Artane Industrial School. - The boy at the gate: a memoir

A Memoir

DANNY ELLIS

Arcade publishing New York

Copyright 2013 by Danny Ellis

This is a work of nonfiction based on the life, experiences, and recollections of the author. In some cases names have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publisher that, except in such minor respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true.

Lyrics from 800 Voices For the World 2008. Reproduced by kind permission of Danny Ellis and Commercial Arts Ltd.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ellis, Danny, author.

The boy at the gate : a memoir / Danny Ellis.

pages cm

Originally published: Dublin : Transworld Ireland, 2012.

ISBN 978-1-61145-892-3 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Ellis, Danny.

2. SingersIrelandBiography. I. Title.

ML420.E437A3 2013

780.92dc23

[B]

2013012320

Printed in the United States of America.

This book is dedicated to institutionalized children everywhere.

I was born in the heart of Dublin City. In the same old one-bedroom tenement flat where my granny, eighteen years before, gave birth to my ma. Where the rats, emboldened by my poor marksmanship, would saunter over to the rug beneath the dining table and, finding no crumbs again, would dine where they left off last time: on the rug itself. Where the wooden shelves from cupboards and scullery, relegated like that rug to a station never intended by their makers, were chopped up for kindling with bread knife and rolling pin. Where Ma, at night, with Guinness and without Da, would sing for my two younger sisters and I by that little fire, her dark, beautiful voice so filled with emotion that shed almost scare us. With eyes darting nervously around the room, following the shadows cast by the flames, wed forget the hunger and the cold as the deep river of her voice held us like boats in the night.

Life was hard, turbulent, often violent, but always colorful.

Later, there was the drab corporation housing estate in Rathfarnham, where events too terrible for words spun our already unstable world completely out of control. Later still, there was the orphanage, the now infamous Artane Industrial School, where the laser malice of the Christian Brothers would imbue those earlier memories of Green Street with a haunted nostalgia they really shouldnt hold.

In Artane, the blessing of music captured my soul. Running like a mountain stream through the dark, ancient corridors of that harsh institution, it fought for my heart even as events hardened it; where are you, my friend? Even after I left the orphanage, as I fought desperately not to be defined by my past, as I buried it beneath my career and my quest for musical excellence, I felt music herself plead with me to slow down, to feel what was truly going on inside me.

And thats where this story begins: on the night music finally took me across half a century of avoidance, to face the lost child within me. In an ancient log cabin in the mountains of North Carolina, I found him, that cold December night, in a song.

I am the shadow of the eagle hiding the coalfields from the sky

I am the water thats undrinkable, I am the tears you never cry

I am the sigh of endless yearning behind the burning of the day

I am the warrior remembering that I am the child who came to play.

D ANNY E LLIS, I C AME TO P LAY

L iz and I call it Coopers Cabin, after our landlord and friend Cooper Cartwright. Im just back from my gig at the Mountain Air Country Club in Burnsville, where I sing during dinner. My wife is asleep in our tiny bedroom, where the wind sneaks through the chinking between the logs as easily as the ants. Her thirteen-year-old daughter, Irene, is also asleep upstairs. After Ive checked on Irene, I creep into the bedroom for a sleepy kiss from Liz.

How was the gig, sweetie? She reaches out a hand to touch my cheek and is back asleep before I can answer.

I load up the firebox in the living room to the brimenough wood, I hope, to last till morning. Its our only source of heat, our first departure from central heating. With the heat from the log fire wafting up over the open balcony, the loft is ten degrees warmer.

I catch my reflection in the picture of Liz and Irene on the wall behind the fire. I look very tired. My focus changes to look at the girls. I took this photoSiesta Key Beach in Sarasota, Floridaa couple of years ago. Its my favorite picture of my girls. The palm trees in the background and the sugar-white sand in the foreground are exotic and evocative, but its the look between Liz and Irene that gives the scene its strength; it fills the whole frame. That gaze characterizes their relationship. That deep, mother-child knowing never ceases to surprise and fascinate me. My focus changes once more and Im looking at my own reflection again. I shrug off my vague dissatisfaction with the image. I step outside to fetch my keyboard from the Ford, and set it up in my studio: a tiny, separate building, five yards from the cabin.

Though Im tired after the four-hour gig and the long drive home, Im soon tinkling away on the keys as I let myself relax into the music. This is how I unwind: the hair of the dog. It works for me. Tonight, Im a little fed up. I dont know why.

Maybe its because Christmas is coming.

Usually, when Im taken by this mood Ill start a new song. Something nice and sad that no one will ever hear. Thirty years of meditation have taught me to embrace emptiness as a friend. Im always up for a little downward mobility. Ive been here a thousand times. Down I go, playing the keys: lonely chords, seeped in the melancholy maybe only a certain type of Celtic music or Indian ragas are comfortable plumbing. Melodies rise, feelings fall; the sad notes are unashamed of their nakedness, proud of their vulnerability. I hum the cadence, letting it take me. The music articulates what words cannot. I let myself float, then sink more deeply. Words are taking form now, vowels and consonants springing freely from this primal surrender. I let them come up uneditedas I always do with a new songwithout knowing their meaning. I barely comprehend them:

800 voices echo cross the grey playground
Shouts of fights and God knows what
I still can hear that sound.

Christ! Its him. The kids are playing in the orphanage schoolyard! Hes standing by the gate, watching them, petrified with fear. The song continues to unfold the playground tapestry within my body and soul. Im transfixed, leaning over my keyboard, aghast that Ive allowed this, but unable to stop:

With their hobnail boots and rough tweed

Angry seas of brown and green