Page 53 - Guerin Media | Cork Airport Holiday & Destination Guide 2015
P. 53
featuring Louis Stewart. It was to be my last gig at the tional acts. A handful of heads, a headful of memories,
festival in a straight run of twenty-two years. no punters, no queue at the bar, no great gigs being
missed, no qualms. We reminisced some, sipped some,
I returned to Cork briefly in 2010 for a one-off concert. jammed some and I wandered off alone, into the night.
Much had changed. Gone were all the usual suspects, Recently, a friend of mine spent his honeymoon in
the bonhomie, the craic. Gone, too, was most of the Sicily and while he was there, he and his new bride
jazz. In 2013, I released my second album, “The stumbled upon a wonderful festival in a beautiful
Bohemian Mooney”, and my agent and record company village. They soon discovered that it was the annual
set about the promotional trail, booking me into jazz “Couscous Fest.” The Sicilian villagers welcomed them
and blues festivals in Limerick, Sligo, Limavady, with open arms; the mayor welcomed all and sundry
London and the U.S.A. However, Cork turned me down,
on the grounds that I was “too jazzy”. Instead, I was to the great “Couscous Fest”. They wined and dined of
booked to play the Saturday night at an alternative the finest Sicilian produce, the Marsala flowed, there
festival in Kinsale, half-an-hour down the road. On a was music and dancing in the streets. Just one strange
whim, I travelled to Cork on the Friday night to take thing – there was no couscous to be had. Not a grain,
in some jazz and meet some heads. That evening I anywhere.
strolled the familiar streets, popping my head in the
doorway of every bar I passed, roaming through hotels, Nigel Mooney is Ireland’s foremost jazz and blues singer and
craning my neck and straining my ears to find some guitarist. His recent album, “The Bohemian Mooney” reached
jazz amongst the din. Here was an Abba tribute, there number one in the Irish jazz charts, was awarded Jazz Album
an Elvis impersonator, now a U2 tribute, then some of the Year by The Irish Times and was Record of the Week on
cack-handed rock band. Sometime after midnight, I R.T.E. Radio. Last October bank holiday weekend he played in
finally bumped into somebody I recognised, outside the The Royal Albert Hall, at London
Everyman Palace Theatre. “Hey man,” he said, “Are you Bluesfest. He is currently working on a new album, due for
coming into the jam session in the Metropole?” - “I release in late 2015.
don’t have a ticket,” I replied. The head had a couple of See www.nigelmooney.com.
passes and we went in together. As he went into the
Met Tavern to order us drinks, I took a quick ramble 53
upstairs and around the old venues. The “Organ Room”
was pulsating to a loud hip-hop operation; a D.J. and
his legion hordes were crammed tightly between the
sweating walls of the ballroom. I saw the ghosts of
Johnny Wadham and Noel Kelehan, smoking in the
Grapevine Bar while Frank Morgan lifted his alto from
its case; Champion Jack Dupree and Spike Robinson,
sharing a joke; Tony Drennan, Jack Daly and Earl Gill
ordering pints. Jimmy Reid, his brushes poking out of
his breast pocket, was leaning on the piano, where
Professor Peter O’Brien sat, smiling, tipping his ash
into his cupped hand. And George Hodnett, in a corner,
asleep on a chair. I drifted back to earth and rejoined
my mate in the ground-floor bar. Soon we were met by
a festival official, who led us down to the back of the
hotel and past a se-
curity guard, through
a heavy velvet cur-
tain and into one of
the old rooms; the
jazz room. Here were
a couple of my old
friends, now based
abroad, touring with
some of the interna-
festival in a straight run of twenty-two years. no punters, no queue at the bar, no great gigs being
missed, no qualms. We reminisced some, sipped some,
I returned to Cork briefly in 2010 for a one-off concert. jammed some and I wandered off alone, into the night.
Much had changed. Gone were all the usual suspects, Recently, a friend of mine spent his honeymoon in
the bonhomie, the craic. Gone, too, was most of the Sicily and while he was there, he and his new bride
jazz. In 2013, I released my second album, “The stumbled upon a wonderful festival in a beautiful
Bohemian Mooney”, and my agent and record company village. They soon discovered that it was the annual
set about the promotional trail, booking me into jazz “Couscous Fest.” The Sicilian villagers welcomed them
and blues festivals in Limerick, Sligo, Limavady, with open arms; the mayor welcomed all and sundry
London and the U.S.A. However, Cork turned me down,
on the grounds that I was “too jazzy”. Instead, I was to the great “Couscous Fest”. They wined and dined of
booked to play the Saturday night at an alternative the finest Sicilian produce, the Marsala flowed, there
festival in Kinsale, half-an-hour down the road. On a was music and dancing in the streets. Just one strange
whim, I travelled to Cork on the Friday night to take thing – there was no couscous to be had. Not a grain,
in some jazz and meet some heads. That evening I anywhere.
strolled the familiar streets, popping my head in the
doorway of every bar I passed, roaming through hotels, Nigel Mooney is Ireland’s foremost jazz and blues singer and
craning my neck and straining my ears to find some guitarist. His recent album, “The Bohemian Mooney” reached
jazz amongst the din. Here was an Abba tribute, there number one in the Irish jazz charts, was awarded Jazz Album
an Elvis impersonator, now a U2 tribute, then some of the Year by The Irish Times and was Record of the Week on
cack-handed rock band. Sometime after midnight, I R.T.E. Radio. Last October bank holiday weekend he played in
finally bumped into somebody I recognised, outside the The Royal Albert Hall, at London
Everyman Palace Theatre. “Hey man,” he said, “Are you Bluesfest. He is currently working on a new album, due for
coming into the jam session in the Metropole?” - “I release in late 2015.
don’t have a ticket,” I replied. The head had a couple of See www.nigelmooney.com.
passes and we went in together. As he went into the
Met Tavern to order us drinks, I took a quick ramble 53
upstairs and around the old venues. The “Organ Room”
was pulsating to a loud hip-hop operation; a D.J. and
his legion hordes were crammed tightly between the
sweating walls of the ballroom. I saw the ghosts of
Johnny Wadham and Noel Kelehan, smoking in the
Grapevine Bar while Frank Morgan lifted his alto from
its case; Champion Jack Dupree and Spike Robinson,
sharing a joke; Tony Drennan, Jack Daly and Earl Gill
ordering pints. Jimmy Reid, his brushes poking out of
his breast pocket, was leaning on the piano, where
Professor Peter O’Brien sat, smiling, tipping his ash
into his cupped hand. And George Hodnett, in a corner,
asleep on a chair. I drifted back to earth and rejoined
my mate in the ground-floor bar. Soon we were met by
a festival official, who led us down to the back of the
hotel and past a se-
curity guard, through
a heavy velvet cur-
tain and into one of
the old rooms; the
jazz room. Here were
a couple of my old
friends, now based
abroad, touring with
some of the interna-
