First off, let me say this: a sort of disclaimer, if you will.
I never met Rory Gallagher. I never saw him perform, and until a couple of years ago, I didn't even know who he was.
Being a fan of the Irish rock band, Black 47, however, I was acquainted with Larry Kirwan's tribute song, entitled, "Rory". I listened to this, thought it was nice, but paid it little heed until I heard Mr. Kirwan talking about Mr. Gallagher on a live radio interview. There was an almost reverential hush in the studio at the mere mention of his name, as the interviewers inquired about the song, and everyone acknowledged the magnitude of Mr. Gallagher's influence.
"Hmmm," thought I, and this being the days of Napster, I went off in search of a few sample tracks. All I found was "Messin' with the Kid", and an old Taste number, "I'll Remember". I liked these and included them on a lot of "mixes", which I would play through my computer whilst cooking, or whatever. Thus, Mr. Gallagher was a seed planted in my mind, silently burgeoning, awaiting the Right Moment.
Months went by. September eleventh happened. In shock, like so much of the rest of the world, I couldn't think, or write, or sing. Numbly, I listened for answers within Black 47's music, and had to settle for the strength, hope, and the general "don't let the bastards get you down" message Larry is so good at conveying.
By mid-October, I was beginning to feel vaguely normal again, and decided to celebrate by taking my thirteen-year-old daughter to the local guitar store for some distortion gadgets. This turned out to be a fun, though expensive proposition, but I was in a good mood, feeling generous, and as we left the guitar store, I noticed the sporting goods outlet next door was having a big sale. "Let's run in and have a look," I said. "You need a new pair of Rollerblades; maybe we can find a cheap pair that fits both of us…"
To quote Mr. Gallagher: "Well, I rue that day, like I don't know how…"
What ever possessed me, to think I could safely take up Rollerblading when I had never been much of skater to begin with?
Well, I was feeling adventurous, as if I had risen from the dead, because, in a way, I had.
I have struggled for years, on a daily basis, with a couple of fairly serious chronic health conditions, asthma and hypothyroidism. Thanks to those conditions, last winter nearly caused me to slough off this mortal coil and join the choir celestial. Repeated episodes of pneumonia and bronchitis had left me so far beaten down, I was wondering why I even wanted to continue living. By summer, though I was slowly recovering, I was having a hard time getting any doctor to treat my thyroid condition properly. The hormone replacement dose was insufficient, which had lowered my resistance, and thus I picked up every single cold the children brought home, and became critically ill every time, due to my body's inability to fight back. I believed that if I couldn't find a good doctor who would listen to my concerns, and treat me accordingly, the winter of 2001-2002 would be my last on earth.
Luckily, I was referred to a sympathetic endocrinologist, and his careful monitoring of my condition made all the difference, almost overnight. Nothing short of miraculous! I was feeling better, had more energy, and then - BANG! Something Potentially Bad turned up on a routine mammogram. Luckily, this was a big fat nothing, but it took a couple of months to get all the answers, and, dark, melancholic person that I tend to be, I figured the proverbial Jig was probably Up.
What a relief to find out it was not! What an even bigger relief it was, to be there on the biopsy table with it all hanging down, so to speak, waiting for that nasty old needle to go a-digging, and to suddenly find myself released. No one really knows what happened, but I had been on the receiving end of some very powerful prayers, and I am sure that did something. Even the radiologist was mystified. "These things don't just disappear," she said. "They get bigger, or they stay the same, but in my experience, they never disappear."
I felt like I'd been set free and, with renewed vigor, I went about Seizing the Day with a Vengeance.
I vowed to be a better mother to the kids, to entertain them, spend time playing with them, take them off to do Fun Things…
Enter the Bargain Rollerblades. They were cheap - 50% off regular price. Cheapskate that I am (no pun intended!), I bought them, and that evening my daughter and I took my youngest daugter to the local gym for family skate night. I strapped on my new blades and tentatively made my way around the floor, careful to avoid overzealous, fast-moving four-year-olds who were grooving to music from "The Lion King". I was slow, I was clumsy, every kid that passed me laughed at me, but I really didn't give a shite. I was having fun! I was fighting aging! I felt like I was eighteen again.
Well, I wasn't any better a skater then than I am now, and I do have a passion (forgive me) for bad disco hits of the 1970s. So, at the end of the two-hour session, when the DJ cranked up "Shake Your Booty", though I was sitting on the sidelines getting ready to remove the blades, I decided to go 'round one last time, and tease my older daughter a little. I skated up to her, laughing, and proclaimed, "I don't mind shakin' it, so long as I don't fall on it…"
Two minutes later, I suddenly found myself suspended in mid-air, staring at the ceiling, knowing what was coming next, and sure enough…
What a shock!
At first, I was much more concerned about my "booty", because I landed on that first, and it hurt like hell. I lay there flat on my back for a full five minutes, trying very hard not to let fly with the colorful expressions that were coming to mind. It was family night, after all. Those cute little toddlers didn't need to learn that sort of vocabulary.
