Bock, says Siobhán, will you come down to Dolans and do a video of the album launch?
What? No point asking me. What the fuck would I know about videos?
Ah go on. You will.
But it’s not what I do.
You will you will you will.
All right, then. Let’s give it a shot.
What do I know about video? Nothing.
Do I have a fancy video camera? Well, it’s not bad, but it could be better. Passively, aggressively, I persuade Siobhán to get someone involved who owns a more professional camera, but it doesn’t work.
Ah go on.
All right then. Let’s just make it up as we go along. I’ll lurk to one side and we’ll get someone else to lurk at the other side. We’ll do cutaways. That’s not a problem. I can edit such shit, but we need a camera up there on the balcony, plugged into the desk.
Am I Martin Scorsese? Is this the Last Waltz? No to both questions, but hey, I’m here to help my dear friend, so I direct Cameraman 2 as follows.
You stand over on that side and take random clips of the band. Anything you find interesting. This will be no problem to him as a working musician himself.
Meanwhile, I’ll go up on the balcony and take stuff from another angle. When we get the whole lot sorted out, I’ll intermingle the clips. I’ll edit that shit and we’ll all win some sort of international head-up-the-ass video prize in Sarajevo.
What really happens is that we all record the three songs we decided would work, and then Siobhán blasts into this other song while my camera is turned off, while the other fellow is gone for a smoke, leaving only the lad on the balcony, plugged into the sound desk.
Guess what? It’s better than any of the fancy-dan arty editing I did.
This is the serious shit. Raw, bleeding off the vinyl.
Look no further, folks. This is Limerick City at its best.
I give you the incomparable Siobhán O Brien.
Here’s another. Probably all the poorer for my involvement.