Joined in 2023 
82 
63 About this deal
I’ve known Neil since I was 19 or 20, and I always had a crush on him, before he was married, or before I met Frank. And they all knew it. I’m never going to act on it – it’s just a funny song about how one might fantasise occasionally about one’s boyfriend’s best friend! And I love the idea of being this old lady but still being this loving, sexual creature. Being 80, and sensually all wrapped up in the man I love.” I was godfather to her youngest son, Yeshua, and did my best, as did Yeshua’s father Frank, to help with the troubles of his older brother Shane. His tragic death 18 months ago would have put a splinter of ice in anybody’s heart, let alone a mother’s. Sinéad had kept in touch, through spells in hospitals and work with trauma victims in Detroit, but the greatest trauma was always her own. And now she had survived, had a little pink cottage and a bench and was still making extraordinary music out of her extraordinary troubles. She played me the latest mix of the song, and it went straight to the heart again with that voice that sounded straight out of a convent school in Dublin and kept on reverberating, dragging decades of pain with it. The first line: “There is one me, that nobody sees …”
When she protested against the church’s cover-up of priests’ sexual abuse of children by tearing a photo of Pope John Paul II into pieces live on US TV in 1992, the gesture scandalised numerous Catholics. Seven years later she outraged many of them again when she joined the Latin Tridentine church – not recognised by the Vatican – and was ordained a priest, something the official church banned because of her gender. I first met Sinéad when she was still in school in the early 80s. She came along to Eamonn Andrews’ recording studio in Dublin to make a demo of her song Take My Hand with our band In Tua Na – she loved being part of it all. She walked in carrying her canvas school bag. I remember her hero Kate Bush’s name carefully etched in marker on it. HIV Ireland’s community support manager, Dr Erin Nugent, says: “Many people living with HIV recall, years later, the profound impact of seeing Sinéad in the T-shirt and listening to her advocating for people living with HIV and Aids who felt judged, marginalised and frightened.” It’s easy to forget now how radical she seemed in 1987, with her shaven head and angry, punky debut album The Lion and the Cobra. Since then, she’s taken long breaks to look after her children and moved through a wide range of musical styles, all of which had a logic to her but which probably stopped her building the kind of following she deserves. She’s recorded everything from jazz standards (on her third album Am I Not Your Girl? in 1992) to reggae tunes (on 2005’s Throw Down Your Arms), devotional music ( Theology, in 2007) to contemporary reworkings of Irish traditional songs (2002’s Sean-Nos Nua), as well as albums of her own compositions. What’s united them all is that pure, clear, emotional voice – and an unwillingness to surrender her vision for anyone.
Dublin Aids Alliance, now the charity HIV Ireland, was then a collective of community and voluntary organisations working with, and advocating for, people living with HIV and Aids. Sinéad’s decision to wear the T-shirt, which she probably considered a small gesture of solidarity, had a far-reaching impact on the community of people living with HIV in Ireland.
For her, she once said, the Holy Spirit was a bird, free to fly and land where it chose. I hope that Sinéad’s spirit now has that freedom. ‘She coped with sadness and rage through song’ A still from Nothing Compares, the 2022 documentary directed by Kathryn Ferguson. Photograph: Alamy Today, the house is empty except for Sinéad and her cute little Yorkshire terriers, Susan and Katie. “They’re filthy, I’m afraid,” she says. “They haven’t had a bath for days. I love them, though. They’re so funny. All they care about is food, sleep and snuggles. They’re like new babies.” Inside, the house is warm and homely, full of the cheerful clutter and chaos of family life. Spend any time at all with Sinéad and it’s clear that her children are the most important things in her life. Her relationships with their fathers have sometimes been complicated, but somehow, she’s made it all work. “It’s easy if you both want to.” She shrugs. “And it’s selfish not to. I’m a compartmentaliser.” O’Connor on the Italian TV show Che tempo che fa in 2014. Photograph: Stefania D’Alessandro/Getty Images ‘She was prophetic’
Site Customisation
She put a thing on Facebook saying she was looking for a new manager – I thought it was a joke, to be rude to her old manager. But she was serious, and there was no one I’d rather manage. The history of pop is not great music, only – it’s great imagery, which isn’t enough either. So when those two things dovetail, you become a huge artist. In my mind, there were two things with Sinéad – one, the incredible first hit record, and then the extraordinary thing that happened on Saturday Night Live when she tore up the picture of the pope. To me, that’s when she became a superstar; that was the most wonderful thing I’d ever seen. But her new album, How About I Be Me (And You Be You)?, is her most straightforwardly commercial for years. Released this February, it was recorded in London with her ex-husband and long-time collaborator, producer John Reynolds, who is Jake’s father as well as one of her best friends. “He knows me artistically better than anyone, so he knows how to get the best out of me. And he always has a very casual set-up in his house, so you don’t really feel like the red light is on. I was recording in my nightdress and slippers!” Finally, I broach the subject of her brief marriage. “Look.” She shrugs. “I know this might seem dreadfully cold-hearted, but I actually do see the funny side of it all. There’s no point crying. I’ve had enough practice. I know what happens when you break up. You feel shit for an hour or two, then you’re all right, then you’re shit for another hour or two, and then one day, you’ll wake up and you’ll be grand. The best way to get over one man is to get under another!”
