For some reason this morning I woke up remembering
Johnny Cunningham, the renowned Scottish Fiddler and producer who passed away a few years back. It was as if I heard the distant voice of his fiddle, calling me from my bed on this gray and rainy winter’s dawn (of course, if Johnny was awake at dawn, it meant he had not been to bed yet). I was lucky to have the great pleasure of knowing Johnny. Not that I was by any means a big player in his life, because he had a very big life that touched countless people. He was like giant ship; like The Queen Mary passing through the harbor. I was fortunate to have been invited onboard for the music and booze-cruise, between roughly '88 and '94. I can say without hesitation that Johnny was the most gregarious, funniest, most musical soul I have ever had the pleasure to get schnockered with. In a word, he was
jolly. I was deeply saddened to hear of his passing in December of ’03, but for whatever reason, I have not really reflected on what Johnny Cunningham meant to me until now. Call this
the memoir long overdue.
I met Johnny in 1988 while engineering a studio project for
The Raindogs. They were an all-star band made up of Rhode Island singer/writer Mark Cutler, Bassist Darren Hill and drummer Jimmy Reilly, both formerly of
Red Rockers (remember that one ‘80s hit, “China”?), and Johnny on fiddle. They were a really great band, too, infusing American blue-collar rock with Celtic overtones. It was like Tom Petty meets Bruce Springsteen meets Bob Geldof meets Elvis Costello and they all get drunk with The Pogues. We were tracking a label demo at Newbury Sound, paid by and for
Sire/Warner Brothers and produced by
Andy Paley. Ultimately, they did NOT sign with Warners, mostly due to Paley’s Specter-like overproduction being a mis-match for the more organic Raindogs, so the tapes I tracked have never seen the light of day. Their LP “Lost Souls” was released a year later on Atlantic, and is a wonderful album.
Dog Days: Raindogs '88, with Johnny as Top Dog in this promo pic.Suffice it to say we recorded hard and played hard. After Paley’s departure from the studio every night around 1 am, the real party began, revolving around a glass-top table in the studio lounge. Hey, it was the ‘80s! I joined right in and partied with these guys ‘till dawn every night. As the beers flowed and in a haze of cigarette smoke I became drawn to the two Celts of the bunch: Jovial Johnny and his hilarious Scottish stories, and Jimmy, whose tinny Belfast brogue became less decipherable with each passing beer. I learned that before he was in Red Rockers, he was the drummer in
Stiff Little Fingers, the seminal Irish Punk band. In fact, Jimmy’s brother had been murdered in an Irish political thing. If I recall correctly it was IRA who killed him, and they had a big benefit concert on his behalf at a football stadium in Ireland. This was ’79 or ’80. Stiff Little Fingers had headlined, and included on the bill was a rising young Dublin group called
U2, playing their very first stadium show ever. Jimmy was a funny bastard, in a harder-edged sort of way. You got the feeling he could guzzle kerosene if someone dared him too. You also knew that crossing Jimmy would lead to lost teeth. He was a tough Irish street kid, y’know? One funny note: His Ulster accent prevented him from pronouncing my name properly. They can’t say the “oooh” sound. So, “Drew” always came out of Jimmy as “Dree”. “Dree, kedja add a bitta lew end t’me keck-dram?”
Johnny, contrarily, was round. He was warm and welcoming. He told jokes and stories so funny you’d wet yourself laughing. Being of Scots heritage myself, I was really drawn to his Scottishness. And by that I don’t mean just his accent, which was wonderful and lyrical; it was his wit, his charm, his
way that got me. He had the soul of a Scotsman. It was the way he could drink anybody under the table and still play like a champ. It was the twinkle in his eye. It was his bawdy tales. It was his mischievousness. Mostly though, it was the way he could make you feel like a welcome special friend, even though he was immensely popular. Johnny was the life of the party. Everybody loved Johnny and wanted to be Johnny’s friend.
I wanted to be Johnny friend.
At one point, Johnny's brother Phil appeared all the way from, I think he had been in Ireland, and the brothers played an impromtu trad performance after hours, Phil on the studio grand piano and Johnny on his fiddle. Amazing!
Shortly thereafter, I got him to co-produce and play fiddle a song of mine called, “I Can’t Get Over You”. I say I “got” him to, but the truth is he was happy to do it, and charged me nothing. We spent a day in the studio together and he really helped me bring the song together. Not only did he play a couple of brilliant fiddle tracks, pretty much in one take (which I learned was typical), he helped me mix the song and provided some nice insight. I learned how to record fiddle with Johnny. But it wasn’t a great song and I never really did anything with it. All I have now is a cassette copy. (My guitar-playing, which I had recorded before Johnny’s involvement, was rushed and sort of ham-fisted).
Later, as luck would have it, we ended up being neighbors. When I moved to Oak Square in Brighton in 1990, Johnny lived in Newton Corner, about a mile up the hill from me. Brighton had lots of Irish Pubs, but the one we ended up at the most frequently was The
Green Briar. They had a popular Irish Seisiun there every week, so he sometimes sat in. Other times, I’d find myself sitting on a bar-stool next to Johnny, just drinking and laughing and smoking and soaking up his vibe. Once, I even got invited to a Scottish breakfast at his place in Newton. Jimmy was there and I don’t remember who else. We had Scotch eggs and ale. Nice. I saw him perform solo a couple of times. He’d sit up there with his fiddle, a whisky and a smoke, and play a reel and then tell a story; play an air and then tell a joke. Ever the bard,
that was Johnny.
I worked with Johnny again in the studio when I was co-producing the band “Vision Thing”. He came in as a guest player to lay fiddle down on one of their tracks. The studio, Squid Hell, was in a big old house. It had multiple spaces to play, all of which were wired for microphones. He walked/played from room to room to find the best acoustics, and in classic Cunningham style, he chose the bathroom. He played the track (in one take) literally sitting on the throne. At the conclusion of his take, and as the last notes of the song died away, we heard over the control-room speakers:
flusshhhh...I still chuckle over that one.
That was Johnny.
I don’t remember when the last time I saw Johnny was, but I think it was in Portsmouth New Hampshire, where I bumped in to him at The Press Room. That was probably ’94, give or take a year. After that he was based out of New York, his career went up to the next level, and deservingly so.
Perhaps it’s the gloom of this dreary day that brought Johnny to mind. He was the kind of guy who, from the corner of the pub and with revelers gathered ‘round, radiated humor and warmth and music, late in to a long winter’s night. He was the hearth. I reckon that is a trait born and bred in The Highlands (and fed by the water of life). One day I'll be drinking with him again and jamming with Johnny at seisiun, in that little pub, far away and over the hills.
For now, I will raise a not-so wee drammie to my lips and toast my one-time friend, Johnny Cunningham, the most soulful Scotsman I ever knew.
beannachd leat caraidHere are some Johnny web sites and his NY Times Obit:http://www.johnnycunningham.com/Johnny on MySpacehttp://www.kennedy-center.org/programs/millennium/artist_detail.cfm?artist_id=CUNINGJOHNNY Obituary
