barry Barnes: Ha! Now you’re talking my language Milo! It makes me so angry! I picked up a guitar magazine at Nick’s from 2008 – it said on the cover ‘Top ten greats of slide guitar’ you can guess the rest of the story! Of course the players mentioned were all great players indeed – and I was very pleased to see Tampa Red come out on top but an article in a respected guitar magazine entitled top ten greats of slide guitar with no mention of Rory Gallagher? Come on guys!

Shadowplays: Rory’s old sound engineer, Robin Sylvester, talked about how great that slide was, how it could make paint blister! At the end of “Crest of a Wave” you can just make out Robin remarking, “flawless”! And don’t get me started on Guitarist Magazine! A while back they did the top 50 greatest guitar tones of all time. Rory checked in at 31. 31!! Slash was in the top ten for crying out loud! How are the young folk suppose to find Rory if the media and musos don’t name check him?

Barry Barnes: It always surprises me when they do – it’s mostly down to listening to their parents bringing them up on Rory.

Shadowplays: So let’s talk about how YOU first found out about Rory. You first saw Rory and Taste at the Manchester Free Trade in ’69. How did you hear of Taste? Through your brother? Isn’t he a big blues fan?

Barry Barnes: I wanted to buy the album everybody was talking about, it was the debut album by Led Zeppelin, You couldn’t buy records like that in many shops in those days, in Manchester you could buy them at ‘Rare Records’ a shop in the city centre. So with my hard saved 15 shillings (about 1 Euro) I walked into the store – and they didn’t have the record! As a 17 year old 15 shillings was hard to come by so I spent it on an album because I liked the cover – it was ‘On the Boards’ and is now the album which if I was given the choice of ONE record only to listen to forever, it’s that one! Later that year I went to see taste play the Free Trade Hall – I was disappointed when I walked in that he didn’t play with great big amplifiers, Just a small Vox on a kitchen chair – but my disappointment went when he plugged in – and my life changed big time!

It was my brother who first got me into the blues – I love him for that!

Shadowplays: How many times did you get to see Rory? Did you ever meet him?

Barry Barnes: I saw him 20 times which I thought was a lot until I started meeting people on our tours that have seen him hundreds of times! No, sadly I never met the man, I was too shy!

Shadowplays: When did you first pick up the guitar? What kind of bands were you in? When did you form Sinnerboy?

Barry Barnes: My dad bought me a guitar for my 16th Birthday – a Watkins Rapier 33 – I loved that guitar, I used to play in local rock bands playing the music of the day, Hendrix, Cream, Purple, Free etc, and of course I’ve always played the music of my hero! I formed Sinnerboy in 2000 (One of my better decisions!)

Shadowplays: You played your first tribute to the man, at the Pomona in Gorton, Manchester in 1996, a year after Rory’s death. So this wasn’t Sinnerboy’s first gig? Who played?

Barry Barnes: No, Sinnerboy was four years away then – I played with my band ‘Fat Cat Bobby’ with my friend Paul Westwell on harmonica who still jams with Sinnerboy occasionally, the rest of the people that played were other guys from local bands who I bullied into coming along and playing for free – we were just jamming Rory really, but it was great!

Shadowplays: I understand Rory’s brother Donal heard about it and left a message for you to get in touch. Do you remember what you and Donal talked about?

Barry Barnes: Not really, I was so shocked that Rory Gallagher’s Brother had phoned me I think I just talked total bollocks!

Shadowplays: This started a long line of English Tributes to Rory Gallagher, mostly at the Dukinfield Town Hall but also at the “Boardwalk” in Sheffield and at Hammersmith among others. Who was involved in organizing these tributes, and how supportive was Donal?

Barry Barnes: Help has come and gone at the tributes but I’ve always been supported by two mighty men – I’ve already mentioned Paul Westwell, who has always been there, (and who built the famous giant Strat) and then there has always been Dave Warner, a lovely man and a tireless campaigner for Rory! Donal has always been hugely supportive and has helped in numerous ways over the years, he’s a great guy and a great support.

