Bernie Woodham
2011-05-25 14:26:53 UTC
I read in in Huffington Post today. Truly makes your heart skip a
beat:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sinead-oconnor/post_2053_b_866068.html?view=print
Dear Zimmy
It's your gorgeous birthday next week. You're three years younger than
my father (whom I hope never reads this!). That's a bit of a head-
wrecker.
It is a fact that I wish to high heaven that my father's father had
met my mother's whatever-it-is earlier. Then I would have been old
enough to tell you all this in a more delicious setting. My beloved
brother Joseph, who introduced me to you, passed an invitation to me
from the Mail to write something about you because next Tuesday is
your birthday.
I said, 'But I'm a moron! What will I say?' He said, 'You could make
it like a letter to Bob. To say the oul' happy birthday'.
So... Bobby, or R.J or Ray, or Anything...Here is my birthday little
thing for you.
This week when everyone is writing and talking and thinking about your
birthday, they're all gonna go on about the usual stuff.
'Prophet'.
Blah blah.
'Voice of a generation.'
Blah blah. Blah blah. Blah blah.
All true I'm sure... But no one ever says: 'Holy Mother of God! That
Dylan fellow is an extremely adjectival sexy adjectival m.a.n. so he
is for himself!'
It's about time all the ladies, and I mean ALL the ladies, need to
tell everyone exactly where it's at concerning the deliciousness of
Robert Zimmerman.
Drop. Dead. Gorge. Us.
Yes, sir! THE sexiest man that ever stalked the face of this earth.
'Tis lucky for you, boyo, that you're away over there in America. Sure
there's barely a woman in the universe who could keep her mitts off
you! Thanks be to God that flights are not cheap here in Ireland or
you'd be wise to run. And also to follow Gaddafi's example by
employing fake Bob Dylans, so no-one will know which one is actually
you. Incidentally, should you decide you want to follow Gaddafi's
example by employing all-female body guards, I hope you will consider
me. Please don't ask for a reference though. I wouldn't come up
looking very good.
I once worked with a lady who'd once worked with you. She said you're
just crazy about the ladies. I took her in my arms and danced with
delight. Hurray!
This means I'm not the only person on earth who thinks you're a ride.
Despite your main feature being sexeliciousness, you're also not a bad
oul' sayer of songs. And by the way, there's something the 13-year-old
me wants to say to you: Thank you for making Christian music sexy.
Poor God. Until you made Slow Train Coming, he was suicidal. From
listening to terrible religious music.
I mean, have you ever seen Irish dancing? It's the un-sexiest thing
one could see. We only dance from the knee down. Keeping everything
else tight as a board. Arms stiff at our sides. For fear we might slip
into the world of sensuality.
People say, and I hope it's not so, that you didn't 'stand by' Slow
Train Coming. I don't know what they mean exactly. And I don't even
care. Either way you could never have known what it was like in
Ireland before that album tore down the walls which separated God and
sex. You couldn't have known the effect the record would have. And
that's appropriate. Why should you know?
I was 13 the year it came out. Joe, my brother, brought it home.
I was just beginning to wonder what kind of person I wanted to be. And
what kind of woman I wanted to be. And what kind of artist I wanted to
be. There weren't many options open to a female like me. I would
either die or go to jail if I continued along the path that was given
me.
But when I heard you singing those songs on Slow Train Coming, and
when I saw the drawing of the train on the sleeve, I knew what I
wanted to do with my life.
So Rabbi, from you I know I gotta serve somebody. I know I'm a
precious angel. I know God believes in me. I know I'm gonna change my
way of thinking. I know I'm gonna make myself a different set of
rules. I know I'm gonna put my best foot forward, stop being
influenced by fools.
I saw you at Slane when I was like 16. I couldn't believe I would
actually see you in the flesh. I had a boyfriend at the time. Only
reason we were together was we were both obsessed with you. Sadly we
never did really anything but talk about you! Of course I could never
have dreamed of telling him you were way sexier than him. Am I bad? I
certainly hope so.
Santana played before you. When you came on you had on Oompa Loompa
orange make-up. So it wasn't only musically or spritually that you
were ahead of your time. You foresaw fake tan! And the dreaded RTE
make-up department. [C'mon, Ryan, man, let's just come out and admit
it, they've not been the Mae West over the years. Though I do grant
you they're not as woeful as TV3 - I'm forever tweeting Vincent
Browne's show over the make-up. They have him looking like Bob at
Slane.]
I think you also had on loads of black khol eyeliner. Very strange
sight. Gorgeous nonetheless, obviously. But strange.
Then I briefly actually met you twice. Backstage at two festivals,
there were loads of us playing. I must have seduced your manager with
sexual bribes, I can't remember, but there I was in your dressing
room. Just you and your tour manager.
You asked would I like a drink. I said yes, and though I can't stomach
alcohol I sipped away and pretended I wasn't suppressing the desire to
let you have a look at what I ate for lunch. You did a lot of pacing
up and down. I remember thinking 'Holy mother of the divine lord
Krishna, who could perform after drinking this?'