We’ve met a few times over the years, Sinéad and I, and we’ve always got on well. But there’s no denying that she can be fragile emotionally. When we arranged this meeting, she’d just got married, and I’d been looking forward to an upbeat, happy chat about her new album and new love. Now, I’m dreading becoming a voyeur to her misery. But it turns out I’ve been worrying needlessly. Sinéad opens the door with a smile and a hug and turns out to be on top form, full of that impish tendency towards mischief that has been so misunderstood over the years.There’s a well-chosen cover version on the album, a glorious interpretation of John Grant’s furious break-up song ‘Queen of Denmark’. There are narrative songs about characters such as a junkie and a single mum, and a handful of what she describes as “romantic, girly love songs.” These include ‘Old Lady’, a song about waiting till she’s older to consummate her crush on the film director Neil Jordan – who also happens to be best friends with Yeshua’s dad, American entrepreneur and bioengineer Frank Bonadio. In a 2010 conversation published during my editorship of the Tablet, the Catholic weekly, she spoke of the love of the Catholic faith of her childhood: “The people who are now running the business of Catholicism don’t actually seem to appreciate true Catholicism. The love and curiosity I have about religion, and the passionate love I have for the Holy Spirit, come from Catholicism. I’m interested in the idea of the saints, everything about it. I mean, it’s beautiful.” Yet Catholics could not wholly condemn a woman with the voice of an angel. They eventually realised that when it came to abuse, she had been prophetic, speaking out long before the church admitted what was going on. They admired how she became immensely knowledgable about the various inquiries into abuse within the church in Ireland and the US.
Things could be worse, she adds. “There’s no bad vibes, we haven’t had a bad word between us, we haven’t been mean to each other, there’s nothing but niceness. So I can’t complain.” Sinéad was really soft spoken, but she had a clear vision of what she wanted to put out into the world. She was really honest and kind – sometimes it’s hard to be those things at the same time, but she was able to do it. She asked a few rap artists to support her when she performed live. I think she appreciated the genre for its honesty, and for the ability of those in it to speak a language that was not accepted by the mainstream. We didn’t care! I think that she was very much like that, too. Had it been a different time, and if she didn’t sing as well as she did, she might have rapped to get her message across. She wanted to speak about what went on inside of her, she wanted to be honest even when lots of folks didn’t agree with it. At least you can rest easy knowing you’ve said what needed to be said.
And it’s been such fun!” Sinéad adds. “I think women are just as slutty as men are. I don’t think we’re all that different from men sexually; it’s only that we’ve been raised to be all quiet about it.” Last time she was in Los Angeles, she had an injection in her G-spot, designed to increase sexual response. “It’s great!” she enthuses. “And I’m happy to report that it lasts for a very long time.” She also took steps to ensure that there would be no more children. “I’ve had my tubes done, and that’s sort of set me free as well. Best thing I ever did, except I have a scar that won’t go away. But it was only a few months ago.” Sinéad O’Connor photographed for the Observer New Review in 2014. Photograph: Pål Hansen/The Observer ‘The power of her voice broke the mic’
Great Deal 
New Comment