Shadowplays: The second tribute was at the Flint St. Social Club, I think, followed by several years at Dukinfield Town Hall, then to the Boardwalk in Sheffield in 2004, then back to Dukinfield. Have I got the chronology right?

Barry Barnes: You’re spot on with the chronology, Milo, but you’ve missed out the last three years – ‘The World Famous Cavern Club’ in Liverpool!

Shadowplays: Yes, the Cavern Club! You moved the tribute there in ’08. This year’s tribute at the Cavern Club is coming up this Saturday. Have you gotten your mod clothes ready or will you be going tarten? Along with your band,Sinnerboy, this year’s tribute at the Cavern will also have Against the Grain from Scotland and Top Priority, a tribute band from Liverpool. What about the early days, Barry. Back in the late ’90’s, during the first few tribute gigs at the Dukinfield Town Hall, what other bands joined you on stage?

Barry Barnes: ‘The Jed Thomas Band’ was a big part of it then, Jed and the same boys are still treading the boards too – lovely guys and great musicians, then there was my special friends from Germany ‘Brute Force and Ignorance, Dave McHugh and Aftertaste, The Bill Baileys, and I used to put bands together out of all the local musicians to play special Rory songs, one year we did the ‘Rory Gallagher Big Band’ – Me, Paul (Harmonica) Paul Minshull (Piano) Denis Brennen and Frantzl Gerd-Albers (Drums) John Berry (Bass) Sara Nadin and Graham Attwood (Horns) John Brett and Steve Ernshaw (Guitars) and Chris Waite on vocals – we filled the stage that night, two drum kits too!!

Shadowplays: I imagine you’ve seen your fair share of Rory tribute bands come and go over the years. Not many have flied the Rory flag as many years as you though. Who stands out in your mind as both friend and supporter of the cause? When you first started playing the tributes, who was there before you and who remains there still?

Barry Barnes: Markus Kerkeling and his band ‘Brute Force and Ignorance’ from Germany were the band that convinced me that it could be done! That you really could play Rory authentically and not just interpret the songs your way. Up until that time there was only Jed and Dave McHugh who I knew were playing Rory and they also were really great at it but for me Brute Force were the band to take notice of, and what does it tell you when I say that all those guys, Jed, Dave and Markus are still at it, lots of other Rory bands have come and gone but the original guys are still there – and still fantastic!

Shadowplays: It tells me that Rory could instill a fierce loyalty in his fans. That some may use his music as a stepping stone to further their own careers, but others play his material out of sheer love of the man and his music. What are your fondest memories of the Dukinfield shows?

Barry Barnes: Always the big audiences – and the smiles on their faces!

Shadowplays: Sinnerboy also makes the trek to the festivals in Ireland — Ballyshannon, Belfast, Cork. Did you play any of the gigs Tony Moore would organize around Cork back in the early days? Any idea what Tony is up to nowadays?

Barry Barnes: Oh yeah we’d all cram into a little bar in Co. Cork called ‘The Meeting Place’ it was tiny and there seemed to be hundreds of us there! But we all got in and supported each other, it was great! Tony is not as up front on the Rory scene now – he played the biggest part of all in getting us all together, just about the most influential man on the Rory Tribute scene! He now plays his guitar in an Irish traditional band – I must ring him soon and catch up!

Shadowplays: The big draw now is in Ballyshannon. Barry O’Neill has turned that festival into a huge to do. Has some of the Rory-ness been lost on the way though? I read stories about some of the younger crowd casting a bit of a dark cloud over the proceedings. Or is it just the normal headaches associated with the bigger crowds?

Barry Barnes: Absolutely – it’s the same at all festivals, it does attract some kids who are not really interested in the music but that does not detract from the festival itself – and in no way has it lost ANY of how you put it ‘Rory-ness’ on the contrary, as with Tony Moore before him Barry picked up the baton in Ireland and has created a unique event in honour of Rory, I cannot praise him and his team enough for what they have done in Rory’s memory.

