I was lucky to receive a gift of a beautiful Indian “Shruti” box earlier this year.  I closed my eyes and played that first long, lingering B flat and immediately a broken-hearted woman was standing on a shore watching her soldier lover disappear across a dark sea.  The song is intentionally long and relentless, to reflect the reality of war, with the chorus building after each verse, to leave the listener feeling unsettled.  The drone in particular I wanted to conjure up a “flat-line” as if all life, including hers, had ended with his departure.  It is not intended to cause historical debate about Irish men fighting on behalf of the English and the circumstances surrounding their departure, but in writing this song I wish to reflect on the universal suffering of anyone who has ever said good bye to a loved one they believe they will not see again.

I have been singing and playing music my entire life, thanks to my grandmother Joan Kelly, who put music and song at the heart of everything we did growing up in Dublin and taught me hundreds of beautiful Irish songs and melodies.  One day during lockdown, with hours of idle time on my hands, as I watched the life disappear from a bunch of cut roses I had been given, I decided to write a song of my own and The Black Rose was born.

I have lived in England for 20 years, but it is not my home.  I was driving through the Wicklow mountains one very fine, blue-sky day and the song wrote itself as I slowly made my way through the Vale of Avoca.   The “love” referred to in the song, is for my home, which is – and always will be – Ireland.

On my very first day at university in Dublin, I met Rónán Ó Dubhthaigh (1966 – 2021), who became a lifelong friend. Rónán, who was a passionate gaeilgeoir, inspired me to study Irish and instilled in me a deep love of the language and music of Ireland.  I wrote this for Rónán in a gospel style, which resonates with me in the same way as the Irish sean nós singing style I love so much.  Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.

Sometimes a person shares an experience with you, in this case, of being let down very badly by a lover, and their grief and sadness is so overwhelming that it inhabits you for a while after their story has been told. I wrote this to relieve myself of the pain I felt I was carrying for them in my heart.  As soon as I finished the song, I felt myself again.

I wrote this when my eldest daughter Ella left our nest to spread her own wings.  I spent hours sitting in the kitchen, listening to the birds in the garden, adjusting to the feel of the space without her in it, and tuning in to their chatter and song.  The birds, and in particular the seagulls that remind me so much of Dublin bay where I grew up, continue to be an important part of the soundtrack to my life.

I have been told I wear myself “inside out” and I feel this way about this song.  To me, all physical pain has its root in an emotion, shock or trauma, real or imagined.  Love is a feeling, but it’s impact can make you fly, or make you fall to the ground.