Tony & Terry...

The problem with caring is that at some point, the loss of what of you care about will bring sorrow and pain. Yet despite that, we still form attachments to people, places, things, so often not realising the depth of our attachment until they're gone from us.

I never realised how much I loved Tony Fenton's genuine enthusiasm and pure love of music until today. There were times in the last few years driving for work and I'd catch his voice and instantly smile, because of his enthusiasm and love for his work....and also because of the instant nostalgia of years gone by. To hear him intro or outro a tune from the mid-90s, if you closed your eyes, it could have been that time, that year, that month it was released-his positivity shone through, and you could, quite literally, hear the smile in his voice as he spoke.

He was the voice of the Hotline for me as a teenager and I remember Babs and I being allowed to sit in the car to listen to the radio at Garden Hill Nursing Home while Mum went in to see Gran as I'd rang in a request before we left our house. It was the first time we heard our names on 2fm and we were both delighted with the shoutout to "ita and her big sister Babs in Sligo". It's funny, I can't remember what song we requested, but I do remember Tony's enthusiastic greeting. 

In the latter years, I was always impressed by how, just when I decided I couldn't listen to more random new pop crap, he'd throw in some amazing new indie tune or an old classic. He knew his stuff, and his love for his work shone through every day. You couldn't fail but to smile when he was talking and the love that he showed in his work everyday is being shown right back today, judging by the amount of tributes that have appeared everywhere, from his former station to his current one and to those of us who listened in over the years. He'll be missed, I think, much more than he ever realised he could be.

And Terry Pratchett. Terry, Terry, Terry. That series of tweets in the pic below left me crying as I looked out at a rainy Dublin street this afternoon. Damn the embuggerance, dammit to hell and a little further beyond A'Tuin's vision. Terry was the Spike Milligan of fantasy writing to me. Just when you thought a piece of writing couldn't get any stranger, it did. And yet, it did so in the most hilarious and subtly philosophical way at times.

I loved his bio on his books, which was something like "Terry started work as a journalist and saw his first corpse three hours later-work experience actually meaning something in those days". I loved his characters, from the mad professors at the Unseen University to Granny Weatherwax to Vimes (and his dedication to that children's classic..."Where is my cow?") .... from Igor(s), Otto, the non-blood-drinking-vampire, Rincewind, Mort, and of course, almost everyone's favourite, Death (with his trusty steed, Binky.) I loved Ankh-Mopork, even if I could never really get my head round how to pronounce it. I imagined it to be a mix of Edinburgh's oldest streets and cellars with Dublin's village like-silly attitude and London's hecticness-somewhere I'd like to visit, but not stay for too long for fear of meeting Gaspode the wonder-dog and getting caught up in some scam!

I loved how as I got older, his older books became "classics" in the fantasy world, and reading his newer ones felt like stepping back into a room you'd not been into in years, yet somewhere that was instantly comfy and recognisable.

Yet while his writing had a comforting humor to it, at times, it could make you think. It could make you think about the concept of time, how life goes by so quickly, how the loss of someone changes your world, and how to sweep properly….! His documentary a few years ago on euthanasia was heartbreakingly moving piece of television. If you've not watched it, do.https://vimeo.com/105168003

I will miss seeing new books, new mad wizard or magic filled covers. I will treasure my copy of the Thief of Time which kept me laughing during an almost 48 hr journey from Carlisle to Sligo, due to landslides, floods and flight cancellations. My walkman died from the sheer volume of rain, I couldn't write, and so, reading was my only escape-the book remained, even though the cover came off and the pages are all curled up from the water damage. (I managed to dry it out under a hand-drier in Edinburgh airport...!) and I will finish with a typical Pratchett point of view...slightly silly, slightly philosophical and slightly wonderful.

"DON’T THINK OF IT AS DYING,’ said Death. ‘JUST THINK OF IT AS LEAVING EARLY TO AVOID THE RUSH.

The Unforgettable Fire...

It's funny, I'm sitting on the bed listening to the radio in tears at the loss of Tony Fenton. Paul McLoone has been playing amazing tunes all night, and dealing so wonderfully with the loss of his friend, reading out tributes, and almost every one he read, sparked a memory of The Hotline, of Tony's voice, of my teenage years. Then, as he intro'd U2's The Unforgettable Fire, his voice lost it's composure somewhat and then my tears just started flowing.

That song to me as a teenager was one that I was listening to when I decided halfway home from a hockey match that I wasn't gonna put up with (what I felt was) a coach who looked for someone to blame after each match. That day it had been me, and I felt I had enough of my own shit to deal with, and there was no way I was gonna take on any more than I already had-especially not in something I volunteered for and took part in for enjoyment (ok, and the time off classes for matches....!)

I remember it even though it happened well over half my life ago. I remember it, even though I've listened to that song easily hundreds of times in the intervening years. I remember it because of my emotions at the time, the beauty and drama of the piece of music, and the realisation that I had a choice over how my future would play out. I remember it because as a teenager, I didn't feel I had much choice in anything. I remember it, because at that age, music was my everything.

Music in all it's forms, from John Kenny's Metal show on a Sunday night to Dave Fanning's nightly show to The Hotline with Tony Fenton's boombastic voice blaring out the requests, and random tidbits of info about songs, about their singers, their composers, the story behind the lyrics. I followed djs if they were interviewed in Hot Press and I worshiped their music recommendations, I sought out tapes and cds they recommended, even though I didn't own a cd player. Hell, I even followed Iano from 2fm to TodayFm!  I, like many of that era, thought I'd mastered the art of taping from the radio. And then there was Tony.

He timed his intro's and outro's to perfection. If a song had a double chorus/chord ending, he would get his link in to the space between them. I had (probably still have!) a tape somewhere with my radio-taped version "Boys of Summer" and I mistimed my taping slightly, because there's a fraction of a second as the final guitar twangs fade and then Tony's voice just pops in with one word
"Classic".

Part of me was incredibly annoyed that I'd let him beat me, that I hadn't gotten to hit the pause button in that split second. But as the years passed, I grew to love that one word. He was right. It was "Classic". Everything about that song is classic, from the edgy start, to the heartfelt chorus, to that wee solo at the end. It was a classic. It is a classic. It always will be classic. Just like Tony Fenton.

I didn't think it was possible to grieve with so many others for someone I'd never met. I didn't think it was possible to empathise with so many folk I'll never meet. Yet we humans are all about the shared experience, whether we realise it or not. And when so many thousands of people are sharing such grief, such emotion at the loss of one person, it makes you think just how special that one person was. That one man, who could sit in front of a mic, whose voice could reach you in your living room, in your car, in your bedroom, for a few seconds in a shop....that one man could somehow make that huge connection and take it and make it feel like he was someone you knew, someone whose music tastes you trusted, someone whose anecdotes always made you smile, and someone whose smile could be heard in every word he spoke....that one man was someone special.  Ní beidh a leithéid ann arís.