"OK," I thought, "all is well, all is cool, I am Tuff, I did childbirth twice with no drugs, I can peel myself off this floor, I will not cry…"
Damn! What was this new development? I couldn't move my left arm. How was I going to get up? I didn't want assistance from the older gentleman who came over and offered. He had wheels on his feet, too, and with my luck he would land on top of me, doing further damage to me and creating a faintly obscene spectacle…
Well, I asked him to remove my skates for me, and then, using my good arm, I somehow managed to rise and drag myself to the bleachers. The staff brought me ice, and I wondered how I would drive my car home. It was only a short way, but I had a stickshift vehicle that day, and suddenly, no control whatsoever over my left arm.
It was an interesting ride up the hill to the house, to say the least.
I won't go into detail about the excruciating hours that awaited me in hospital, but suffice it to say, after spending most of the night in the ER, I found myself at home with a broken elbow, shocked and appalled by the trend in modern orthopedics to do as little as possible for a broken bone.
My mood quickly went from blue to black over the next few days. I had been making strides in my guitar playing before the injury, and now I could not play, and as for the knitted Christmas gifts I had promised to people - well, I could forget all about that!
It was also no fun to type with one hand, but I could certainly cruise about on various websites, and I thought again of Rory Gallagher.
I'd assumed he was some obscure Irish musician from the Buddy Holly era. Where did I get such an impression? I really don't know, but that was my impression nonetheless.
None of the music file swap services I belonged to seemed to have any of his material, and on the few occasions when I did find a little treasure-trove, the person sharing would go offline while I was in the middle of downloading a song.
Looking back at this now, I think perhaps it might have been Rory's way of saying, "Look, Paula, this is not the way I want you to make my acquaintence!"
Whenever in a quandary about anything musical, as usual, I turned to Larry Kirwan, and inquired as to which CDs he would buy, if he was me, knowing I could not afford to purchase the entire catalogue in one fell swoop.
He recommended the live material, but by the time I got his answer, I had already gone ahead on my own and ordered "Rory Gallagher", "Fresh Evidence", and "Live in Europe".
I'm always eager and somewhat impatient with the mail-order process. Usually, by the time I order a CD, I want it to be in my hands…yesterday! Compound this natural impatience with a useless, painful arm in a sling, and general inactivity, and you are not painting a pretty picture. Even more unfair than that, the day those CDs finally landed in my mailbox, I had one of the most vicious headaches I'd had in a long time. Undaunted, gritting my teeth, I loaded the CDs into the player, crashed on the couch, and started listening. I would hear what this fella had to say, or die trying.
Well, Rory first sang me to sleep, and I count that as a good thing. Evidently, he knew what I needed more than I did, and I woke up minus the headache, and continued to listen to those CDs. I listened all that day, and the next day, and the day after that, and by then I was not thinking so much about my arm, but about how I needed more of Rory's music.
By this time, I was able to drive my husband's truck, which luckily has an automatic transmission, one-handed. Off I went to several local record stores, knowing I could not bear to wait for mail-order.
I can't even remember which CDs I bought in which order after those first three. It had become a mad obsession: acquire, listen, study, and the household budget be damned!
Now, it's a well-known fact that I can be obsessive-compulsive about music, but I can honestly say I have never gone through a fixation quite like this one. When I wasn't listening to Rory, I was forcing myself to play the guitar, gritting my teeth against the pain most of the time, howling in agony at other times. (Like the occasion when my strap cut loose and I unthinkingly and instinctively caught the guitar with my left hand and the weight of the instrument delivered a wrench that had me screaming for a few minutes…)
I was living and breathing nothing but Rory at every possible opportunity.
My copy of the Irish Tour DVD arrived at about Week Three following the injury. Totally captivated by "As the Crow Flies", I could not rest until I had a Dobro of my very own. I wanted the steel-body model in the worst way, but could not have afforded to spend that much money, even if the store had had one in stock, so I got the next best thing: a sweet, wooden-body Fender with a big steel resonator. It was on sale at an agreeable price, and I thought, "Better get used to being my Meant To Be…"
I played awhile, then asked the salesman for a couple of slides to try. I didn't have a clue about open tunings, and I sat there making some perfectly appalling noises. I didn't know about making sure the slide lands on top of the fret, and trying to slide with a broken elbow was sure an interesting experience, but when all was said and done, I grinned at the salesman and said, "I must have this!"
I've been playing ever since, both the Dobro and my regular six-string acoustic, and though I don't sound a thing like Rory and never will, I can sense him smiling at me with great amusement, urging me to keep at it.
I'm having a great time, and my elbow is much better now. Playing slide turned out to be great rehab.
I owe a great debt to Rory Gallagher. He did me more good than the doctors, and in fact, if I had to credit anyone with my healing, it would be Rory. When I couldn't play, I listened to him, and when the listening inspired me, I played, and the pain no longer mattered.
He is still an angel of light and healing, even from Beyond, and I stand in awe…
***
C.P. Warner
2 January 2002
***
Author's Note:
When I chose the picture to go with this piece, and looked at it on the finished page, I realized the expression on Rory's face rather reminded me of a Boticelli angel. He looks so happy, so sweet, amongst all his favorite guitars, mandolin on his knee. I thought it was a neat coincidence, anyway, even if it's a bit sentimental on my part...