The philip chevron testimonial concert
august 24th 2013, olympia theatre, dublin
Photographers: Ronnie Norton; Paul Callaghan;Daragh Owens; Niall Reddy; Colm Dolphin and Stephen Matthews
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RODDY DOYLE 24th August 2013
Olympia Theatre, Dublin The Philip Chevron Testimonial -D'yeh remember Kitty Ricketts? -I fuckin' married her. -The song. -The song, the attitude, the whole fuckin' shebang. -The song - stop messin,. Yeh know what I fuckin' mean. -I do, yeah. -You remember it. -Yeah. -It was brilliant, wasn't it? -Yeah - brilliant. There were great songs back then. -Great gigs as well. -Yeah, yeah. The Blades, The Attrix. -The Radiators from Space. -Songs about Dublin. -Made us proud, didn't it? -Still does. -The fella tha' wrote tha' one, Kitty Ricketts. -Philip Chevron - yeah. -There's a testimonial for him tonigh'. -Football? -In the Olympia. -Football in the Olympia? Fuckin' brilliant. The Radiators from Space versus A Republic of Ireland Eleven - from space. -Niall Quinn up in the gods. -His natural fuckin' habitat. -Eamonn Dunphy on drums. -Tha' makes sense. -Philip Chevron on the left wing. -With his mazy runs an' silky skills. Slashin' at his opponents' shins with his guitar. -He isn't well. -Yeah. -Yeh know wha' tha' means - 'isn't well'? For men our age, like. -I do - yeah. -Okay. -Chevron, but. What sort of a name is tha'? -It's Irish. He dropped the O. -O'Chevron? -Exactly. It means son of the unfortunate fucker who couldn't get the odds together to emigrate. -Here, look it. We don't normally do this. But we'll lift the glass for Philip, will we? -No - we won't. -Why not? -Cos punks don't do tha' shite. |
Joseph O'Connor 24 August 2013
Olympia Theatre, Dublin The Philip Chevron Testimonial A BRIDGE FOR PHILIP CHEVRON On his sixteenth Christmas Eve, a boy in wintry Dublin Bought an album he’d heard on a pirate-station show. ‘TV Tube Heart’. Maybe you know it. As he took the bus homeward the streets filled with snow And late that night, alone in his room He played those songs over and the world burst alive In the voice of a city on the cold Irish Sea. Passionate. Eloquent. Longing to be free. THUNDER in the drumming and the punk rock guitars Like Molly Malone meets the Spiders from Mars. Lyrics with a BLAZE and a beauty hard and fine From a poet. And a Dubliner. Name of Philip Ryan. CHEVRON they called him. Cool as a knife. Smoothest Irish writer ever seen in your life. SPARKIN images together till they scorched off the paper. NO ONE told a story like that Chevron shaper. Martyrs on the banknotes. Liars on the box Killers on the altar rails, shadows on the docks. Pearse on his pedestal, still dreamin’ a dream. He’d like to stick a Telecaster Through the television screen. Then Brother Brophy caught me outside a the class Listenin to Philip when I shoulda been at Mass. Big stew-eatin’ bollocks from Upper Drumcondra And he’s not a huge admirer of the….punk rock…genre Says Wheredjathinkyou’rgoinWiththatlookuponyerface Whothehelldjethinkyeare? I said: A Radiator. From Space. Well his eyes are kinda flashin and his lips are turnin blue Says Get in there to Confession or I’ll radiator YOU. Father O’Reilly says Bless you, my child, And how long has it been since you last…reconciled? I said, Bless me, Father, been nearly a year. See….I got the ticket and the bus stops here. You see, I saw you there, Philip, In hushed Dublin streets, Walking at dawn past a shuttered store Or pausing a moment to look at the statues Of Wilde. Larkin. Joyce. Thomas Moore. Grey gulls above Christchurch The old city sleeping McGonagles closed and a rumour of snow And there’s little to hear but the dawn alleluia Of a garda-car siren down Portland Row. Your mind raining melodies, nighttowns of humour, Cabaret, greasepaint, heart-aching wrong, Your heroes, inconvenient people in corners, People that rarely get put in a song. Early-house ghosts in the hunger of morning Five-o-clock shadowmen shook by the fates, Huers and bogeymen waiting for openings. People unnoticed by cold eyed Yeats. I saw you there, Philip, walking lost Dublin theatres. Brunswick Street, Francis Street, down towards the Coombe, City of actors, in all of her vagaries, Wandering back to her lonely room, Loving her streelings and early-hour homecomings The LASH of her wit and her dirtyfaced talk You and the spirit of Micheal MacLiammoir Talkin of Bowie On Bachelor’s Walk. I saw you there, Philip, drifting past Trinity, Cobbles of history moistened by mist Head full of powerchords, thunderstorm images Lovers you kissed. Your shy smile by Bewleys. Your handshake to Duke Street Some evening when August had glittered the town. The windows all shining in glorious cadence With your stubblecheek grin and your beautiful frown. You pause on the bridges Named for our poets. I saw you there, Philip. You always knew – A song is a bridge on Uncrossable rivers. I saw you there, Philip. This bridge is for you – And the thousands gone sailing While Kitty Ricketts weeps. ‘Cross the street from Clery’s clock The G.P.O. sleeps. Johnny Jukebox in the Ghosttown Still paintin up his lips. ‘Stranger than fiction,’ Sighed the girls in the kips. Thank you, Philip Chevron. I’ll sing no more. Million dollar hero In a five and ten cent store. © Joseph O’Connor, August 2013 |