Shadowplays: It’s important for the youth to be involved in it, not just us old geezers. Rory’s music needs to stay fresh, don’t you think?

Barry Barnes: That’s one of my favourite things that has happened – there are lots of young bands that have got together not because they saw Rory, because they were too young, but because they saw Sinnerboy! How proud do you think I am of that?

Shadowplays: Did you play with former mates, Steve and Dave at Ballyshannon this year, as a final encore? Tony Dowler played too, didn’t he?

Barry Barnes: Yeah we played three great gigs – a real fitting ending to our partnership. They played some gigs with Tony too, The Hellhounds are a great band!

Shadowplays: With the dissolution of Sinnerboy, you started doing more solo acoustic shows to fill the Rory void, or had you always scheduled in a lot of solo acoustic work?

Barry Barnes: It was way before the dissolution of Sinnerboy, Milo – the old guys didn’t want to play so many gigs with me and I had to do something to keep paying the rent and it was either learn how to do it solo or….GET A JOB! (Horror) I love it now!

Shadowplays: Last October you came out with an acoustic album simply titled, “Rory”. Well that says it all, doesn’t it? Tell us about the album. How long was it in the making? Who guested? Where was it recorded?

Barry Barnes: Mostly in Athens, plus two live tracks from Dublin and two studio tracks in England (and woof woof in Limerick!) It took longer than it should to mix because the studio in Athens had to close down after I recorded it, but I’m happy with the end result, My great friend Manos Kampouris plays some stunning guitar on it and I’m joined by Paul Westwell on a couple of tracks and Tracy Smith, O.B Mclaughlin and Dave Burns help out on ‘Barley and Grape Rag’ I’m really proud of the album (Available from www.sinnerboy.co.uk) Unashamed plug there!

Shadowplays: A well deserved plug! Interesting that many of the tracks were done in Athens. Greece has a surprisingly large number of Rory Gallagher fans. Rory only ever did two shows there, yet they occupy a huge slice of the demographics on the official Rory Gallagher Facebook page. About one fourth of all RG Facebook fans are from Greece. In fact, the city of Athens alone has more RG Facebook followers than any other country. Sounds like a country with excellent musical “Taste”. How do they treat you over there?

Barry Barnes: What? Greece is my second home! I love the Greek people, It’s my favourite place in the world! I have many, many friends there and get there as often as I can, I’ve even got a Greek version of Sinnerboy! Manos Koutsakis and Manos Deloitis play with me on Drums and bass there – and I’ll be back next year!

Shadowplays: Well, I had a feeling Sinnerboy would go over well there. Your solo album is a mixture of Rory covers and Rory-covered Blues standards. I think the only blues song on the album not performed at one time or another by Rory is Son House’s “Death Letter Blues”. Why Death Letter Blues?

Barry Barnes: Because it goes to the darkest region of the soul, that song IS the blues – nothing scares me or moves me like THAT song. I hope it doesn’t sound pretentious but I often just go into a trance when that song is working correctly – transported to another place – I’m talking bollocks again aren’t I?

Shadowplays: Not at all. I remember reading an interview of Rory where he talked about how Robert Johnson’s music scared him, that he was just that good. Rory’s choice of tunes from these blues legends was atypical, diverging from what the modern blues guitarists would include in their repertoire. Do you have any favorites, besides the included Death Letter Blues that Rory didn’t cover that you would have liked to have seen him cover?

Barry Barnes: He played so many concerts and so many acoustic spots that probably nobody knows everything he played – I would have liked him to cover some Bukka White!

Barry Barnes © naamanus

Shadowplays: Bukka White and that resonator! He played it so good and loud, like an electric guitar! Rory mentioned listening to him on the US Armed Services radio when he was growing up, but I can’t think of any Bukka White songs on the Rory bootleg recordings I have. One of the things that marked Rory’s take on the old Blues tunes was how he made them his own. One only has to listen to songs like Bullfrog Blues, Messin’ with the Kid, or Out on the Western Plain to see how Rory made them his own, to the point that it’s now Rory’s version that people cover. Do you have particular favorites from his covers?

