'Rina
The Fly
Well upon my return, I thought I’d come back properly. The only way I know how: write you something.
Disclaimer: None of this is real, none of it ever happened, I do not know the band or anyone related to them.
Off with the legaleese, on with the story.
The Reason I Sing: Part I
The year is 1981.
Somewhere in South London, the room above a pub is being used for the weekly folk club meeting. The bar downstairs is crowded with drinkers and gentle noise, even on this Wednesday evening, for those who aren’t brave enough to sing or play are often found standing in the stairwell listening to the voices and songs that tumble down from the circle of friends above.
A lone voice strikes up a melody. A woman who, in all her innocent sincerity, sings of her favourite places, the seasons dearest to her, and the songs of her youth. The rain does its best to compete with her voice, but all it does is drive people further into the room to huddle round her warmth and the sense of home that emanates from her. Sat in the far corner of the room, with his sister, is the man who will later become the singer’s husband. Getting some air into the warm room, and subconsciously letting his beloved’s voice out into the night for the world to hear, he opens the window beside him.
Although this woman, and her voice shape everything else that happens in this story, we cannot stay here in this room, and so, as all good listeners do, we follow that voice out into the rainy night. Out to the familiar looking band of young Irish musicians who are walking past the pub.
A blue-eyed ruffle-haired boy of 21 looks up at the window for a moment and listens, despite the rain. “Now that’s a voice,” he says to his companions who have already walked up the street. Speeding to catch up with them, he clamps a hand on his best friends shoulders and bounds up to them, breathing hard “honestly, call yourselves musicians” “Wha?” The young singer wipes the rain from his forehead and turns the boy with glasses and the soggy guitar player round and back toward the open window. “Just listen”. For two minutes, these soon-to-be-superstars stand transfixed, listening to the rain competing with the singer at the folk club. “A beautiful song” “a beautiful voice” “unforgettable in its simplicity” “my feet are wet, can we go now?” And so, turning up the street to where they have left their transport, the four of them turn from this part of South London, from the pub, and the folk club. Soon they will be back in their homes, with their families, and back in the studio writing their next album. Their thoughts will barely return to that moment of music in the rain. They will be occupied with schedules, tours and their own music.
As for the singer, she will soon be married but still singing daily to her family and although she will go to less Wednesday nights, they will still feature in her life for many years to come. It would be fitting, perhaps to introduce this lady better, introduce her name, her character, her appearance, but it is her absence which is the most important thing to this story and so absent she shall remain.
Disclaimer: None of this is real, none of it ever happened, I do not know the band or anyone related to them.
Off with the legaleese, on with the story.
The Reason I Sing: Part I
The year is 1981.
Somewhere in South London, the room above a pub is being used for the weekly folk club meeting. The bar downstairs is crowded with drinkers and gentle noise, even on this Wednesday evening, for those who aren’t brave enough to sing or play are often found standing in the stairwell listening to the voices and songs that tumble down from the circle of friends above.
A lone voice strikes up a melody. A woman who, in all her innocent sincerity, sings of her favourite places, the seasons dearest to her, and the songs of her youth. The rain does its best to compete with her voice, but all it does is drive people further into the room to huddle round her warmth and the sense of home that emanates from her. Sat in the far corner of the room, with his sister, is the man who will later become the singer’s husband. Getting some air into the warm room, and subconsciously letting his beloved’s voice out into the night for the world to hear, he opens the window beside him.
Although this woman, and her voice shape everything else that happens in this story, we cannot stay here in this room, and so, as all good listeners do, we follow that voice out into the rainy night. Out to the familiar looking band of young Irish musicians who are walking past the pub.
A blue-eyed ruffle-haired boy of 21 looks up at the window for a moment and listens, despite the rain. “Now that’s a voice,” he says to his companions who have already walked up the street. Speeding to catch up with them, he clamps a hand on his best friends shoulders and bounds up to them, breathing hard “honestly, call yourselves musicians” “Wha?” The young singer wipes the rain from his forehead and turns the boy with glasses and the soggy guitar player round and back toward the open window. “Just listen”. For two minutes, these soon-to-be-superstars stand transfixed, listening to the rain competing with the singer at the folk club. “A beautiful song” “a beautiful voice” “unforgettable in its simplicity” “my feet are wet, can we go now?” And so, turning up the street to where they have left their transport, the four of them turn from this part of South London, from the pub, and the folk club. Soon they will be back in their homes, with their families, and back in the studio writing their next album. Their thoughts will barely return to that moment of music in the rain. They will be occupied with schedules, tours and their own music.
As for the singer, she will soon be married but still singing daily to her family and although she will go to less Wednesday nights, they will still feature in her life for many years to come. It would be fitting, perhaps to introduce this lady better, introduce her name, her character, her appearance, but it is her absence which is the most important thing to this story and so absent she shall remain.
