Интервью с Генри Маккалохом:
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Back after a lost weekend that lasted two decades, Irish guitar legend Henry McCullough has 'never felt so lucky'
There's a moment during the fade- out of Pink Floyd's Money, when a voice nonchalantly states, "I don't know; I was really drunk at the time". The man behind those words is, naturally enough, an Irish man -- Henry McCullough, one-time member of Paul McCartney's Wings, and session guitarist to the likes of Joe Cocker, Jimi Hendrix, Marianne Faithful, Leon Russell and, eh, the Fleadh Cowboys.
Back in 1972, McCullough's contribution to Dark Side Of The Moon was just a casual remark, but it's a line that might as well have been tattooed on the Portstewart-born guitarist's forehead for the next two decades. Because that's how long Henry McCullough's lost weekend lasted.
Today, the 65-year old guitar legend is very much back on the horse, with Poor Man's Moon, his 8th solo album, sounding very much the work of a man who's been there, done that, and lived to tell the tale.
PAUL BYRNE: The fall and rise of Henry McCullough means we've got a happy ending on our hands -- always believe you'd be okay?
HENRY MCCULLOUGH: Well, if I always believed that, I wouldn't have hit rock bottom quite so hard. And I wouldn't have kept digging. It's that lack of belief that sends you hurtling towards the edge, sends you off on all those doomed missions to find enlightenment through drink, or whatever you're having yourself.
It took me a little longer than most to learn a few valuable lessons, but, at least I made it back from the edge. I've hung out with quite a few people who just kept going though. . .
Your new album, Poor Man's Moon, finds you in sombre, reflective mood -- is there blood on the tracks? Tears? Wisdom?
All of the above, and, hopefully, quite a bit more. If you're going to be truthful about making any kind of art, you really have to put everything into it. Everything that fits, that is.
This is an album where I came to feel that everything fits perfectly. Took some time, but we got there.
I read this album came about largely through a little help from your friends?
True. There were people along the way who gave me a helping hand -- or a friendly push -- into making this album.
I met (The Herald's) Eamon Carr down in Dublin, and he pressed some lyrics into my hand, and that gave me something to work with when I got back home. Later, Eamon put me in touch with this wonderful man, Paddy Goodwin, who called up to my place with these wonderful, wonderful old guitars. He's a collector, and the guitars he brought with him had me weak at the knees.
Paddy brought more than guitars, right?
Yeah, he brought with him a strong desire to help me make an album. Even when I told him making an album isn't exactly cheap, he was all for it. So, that was an offer I couldn't refuse. It felt as though someone was watching over me.
Are we talking the big daddy-G here?
No, it was someone closer to home. Some time before, I had stood in front of my mum's grave, and said a little prayer of my own. I was at a pretty low ebb, and nothing seemed to be going right for me. From that day forward though, things started to go right. Little things, here and there, all leading up to this album.
During that low ebb, you would often do a little street busking, just to earn a little extra cash, right?
It sounds ridiculous, but I would go from playing the Albert Hall with Pete Townsend to busking on the streets the next day. Part of that was the drink, of course. You never have enough money when you've got an addiction.
After the traditional covers' band beginnings with The Skyrockets, you took on Irish music with Eire Apparent and, later, Sweeney's Men, before heading to London. It didn't take long before you were one of the most in-demand guitarists around. . .
And it wasn't as though I had some great masterplan. One gig would lead to another, and once you've played with someone like Paul McCartney, or Joe Cocker, you're pretty much in the club, you know. . .
Do you remember much about those heady days -- or were you too drunk at the time?
I remember moments, and certain songs, certain gigs, certain people, certain guitars, but I'd have trouble putting the whole jigsaw back together. And that became increasingly the case as time went on. In a way, it was inevitable something was going to have to snap. . .
Or get sliced. You cut your hand with a bread knife while on a visit home to Portstewart, and that put you out of action as a guitarist. . .
For what, as far as the doctor concerned, would be the rest of my life. That was the turning point, really. Not that I woke up the following morning with a bright light shining -- I just knew that I had brought myself to this point, and it was me who was going to have to bring me back from there, too.
Given that you'd played with so many multi-millionaire rock legends, were there many helping hands being proffered at this time?
Outside of immediate family -- especially my beloved Josie -- no, but then, I didn't want anyone's help in that way. I felt that this was my problem, and I was going to have to solve it. I wasn't looking for charity. I was looking for clarity.
Now that you have made that long journey back, do you still get the same kick from music today as when the teenage Henry McCullough stood up on stage with The Skyrockets?
Oh, absolutely. It's changed, in that I know things now that I didn't know then, and you're coming from a different angle, so to speak, but the core of it is exactly the same. You just want to lose yourself in the soul of the piece, and that's something that you're always striving for. Those moments when the music becomes much bigger than the sum of its parts.
Henry McCullough's Poor Man's Moon is out now.
http://www.herald.ie/entertainment/music/new-moon-rising-1474351.htmlhttp://www.macca-central.com/macca-news/morenews.php?id=2837