Barry Barnes: My favourite would be ‘Empire State Express’ It’s Rory and Son House so it’s got to be a hit with me!

Shadowplays: Empire State Express — from his album “Fresh Evidence”. He recorded it on St. Patrick’s Day in one take, sitting in the drum booth using the drum mikes. I often wonder what the blues “purists” think of how Rory made these songs his own. I imagine there’s those who don’t want those old songs to stray very much from the original.

Barry Barnes: I think that is exactly what the blues is – interpretation. The early blues men were just taking what they had heard being chanted by their parents in the cotton fields (Much of it in African languages) and then translated into vocal lines and guitar riffs, then Muddy Waters invented electricity! If there are those who don’t want those old songs to stray very much from the original I feel sorry for them, they are missing out on so much!

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If you just ape the old record, then it’s a one-dimensional thing. I try to adapt and interpret the songs at the same time. It’s good to capture the original feeling, but there’s no point in doing it just verbatim. I know certain guys who do that and it doesn’t get them anywhere. But then some ultra-purists feel you shouldn’t tamper with these songs or even attempt them. I think it’s one way of keeping the music alive and bringing it another step forward.”– Rory Gallagher

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Barry Barnes: Well there you go – even Rory agrees!

Shadowplays: Who are your favorite blues musicians past and present?

Barry Barnes: My personal favourites – Son House, Bukka White, Tampa Red, Robert Johnson, Blind Lemon, Bessie Smith, Sonny Terry and Brownie MgHee.

Shadowplays: Mark Feltham said once that as much as he liked listening to Rory play those old blues numbers, what he really liked was hearing him play his own songs. What are your favorite Rory songs, both to listen to, and play yourself?

Barry Barnes: I’ve always loved playing Moonchild and Hot Coals, and I couldn’t single out any favourite Rory songs, Maybe Tattood Lady would be my all – time favourite – I love Wicked Sadie, she makes me laugh because she gets raided by the police and the chief ends up wearing her nickers on his head – priceless!!

Shadowplays: I love the way Rory changed that song up through the years – adding the flamenco intro, and that chukka-chukka muting of chords (if that makes any sense!!) On your solo album you’ve done a nice acoustic version of Moonchild. That is something I love to hear: acoustic renditions of electric songs. Are you familiar with the Belgian guitarist Jacques Stotzem? Jacques talked about trying ” to catch the original spirit [of a Rory song] and perform it on acoustic guitar. Not playing it note for note but getting the emotion and energy right.

Barry Barnes: You mean Jacques does the same thing as me? I don’t know him, you must introduce me, that’s exactly what I think!
I’ve just looked him up on Youtube – Bloody Hell he’s amazing!!

Shadowplays: Maybe one day Jacques will play at the Ballyshannon festival. He’s done quite a few Rory songs, accompanied by female singer, Géraldine Jonet, and he’s told me he would love to play at the festival. Of course, Rory playing one of his own electric songs acoustically can’t be beat. I loved it when Rory appeared on Irish TV in 1977 and played “Secret Agent” acoustically. MTV use to have a program called, “Unplugged,” back in the late 80’s. Rory would have blown them away.

Barry Barnes: Oh yeah, I’m working it into the acoustic set now – so many songs and so little time!

Shadowplays: What Rory songs would you have liked to hear Rory play unplugged? Certainly Moonchild and I Fall Apart come to mind, and you’ve done both of those on your solo album. I Fall Apart is such an emotional song, don’t you think. Those crashing of chords near the end is almost a pathos.

Barry Barnes: Well the whole point of me playing some of the songs as I do, with just strummed guitar chords, is because they are so well written that they stand up as great songs even without the solos, drums etc. Also I think that the songs from later in his career leaned towards “acoustic-ness” anyway, stuff like Seven Days or Seems to Me ring out acoustically to me (And I love all the later stuff as much as the earlier)

Shadowplays: Your work with Sinnerboy has also given you a chance to play with some great musicians such as Pat McManus of Mama’s Boys, Andy Powell of Wishbone Ash. Andy was a big fan of Rory’s? I remember reading an article about a big Finnish festival and Rory and Lou, and Wishbone Ash’s original bassist, Martin Turner are jamming away at a pre-festival gig . I wonder whether Andy ever got up on stage with him. Talk about your double guitars!

