Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Brennan's bread.

'In the inner sanctum of Enya-world, the two people most trusted above all are Nicky and Roma Ryan, her closest friends. Nicky and Roma are not merely friends, but her lyricist and producer, and not just her lyricist and producer, but the two people who forged Enya; discovered her; nurtured her talent; made her a star; and they continue with every last detail of every record, down to the way she looks in photos...'

I fear for Enya. While being forged sounds very mystical and Lord Of The Rings-ish, it can't be fun being a 47-year-old womanchild, cut off from the Brennans of Donegal, making music that sounds like a bath and wandering around a castle alone.

Not only that, but she has Bono for a neighbour.

"Look over the fence Ali, it's Enya, fellow star of Ireland, our country, our GOD, SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAYYYYYY!!!! Now where are my fucking pop tarts?"

Back to Enya. I can see her now, pottering around in her water-coloured gowns shaped like leaves, keening for Clannad and those days sat at the piano while her brothers and sisters played outside in the sun. She's there sowing the seeds of her secret little language, living among the elves and lilies of her brain when BAM! Nicky and Roma come and steal her away and tell her she can't talk to her kin anymore.

There was a mint to be made. A wall of sound to be built. A womanchild to be cultivated. ENYA TO BE FORGED!!!

(Generic impending doom music) DEH DEH DEHHHHHHH!!!!!

So they make albums and albums of bath music and squirrel away billions and billions of lovely monies and buy a castle in Dalkey.

They let her roam free for the first while, but soon take to drugging her, keeping her like a flower in the attic, feeding her fishheads and only wheeling her out for take after take of garbled secret-language chanting.

One night Enya breaks free. She busts down the attic door. There are gold and platinum records everywhere. She stalks the hallways of a mansion she hasn't seen sober for ten years. Cavernous, empty.

She sees light under the door. She opens it ajar and peeks through.

Roma and Nicky are in full business suits, no longer the loving hippies she believed kept her locked away for her own good.

Roma, lamb fat dripping down her face: "Warners were on. They want more chanting."

Nicky, who looks a bit like David Crosby: "Fuck Warners. We've got Ari Gold at 7. Where are my moccasins?"

Roma: "Beside the bucket."

Nicky: "Did you feed it today? Those fish-heads smell gone-off."

Roma: "Shit. I forgot. I'll go up now. (Calls out) Oh ENYA!!! DINNER'S COMING!"

They hear a sound from behind the door. Enya's cowering, scared senseless. Her world collapsed. TWEED EVERYWHERE!

Roma: "Enya, sweetheart, darling, (secret language-secret language-secret language), me and Daddy Nicky were just putting on a play."

Nicky: "That's right. A play. We were playing Music Mogul. It's your favourite play, remember?"

Enya, clarity coming back to her, becoming empowered, mind clearing, EPIPHANY!: "Fuck you two. I want to speak to the Irish Independent. Set it up."

8 comments:

Susan said...

I just KNEW it. Nobody's life could possibly be so airy-fairy perfect, even if they are from Donegal.

"Beside the bucket" LOL And the pop tarts--nice touches.

Now do Daniel O'Donnell!

Radge said...

Nah... He's not really my type, Susan.

hope said...

Now I FINALLY understand her breathy, surreal appearance.

Teach on, Professor. ;)

Radge said...

I saw after I wrote this piece that Bono's buying a new house. I'm not surprised.

Rosie said...

her highness and i have had some dealings in the past. my sympathies lie firmly with the Ryans.

Radge said...

Mine lie with the listeners.

Dealings?

Rosie said...

yes, i used to deal with her. i was paid to. she once asked me if i knew who she was, in the "do you know who i am???" sense.

i did, i informed her politely. she didn't like that much.

Radge said...

Class, well done, even if my portrait of the artist if way off the mark.