The third and final time our paths crossed was on that infamous
evening at your tribute concert in Madison Square Garden, an evening
which heaved with consequence. In the week or so before that show I
had done an incendiary acapella version of a Bob Marley (the other
'Bob') song called War on Saturday Night Live. I changed some words
and made it about child abuse instead of racism. And at the end of the
song I tore up a picture of the then Pope, JP2. No smirking please,
Bob - when mentioning 'the incident' one must always look very
serious.
Then, soon after that, I went shopping to find an outfit for your
upcoming show. The decision I made was so wrong - a turquoise jacket
and skirt suit which should have been worn by a very old woman...and
with a hideous gold thing on the jacket. Unforgivable. I look at the
footage of the show now and I am appalled. What was I thinking?
Perhaps I should have slipped you a note before the show, explaining
'the incident' to you, but in the terror of my image in my dressing
room mirror I guess I forgot.
So I walked on stage that night and half the audience cheered and the
other half booed. Was it the Saturday Night Live fallout or had I just
totally made the wrong wardrobe choice?
Seriously though, backstage afterwards, you looked at me confused as
if to ask me what I had done to upset people so much. Instead of
singing I Believe in You, as planned, I had screamed out the Bob
Marley song instead. But it felt appropriate for me to scream while I
had the chance. And I knew, if you understood, you wouldn't mind that
I used the stage you gave me to stand for the God you also gave me. I
hope your questions from that night have since been answered for you
by the various revelations concerning the spiritual condition of the
catholic church. In God's wide world. If I had simply sung I Believe
in You that night my voice would have been drowned in the noise of the
opposing spiritual forces in the room.
I had to do what I did in Madison Square Garden. Even if it meant
being treated like a mental case for years after.
The God I believed in was the one you brought off the pages of
scriptures into my life. Not the one those bored black-and-white-
wearing priests droned on about whilst flicking bits of dust off their
altars in the middle of the consecration of the Host.
Even if they showed me to the door. And said don't come back no more
cuz I didn't be like they'd like me to. Even if I walked out on my
own. A thousand miles from home, I didn't feel alone. Cuz I believe in
you.
I believe in you, even through the tears and the laughter. I believe
in you even though we be apart. I believe in you even on the morning
after. Though the earth may shake me, though my friends forsake me,
this feeling's still here in my heart.
Don't let me stray too far. Keep me where you are. So I will always be
renewed. And Lord, what you've given me today is worth more than I
could pay. And no matter what they say, I believe in you...
But, I digress, Bob. I only meant to tell you you're gorgeous. So have
seventy kisses for yourself on Tuesday.
Sinead
beat:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sinead-oconnor/post_2053_b_866068.html?view=print
Dear Zimmy
It's your gorgeous birthday next week. You're three years younger than
my father (whom I hope never reads this!). That's a bit of a head-
wrecker.
It is a fact that I wish to high heaven that my father's father had
met my mother's whatever-it-is earlier. Then I would have been old
enough to tell you all this in a more delicious setting. My beloved
brother Joseph, who introduced me to you, passed an invitation to me
from the Mail to write something about you because next Tuesday is
your birthday.
I said, 'But I'm a moron! What will I say?' He said, 'You could make
it like a letter to Bob. To say the oul' happy birthday'.
So... Bobby, or R.J or Ray, or Anything...Here is my birthday little
thing for you.
This week when everyone is writing and talking and thinking about your
birthday, they're all gonna go on about the usual stuff.
'Prophet'.
Blah blah.
'Voice of a generation.'
Blah blah. Blah blah. Blah blah.
All true I'm sure... But no one ever says: 'Holy Mother of God! That
Dylan fellow is an extremely adjectival sexy adjectival m.a.n. so he
is for himself!'
It's about time all the ladies, and I mean ALL the ladies, need to
tell everyone exactly where it's at concerning the deliciousness of
Robert Zimmerman.
Drop. Dead. Gorge. Us.
Yes, sir! THE sexiest man that ever stalked the face of this earth.
'Tis lucky for you, boyo, that you're away over there in America. Sure
there's barely a woman in the universe who could keep her mitts off
you! Thanks be to God that flights are not cheap here in Ireland or
you'd be wise to run. And also to follow Gaddafi's example by
employing fake Bob Dylans, so no-one will know which one is actually
you. Incidentally, should you decide you want to follow Gaddafi's
example by employing all-female body guards, I hope you will consider
me. Please don't ask for a reference though. I wouldn't come up
looking very good.
I once worked with a lady who'd once worked with you. She said you're
just crazy about the ladies. I took her in my arms and danced with
delight. Hurray!
This means I'm not the only person on earth who thinks you're a ride.
Despite your main feature being sexeliciousness, you're also not a bad
oul' sayer of songs. And by the way, there's something the 13-year-old
me wants to say to you: Thank you for making Christian music sexy.
Poor God. Until you made Slow Train Coming, he was suicidal. From
listening to terrible religious music.
I mean, have you ever seen Irish dancing? It's the un-sexiest thing
one could see. We only dance from the knee down. Keeping everything
else tight as a board. Arms stiff at our sides. For fear we might slip
into the world of sensuality.
