It was the winter of 1987, and I still hadn’t found what I was looking for. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, apart from a bit of a laugh, a few bob in the back pocket, and, perhaps a career in rock journalism.

I had returned to Dublin from the US six months previously, just as U2 were conquering the world with their album, The Joshua Tree.

Ireland was officially cool, all things Irish were suddenly in vogue, so it seemed the perfect time for a sort of homecoming.

“There’s loads going on in Dublin,” my sister told me. “You could write about the scene. You’d be in your element.”

And so, here I was, in my late 20s, single, free and looking for a good time in the new rock ’n’ roll capital of the world.

And looking for a job. I had picked up the odd stint helping on an exhibition stall, and was getting beer money by busking on Grafton Street. With Christmas approaching, and still no offer to become Editor of Hot Press or Rock Correspondent of the Sunday Indo, I went into the FAS offices on D’Olier Street and perused the noticeboard for possible gainful employment.

The ad said Journalist wanted for community newspaper. Writing stories of local interest, working for 20 hours a week on the Social Employment Scheme. Duration no more than one year. The pay would be around 70 quid, 20 quid more than I was getting on the dole.

Sure why not, thought I. It’s not exactly The Guardian, but it’s a start, and besides, I need the experience. So I found myself sitting in the ramshackle but charming offices of Sandymount Community Services, being interviewed by the Manager at the time, a pleasant, bearded fellow named Dermot Rafter, and the co-ordinator of the scheme, a lovely lady named Ann Ingle.

I’m sure I must have exaggerated my abilities, talents and previous positions, but I did show them a college newspaper from Florida Community College, featuring my byline on the cover. They shook my hand, welcomed me to the team, and said they’d see me here on the first week of the New Year.
It didn’t take me long to settle into the Sandymount scene. I got myself a bedsit on Oaklands Park, rundown, paint peeling, damp, dusty, with a bockety single bed, a filthy rug, a formica-topped table, and a 2-ring stove beside a scangy sink.

This was to be my ‘bachelor pad’, and I pictured the procession of babes who would be eager to come back to my ‘lust lair’ after a night out in the Pink Elephant. I had my guitar, my little portable cassette-radio, and my kettle. I was set up.

Working in News Four was a blast– in fact, it didn’t seem like I did much work at all. News Four occupied one room of Community Services, and I was one of a team of about four journalists, with my own desk and typewriter.

Our Supervisor was Denis McKenna; it was his job to motivate us, assign us stories, and generally kick our asses. A motley crew worked in Community Services, some doing environmental work, others involved in fundraising, and still others involved in communtity care or doing odd jobs. Some seemed to be there for no particular reason at all, but had obviously become part of the furniture.

Tea breaks were many and plentiful, and work was punctuated by regular games of ‘Don’, a sort of workingman’s bridge whose goal was to trump the opposing team and achieve something known as a ‘bonk’.

I was sent out to cover local events, such as hurling matches, anti-incinerator protests, Bloomsday celebrations and the opening of the new Sean Moore Road in Ringsend. I interviewed a woman whose husband had been a bandleader in the 1940s. I met local councillors and aldermen and faithfully took down their wise words on road-widening schemes, lottery funding and the problem of dog-poo in Sandymount village.

The highlight of the year was Community Week, when the whole village buzzed with activity, and everybody roped in to help with various events, from talent contests to discos to sports tournaments.

It was during Community Week that I started to feel like a real citizen of Sandymount. It may have been a short walk away from the City Centre, but the place had a real village atmosphere, and it felt like I’d known everyone there my whole life.

During the same year, I also started writing gig reviews for the Irish Times. My sister was going out with this broadcaster fella named Dave Fanning, and he had introduced me to the paper’s Arts Editor, Fergus Linehan.

The Times wasn’t very big on rock music at the time– they preferred nice Bach recitals or jazz concerts. They’d heard of U2 and Van Morrison, but they weren’t very au fait with Something Happens, The Stunning, My Bloody Valentine or That Petrol Emotion.

My first review for the Irish Times was Alison Moyet at the RDS– she was pretty big at the time. I also reviewed Level 42 (to my eternal shame, I gave them the thumbs up), Rory Gallagher (he was great, of course), The Proclaimers, Erasure, Status Quo, Leonard Cohen, James Taylor, Tanita Tikaram, Chris De Burgh and The Waterboys.

One of the most memorable gigs was Tracy Chapman’s debut Irish concert at the Baggot Inn, where, after ordering the crowd to put out their cigarettes, she gave a blistering one-woman performance. She came back later that year to co-headline a big gig at the RDS with Hothouse Flowers.

My routine on gig nights usually went like this: cook a nice meal of gammon steak or chicken breast on my two-ring stove, shower, fluff my birds-nest hair up into an even bigger birds-nest, put on my leather jacket and jeans, grab my guitar case and catch the No. 3 into town. Park myself in a strategic spot on Grafton Street, somewhere between Glen Hansard and Mic Christopher, and start belting out Smiths, Cure, Waterboys and U2 songs. Pocket my coins and head down to The Olympia, The Wexford Inn or McGonagles, leaving my guitar in the cloakroom. Watch the gig and hook up with the rock crowd, then head down to the Irish Times, type up my review on an ancient old Remington, hand it into the night-time sub-editor, stand there while he goes over it with a fine toothcomb, then head out to Grafton Street in time for pub closing, and start belting out the songs again for the late night party crowd.

Invariably, the Gardai would come by and tell me to pack it up, or else my voice would pack in or all my strings would break, so I’d pocket my coins and head down to the Pink Elephant. Walk back to Sandymount in the small hours of the morning with my guitar under my arm, go home to my ‘luxury’ bachelor pad, then get up in the mid-morning and arrive, bleary-eyed and slightly

hungover, in the offices of News Four to start another day of community activities, tea-drinking, games of Don, and maybe even the odd article. Great days.

Above: Kevin hard at work at the old ‘News Four’ base in Seafort Avenue and left in busking mode.

(Since those heady days, our workload has increased greatly– that was then and this is now!)