Dear Glen…
There’s more to say. There’s always more to say.
That’s the trouble when it comes to people you care about sometimes; You want to keep the conversation going. One more thing, one more drink, one more hour, one more train.
You were part of the creative force that brought a story called ONCE into the world. It delighted so many, and yet I wager if you asked around most people don’t understand what the title “Once” was referring to. Not to brag, but when that film inspired me to start this space almost twenty years ago, I took it upon myself to learn the origin.
The title referred to what happened after a goal was achieved. Meaning, things aren’t just about the achievement, but what comes after the achievement. As in “Once I ______, everything will be great; Everything will change.”
Once I learned that, I took it upon myself to share it.
Once I shared it, I found a new voice.
Once I found a new voice, I met some of the most wonderful people I’d ever want to meet…people I am lucky to call my friends.
Several people guided me to that first step, and I’m honoured that you were one of them.
Your music – your own, with Markéta, with The Frames – it spoke to me and inspired me. It made me laugh and made me cry; it was new to me and yet it sounded so familiar. They were chords I’d known since I was a little boy, but words I’d been searching for my entire life.
After falling for the music -playing it over and over on my turntable – I learned more about the man.
I grew to understand that you were a man with flaws. Like so many of us (certainly like me), there were choices made, paths not taken, anxieties, self-doubt, and so many other human imperfections. These became cracks in the marble of rock star idolatry.
Ironically, (Irish are known for irony, aren’t they?), this made you special.
It made you relatable in your humanity, your folly – it made you “one of us”. I was lucky enough to see you play four times, and every one of these shows came with so much hospitality and warmth. There were stories, there were jokes, there was family, and there were friends. All of these nights were filled with old familiar moments and cheeky surprises. These nights felt less like concerts and more like you’d invited us all into your house to sing a song and raise a glass.
In these moments, it was clear that while you were certainly the rock star up on the stage…you were also the humble busker on the street who was trying to outrun his mistakes and catch his big break.
Maybe that’s what makes losing you so hard for we, the flawed, who admired your work; we’re left to run on our own now. We have to deal with our flaws ourselves … and hope to still catch our big break.
Once we do, though…
I won’t bullshit you, Glen (Irish are known for spotting the bullshit, aren’t they?) – Wednesday was hard.
To wake up to news that you had left us was one of the very worst ways to start a day. But as seconds turned to minutes and minutes turned to hours, it happened – what always happens when a bright light like yours goes out; we all started turning to each-other. We cried, we smiled, we played your songs, and we shared our stories. People I hadn’t heard from in a long time reached out, so too did people I’d just talked to. We all gathered in your house again, this time with one empty chair.
And wouldn’t you know it – one of those friends I wouldn’t have made if it wasn’t for you? She was the one to break the news to me.
Several more friends I made the same way reached out because they heard the news and thought of me. I think I should thank you for that.
I’ve been thinking about your songs all day, Glen, specifically about your lyrics. It’s my dirty secret, you see – when I struggle to find my own words, I think about someone else’s (don’t rat me out).
Reflecting on your words, I’m especially caught by your expressions of immediacy, determination, decisiveness, and above all – hope. Maybe that’s why today feels hard – because a little bit of hope has left us in a time where we need all the hope we can get. In an age where so many need so little reason to jump off a sinking boat, it takes a certain type of soul to say that we can point the sinking boat to home, and that we still have time.
Such determination – such hope – it’s a rebellious stance nowadays.
But then again, Irish are known for rebellion, aren’t they.
Peace, love, and busker change.
- Ryan.