Chapter Nine
I spent most of January 1995 on an island in the Caribbean with John. I was thankful that my list of activities—sunning, snorkeling, swimming, sailing, and sleeping—did not include suffering. Renewed and refreshed, I went back to the mainland with absolutely nothing on my schedule. When John asked if I wanted to go back to Ireland for a few months while he explored prospects for work in the Irish film industry, I was all for it, and not only for his benefit. Ireland had some terrific songwriters, and I was more than ready to go back to music.
We flew to Dublin, rented a house on Heytesbury Lane, and drove north to visit Dierdre and her family in Belfast. We were delighted to find them in much happier circumstances. The IRA and Ulster Protestants had laid down their arms the previous year. There was no longer a need for barricades, vehicle inspections, or armed soldiers patrolling the streets. I dressed warmly against the February chill and strolled openly with John and Dierdre among the residents and tourists in the shops on Donegall Place and Royal Avenue. If I found the effects of the truce uplifting, it must have been a remarkably liberating experience for the residents of Belfast to walk around their city without fear.
The truce and the economic expansion of the mid-nineties had brought positive changes to Dublin as well. In 1992, while walking at night in Temple Bar (a neighborhood along the River Liffey), I had seen a disproportionate number of men and women in various stages of intoxication sprawled on the streets outside the Temple Bar (a pub named after the neighborhood—or was it the other way around?). My inference was based on the nearby array of empty discarded plastic cups, each of which had likely contained a pint of draft Guinness, Harp, or Smithwick’s (pronounced Smiddicks).
In 1995, the neighborhood was a lot cleaner. Customers still became intoxicated, but most did so indoors. Dubliners’ optimism was reflected in the new office buildings and elegant residences either under construction or already completed. In contrast to 1992, Ireland in 1995 seemed a place of peace, growth, and opportunity.
The Irish songwriter Paul Brady and I wrote frequently at his home in Dublin. Though I wouldn’t write with Elvis Costello until a few years later, we spent some enjoyable time together. Paul McGuinness, U2’s manager, arranged for me to meet Bono, The Edge, Adam, and Larry, and then he set up time for me to write with The Edge and Bono at Hanover Quay, U2’s state-of-the-art studio on the Liffey. When the day came, I was so engrossed in trying to figure out how to integrate my style of songwriting with that of these two men with their unique approach to writing, singing, and playing that I remember little about the session. What I do remember is how fearless Bono was in improvising ideas. I had experienced times of being an instrument, but Bono seemed to be one all the time. Music and lyrics poured out of him, for better or worse, with a preponderance of the former. Unfortunately, our song then in progress lies buried beneath my conscious memory. If a tape of our writing session is ever disinterred from U2’s studio archives, I would love to hear it.
As a visiting American celebrity I was invited on several occasions to the Phoenix Park residence of my country’s then ambassador to Ireland, Jean Kennedy Smith. There John and I mingled with Irish and American luminaries, including Neil Jordan and Jim Sheridan; Jim’s brother, the writer and theater director Peter Sheridan, and his wife, Sheila; and actors Sean Penn, Gabriel Byrne, and Lauren Bacall. After dinner the ambassador led us to the salon, where anyone who wished could get up and perform what the Irish call a “party piece.” If you guessed that my party piece was “You’ve Got a Friend,” you win the chance to read on.
The morning of March 31, 1995, I received a call from Lorna asking if I wanted to go to London to write with Bob Dylan. I caught the next flight out of Dublin and proceeded to Bob’s hotel. Though Bob and I had met previously, this was the first time we had come together with the specific intention of writing a song. In between Bob’s random improvisations on guitar and the few chords I essayed on a keyboard in his elegant suite, we spoke about mutual friends, the state of the world, our respective children, and Gerry Goffin, with whom Bob had written several songs. After a couple of hours of more talking than writing, we concluded that no song was likely to emerge that day. I didn’t mind. I had thoroughly enjoyed my visit with this intelligent man who’d made musical and political history in a decade in which the answer was blowin’ in the wind.
Though we never discussed our common status as celebrities, I came away with the feeling that Bob wasn’t comfortable with the fame that followed him everywhere. He had learned to wear it as if it were a coat that hadn’t been a good fit in the first place—old, familiar, but never quite right. Exception: when Bob was writing or playing, he didn’t seem to notice or need the coat. His music fit him perfectly.
When I stood up and started to walk over to the door to collect my purse and my actual coat, Bob stood up, walked with me, and asked if I’d like to join him onstage that night at Brixton Academy. As if I needed extra persuasion, he said, “Elvis and Chrissie are gonna do it.”
“Sure,” I said, trying to be matter-of-fact even though I could barely contain my excitement about playing simultaneously with Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, and Chrissie Hynde. I started to put my coat on but had trouble finding my second sleeve. I busied myself with that while trying to regain my composure and then found both simultaneously. I said, “See you then!” stepped into the hallway, and made my way to the lift.
Bob’s set that night included “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” and “I Shall Be Released.” Chrissie Hynde, Elvis Costello, and I sang backup on both songs.
Bob must have had as much fun as we did, because he invited us to sit in with him again for the final performance of his tour at the Point in Dublin on April 11. Chrissie couldn’t make it, but Elvis would be there.
Wait, I thought. Let me check my imaginary schedule. Between sitting in with Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello or attending a state dinner with Prime Minister John Major, President Bill Clinton, Queen Elizabeth, and Princess Diana to participate in a conversation in which peace in the former Yugoslavia would be discussed, which would I choose?
I would be offered that choice only in my dreams. Of course I would sit in with Bob in Dublin.