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.
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