Barry Barnes: You could have knocked me down with a feather! Andy stood at the side of the stage and watched my whole acoustic set and then said “I don’t know how the f…k you can do that Barry – I’d be terrified!” ha, he was lovely, and so great to play with – a real pro, just like Pat who I love dearly. I can’t remember Andy saying he’d Jammed with Rory or not but he really loved playing the stuff with me – we had a great time!

Shadowplays: And you also got to play with Rory’s bandmates? Can you tell me the circumstances, how it went, etc? That had to send chills down your spine. Own up, Barry, did you think for one brief, shining moment that you were seeing what Rory saw all those years ago?

Barry Barnes: Twickenham, London at a charity concert – Gerry, Ted, Lou and me and I thought I was going to shit myself! But they were very kind and we ended up having a great jam – and yes, I closed my eyes and bathed in it – milked it as much as I could – made sure it was ingrained in my memory forever – a fantastic moment I’ll never forget.

Shadowplays: Did you get to talk a bit with Gerry and the band about their playing with Rory? Any stories you remember?

Barry Barnes: Lots, mostly told to me by Lou (Who is now unfortunately very sick) mostly about high spirits involving the band but always respectful when talking about Rory. A great one was Ted packing his trousers in his suitcase, having the case taken to the airport then having no trousers to wear and Gerry buying him a pair three sizes too small – I wish I could have seen that!

Shadowplays: What about your own band? You’ve been on the road with Sinnerboy for 15 years now. What’s your favorite memories from your life on the road?

Barry Barnes: It would take me a week to write them all down! Awesome gigs at The Ulster Hall (Belfast) Torreperroghil (Spain) Thessaloniki and Athens, Duky Town Hall, Ballyshannon, Temple bar Music Centre (Dublin) and hundreds of others, eating fish and drinking wine in Greece with wonderful friends, Talking about Rory Gallagher to all the fantastic people I’ve met along the way.

Shadowplays: Can you see doing these tributes another 15 years? How are the hands holding up? Eric Clapton said that he could play just as well as the old days, it just takes a lot longer to warm up now.

Barry Barnes: Yep, I’m 60 next year so I think I can safely say I’ll still be here at 75! My fingers are stiffer and not as fast as I used to be (I was never very fast) but I still love every note!

Shadowplays: Irish poet, Louis de Paor once said that, “maybe he [Rory] never fully realized how much he and his music meant to us all and that he was gone before we had a chance to tell him.” What has Rory and his music meant to you, Barry? What would you tell him?

Barry Barnes: I’d tell him I love him, that he has been my life and I wish he was a bit easier to copy!

Shadowplays: Barry, thanks for taking the time to answer these questions. I appreciate all you’ve done to promote Rory’s music. Here’s to 15 more years of Sinnerboy!

Barry Barnes: We can do another one in 2026, when we can talk about the Madison Square garden gig and the Rory concert I played on the moon!

καληνύχτα

 

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…epilogue

 

It’s Saturday night at the Cavern Club and despite the recent departure of his old band mates, Barry Barnes is once again hosting the longest running Rory Gallagher tribute festival. Tune-up gigs in Ireland have gone well for the new Sinnerboy, with new band mates Nick Skelson and Jonny Brutal assimilating well Barry’s extensive catalogue of Rory tunes. Hopefully one day Barry Barnes and Sinnerboy will come to your hometown and play the music of Rory Gallagher with as much passion and love as you’ll ever see. I think you’ll agree with me that you’ll want to “take this sinner boy home” with you. He’ll definitely do you no harm, and most assuredly do you a wealth of good.

Sinner Boy

 

(Sinner Boy, words and lyrics by Rory Gallagher)

 

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