People say, and I hope it's not so, that you didn't 'stand by' Slow
Train Coming. I don't know what they mean exactly. And I don't even
care. Either way you could never have known what it was like in
Ireland before that album tore down the walls which separated God and
sex. You couldn't have known the effect the record would have. And
that's appropriate. Why should you know?
I was 13 the year it came out. Joe, my brother, brought it home.
I was just beginning to wonder what kind of person I wanted to be. And
what kind of woman I wanted to be. And what kind of artist I wanted to
be. There weren't many options open to a female like me. I would
either die or go to jail if I continued along the path that was given
me.
But when I heard you singing those songs on Slow Train Coming, and
when I saw the drawing of the train on the sleeve, I knew what I
wanted to do with my life.
So Rabbi, from you I know I gotta serve somebody. I know I'm a
precious angel. I know God believes in me. I know I'm gonna change my
way of thinking. I know I'm gonna make myself a different set of
rules. I know I'm gonna put my best foot forward, stop being
influenced by fools.
I saw you at Slane when I was like 16. I couldn't believe I would
actually see you in the flesh. I had a boyfriend at the time. Only
reason we were together was we were both obsessed with you. Sadly we
never did really anything but talk about you! Of course I could never
have dreamed of telling him you were way sexier than him. Am I bad? I
certainly hope so.
Santana played before you. When you came on you had on Oompa Loompa
orange make-up. So it wasn't only musically or spritually that you
were ahead of your time. You foresaw fake tan! And the dreaded RTE
make-up department. [C'mon, Ryan, man, let's just come out and admit
it, they've not been the Mae West over the years. Though I do grant
you they're not as woeful as TV3 - I'm forever tweeting Vincent
Browne's show over the make-up. They have him looking like Bob at
Slane.]
I think you also had on loads of black khol eyeliner. Very strange
sight. Gorgeous nonetheless, obviously. But strange.
Then I briefly actually met you twice. Backstage at two festivals,
there were loads of us playing. I must have seduced your manager with
sexual bribes, I can't remember, but there I was in your dressing
room. Just you and your tour manager.
You asked would I like a drink. I said yes, and though I can't stomach
alcohol I sipped away and pretended I wasn't suppressing the desire to
let you have a look at what I ate for lunch. You did a lot of pacing
up and down. I remember thinking 'Holy mother of the divine lord
Krishna, who could perform after drinking this?'
The third and final time our paths crossed was on that infamous
evening at your tribute concert in Madison Square Garden, an evening
which heaved with consequence. In the week or so before that show I
had done an incendiary acapella version of a Bob Marley (the other
'Bob') song called War on Saturday Night Live. I changed some words
and made it about child abuse instead of racism. And at the end of the
song I tore up a picture of the then Pope, JP2. No smirking please,
Bob - when mentioning 'the incident' one must always look very
serious.
Then, soon after that, I went shopping to find an outfit for your
upcoming show. The decision I made was so wrong - a turquoise jacket
and skirt suit which should have been worn by a very old woman...and
with a hideous gold thing on the jacket. Unforgivable. I look at the
footage of the show now and I am appalled. What was I thinking?
Perhaps I should have slipped you a note before the show, explaining
'the incident' to you, but in the terror of my image in my dressing
room mirror I guess I forgot.
So I walked on stage that night and half the audience cheered and the
other half booed. Was it the Saturday Night Live fallout or had I just
totally made the wrong wardrobe choice?
Seriously though, backstage afterwards, you looked at me confused as
if to ask me what I had done to upset people so much. Instead of
singing I Believe in You, as planned, I had screamed out the Bob
Marley song instead. But it felt appropriate for me to scream while I
had the chance. And I knew, if you understood, you wouldn't mind that
I used the stage you gave me to stand for the God you also gave me. I
hope your questions from that night have since been answered for you
by the various revelations concerning the spiritual condition of the
catholic church. In God's wide world. If I had simply sung I Believe
in You that night my voice would have been drowned in the noise of the
opposing spiritual forces in the room.
I had to do what I did in Madison Square Garden. Even if it meant
being treated like a mental case for years after.
The God I believed in was the one you brought off the pages of
scriptures into my life. Not the one those bored black-and-white-
wearing priests droned on about whilst flicking bits of dust off their
altars in the middle of the consecration of the Host.
Even if they showed me to the door. And said don't come back no more
cuz I didn't be like they'd like me to. Even if I walked out on my
own. A thousand miles from home, I didn't feel alone. Cuz I believe in
you.
I believe in you, even through the tears and the laughter. I believe
in you even though we be apart. I believe in you even on the morning
after. Though the earth may shake me, though my friends forsake me,
this feeling's still here in my heart.
Don't let me stray too far. Keep me where you are. So I will always be
renewed. And Lord, what you've given me today is worth more than I
could pay. And no matter what they say, I believe in you...
But, I digress, Bob. I only meant to tell you you're gorgeous. So have
seventy kisses for yourself on Tuesday.
Sinead