Meathman's Diary: Glen struck the most beautiful of chords

Gavan Becton

I bought my first guitar when I was 16 years old, courtesy of a short-lived stint as an electrical apprentice.

A school work experience placement had turned into a full-time summer job in the late 80s and this spotty teenager with no overheads, a dodgy quiff and a bag of chipped screwdrivers pillaged from my father’s toolbox, was delighted to be earning a nice few quid.

Problem was, that first job came with the horrors of being placed on ‘Emergency Tax’ - effectively Revenue’s way of saying ‘we don’t know who your are Compadre, we’re taking 48 per cent from your arse pocket until we have you figured out!’

Over that summer of 1989, I let the tax build up and was able to reclaim it. I already knew where it was going and it certainly wasn’t going into the mystery Credit Union account my father said he set up to ‘mind’ my Communion and Confirmation windfalls.

Me and my crumpled brown envelope of emergency tax cash headed into Walton’s in North Frederick Street just up beyond O’Connell St and Parnell Square. The smell of the new instruments was intoxicating, keyboards, drum kits, sheet music and the lines of gleaming guitars hanging from the walls, begging to be held.

My eyes fell on a Samick acoustic guitar, basic but beautiful. I fell in love with it. It was my first big purchase, around £100, made with my own money. No one could criticise me, question me or tell me I was wrong. It was mine. The store assistant kindly threw in a strap, some plectrums and a beginners book. What he failed to give me was staying power.

Beyond learning three chords and the smallest bits of terrible songs, becoming the next Rory Gallagher or Dave Gilmour didn’t happen. Not even the acquisition of a second guitar the following year - a beautiful Aria Pro II - put me on the path to being the next Page or Hendrix. Over the years, they moved house with me, got hung on walls, put in attics, relocated around rooms, gathered layers of grime but never could they be dumped. They were and are a reminder of financial coming of age and achievement while also annoying shrines to procrastination and regret. I am a terrible player but I love those dusty six-strings even if they have become space burgling ornaments for the best part of 30 years.

I stared at my guitars while trying to absorb the news of Glen Hansard’s tragic death that hit like a kick to the stomach. The moment I heard brought on a visceral, gut wrench that I know was felt across the country and beyond. Not him, not that man, not Glen, the best of us, our spirit animal, it just can’t be right?

But it was, it is... I had been listening to Glen and the Frames all week on Spotify in anticipation of seeing him this October at the Púca Festival. What a gig that was going to be. I already had a taster at the 2Arena back in February at the Hot Press 50th Birthday celebration when The Frames tore the roof of the place with the best set of the night.

On Monday I felt compelled to join the thousands who mourn his loss and I filed past his wicker coffin and guitars as he lay in repose, waked by beautiful music from friends and family in the almost celestial setting of the Baroque Chapel at the Irish Museum of Modern Art, Royal Hospital Kilmainham.

‘The only way to hold on to this love is with an open hand.

You told me that the first day we met.

I didn’t understand.’

'Pennies in the Fountain' - Glen Hansard

The chords to that beautiful song are Em G C & D.

I haven’t stopped playing them, I’ll keep playing them, and try some other new ones now.

Thanks for that, Glen!