Mother Of Mercy
Stefan HERRICK
Sinead O'Connor
is a different woman to the
bald-headed banshee once
stalked by controversy at
every turn. She's now
a priest, a lesbian, and a
fretting mum. As Stefan
Herrick reports, it's quite a
revelation.
SINEAD O'Connor goes very
quiet. Seconds pass. Time
turns to treacle. Dismantling
a bomb would be like
this.To ask O'Connor about
her sexuality - the singer
has reportedly come out
as a lesbian - is like
awaiting the big flash after
you've snipped the blue
wire. If you believe what
you read, O'Connor is a
shaven-headed, Doc Marten-wearing,
Pope-slagging,
bloke-clobbering nutcase
who likes nothing better than
to verbally disembowel her
interrogators if they
overstep the mark.
Crass as this line of questioning
is, it falls into
the category of "people
will want to know". That
doesn't make it any less
volatile.
Finally, she speaks.
"To be honest, I don't believe
there's any such thing
as gay or straight, so I
wouldn't class myself as
either gay or straight.
"I can't say what it means
for me any more than what
loving means for anyone
else. If you fall in love with
someone it doesn't matter
whether they're female,
male, old, young, pink,
grey or yellow."
That went well. But then,
so has the rest of this
conversation. Far from being
a "bald-headed banshee",
as London tabloid The Sun
once described her, the tiny
woman with the enormous
reputation for trouble, has
been agreeable, thoughtful
and unflappably calm.
Eccentric, certainly, but
not, apparently, nutty. It
occurs to me I mightn't
be talking to the right
person.
Of course, it is the same
Sinead O'Connor, only this
is an older, gentler version.
I tell her she is
nothing like I expected.
"What did you expect?" she asks.
Rabid and foaming at the mouth.
She laughs. "I think as you
get older that sort of
thing wears off."
It's mid-morning in Dublin,
Ireland, and O'Connor is
in her sitting room doing
telephone interviews and
"painting psalms". I mishear
this first as "painting
palms" and then "painting
sounds". Does that mean
you're writing music?
"Psalms!" she says firmly.
"I paint the words and then
do really nice gold backgrounds,
like, and then paint
the words in really nice
colours." Today it's Psalm I.
An odd hobby, perhaps, for
someone who, in 1992,
ripped up a picture of the
Pope on Saturday Night Live
with David Letterman and
told viewers to "fight the
real enemy", and who has
never been sparing in her
criticism of the Catholic
church for what she saw as
its policies of pestilence,
poverty and patriarchy.
But, having fought the church
for many years, O'Connor
recently became a part of
it. She is now a priest, she
says, ordained into the
Latter Day Latin Tridentine
movement - a strange choice
given that the Tidentines
are ultra conservative.
Her ordained name is Sinead
Mother Bernadette Maria
O'Connor. Sinead, she says,
will be fine.
Now 33, with a son, Jake,
aged 14, and daughter
Brigidine, aged four, the
priesthood has helped put
some distance between her
and her former life. She
looks back at herself a
decade ago and sees "a brave
child of 20 who put out
an album, who had come from a
very hardcore situation,
was brave enought to write
about it and sing about
it and scream and shout about
it".
Being young, outspoken, Irish
and female made her a
plumb target for the British
tabloids. Between 1990,
when her debut album The
Lion And The Cobra was
released, and 1995 when
she vowed to drop out and
never talk to the press
again, controversy feasted on
her every word.
Madonna got stuck into her
over the Pope-ripping
incident, Frank Sinatra
threatened to "kick her ass"
for refusing to sing at
a concert if the Star Spangled
Banner was played, she was
booed off stage by 20,000
fans at a concert celebrating
Bob Dylan's 30th year in
the business and she alleged
Prince tried to grope her
during a visit to her home.
Despite volumes of defiant
quotes and brave
appearances at the time,
such things left her in
tatters. She'd underestimated
the dangers of the music
business.
"The casualties are huge,"
she says. "Being famous is
not all for nothing. I paid
a huge, massive price in
terms of my spirit. I found
that the whole experience
at that age was very soul-destroying."
Is she relieved
she made it through reasonably
intact? "Yeah. Very
much so. I'm very lucky."
But now, even being ordained
doesn't create that much
of a stir. Seen by some
as sleeping with the enemy,
O'Connor sees it as making
change from within. She's
still scathing of the church,
feeling that God has
been badly represented by
the large religious
franchises.
"My becoming a priest," she
says, "does not mean that
I'll suddenly take on a
whole set of right-wing
beliefs. That's not the
case. What I've decided to do
is that if I feel I'm in
a position to criticise the
church then surely I feel
I can help.
"So what I prefer to do now
is present myself as a
friend rather than an enemy
and try to be a bridge
between 'us' and 'them',
and if we want to stop a lot
of bad shit that's going
on the best thing that we can
do is get together and be
friends.
"I guess," she says, "that
I want to rescue God from
religion."
SINEAD O'Connor first sang
in public at age 14,
performing a Barbra Steisand
song at a teacher's
wedding. Such was the response
that she ran away to
study music in Dublin where
she was spotted by U2's
guitarist The Edge who asked
her to sing on his solo
album.
She recorded The Lion And
The Cobra while pregnant.
Two months later she appeared
on Top Of The Pops bald
and unsmiling.
Controversy licked its chops.
In 1993 came graphic revelations
of childhood abuse at
the hands of her mother
(who died in 1985) that
created a rift between her
father and brother.
Distraught, she suffered
a breakdown and attempted
suicide. The cathartic Universal
Mother album, she
says, helped dig her out
of the hole.
Music is still a big part
of the equation, although
O'Connor now ranks it behind
her children and her
faith on her list of priorities.
She even has a new
record out.
In Faith And Courage, O'Connor
sings like a wily
archangel about love lost,
making peace with her
once-doubting father, and
seeks forgiveness for some
of her behaviour in the
past while firing off a few
fresh broadsides.
But tell O'Connor you hear
anger or hate, and she'll
tell you you're listening
to it the wrong way and that
- again - she's been misunderstood.
No Man's Woman has been singled
out as proof that
she's still got it in for
men. O'Connor seems
genuinely puzzled by this.
"Not at all," she says. "But
if a man writes a song
saying whiskey and women
almost wrecked my life, well,
nobody has a problem with
that. But if a woman says a
man wrecked my life everyone
thinks she's a man-hater.
"It's not fair. The song,
when you really listen to
it, honours the spirit of
men."
It bothers her that her son
wants to become a
musician. He's a big fan
of hip hop, and while
O'Connor agrees it's good
music (she dabbles in it
herself) she doesn't think
it has a good effect on
children. "I don't mind
bad language and stuff, but
what I don't like are records
that talk about killing
people."
She sounds like a clucking mother hen.
"Oh I am," she says. "There
are some things you can't
do when you have children.
You do have to set them an
example. I think, though,
that when they hit 21 I'll
probably turn into rock'n'roll
chick from hell, taking
every class-A drug under
the sun, wearing lots of
eyeliner . . .
"Obviously I'm joking," she
adds quickly. "I'm not
serious about the drugs.
I'm joking."
The phone is beeping. Another
interview is standing by
and, with a cheerful "thank-you",
O'Connor's off.
The man from the record company
rings the next day to
find out how it went. A
couple of radio stations had
found her difficult, he
says. "They said she gave
shitty answers."
Perhaps the angry young woman
hasn't changed that much
after all.
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