• Call Me If You Kill Anyone

    October 15, 2015 - By 

    The second in his latest column series for us at the Thin Air, Omagh singer-songwriter Michael McCullagh AKA Son of the Hound continues a tale from his days playing in Colenso Parade. Go here to read the previous installment. We’d booked the rehearsal space on advice of other musicians. Standing on the street in Liverpool I looked around, expecting to see some commercial building among the residential houses but there was nothing. Then from a second story window came a shout. ‘Hey! It’s up here!’. It was Hanso, unruly hair and wild eyes laughing at us as he hung precariously out…

  • Meb Jon Sol: Worried Man, in A

    July 29, 2014 - By 

    I pressed the dusty keys of the old upright near the entrance of the barn. It let out a brace of discordant notes in the close summer heat and left little finger silhouettes in the dirt on the ivory. ’I shouldn’t be here,’ I thought, ‘and it won’t be long until I’m found out.’ The barn was out the back of a farmhouse around the back roads of Leitrim. It had been converted into a studio, but it seemed to have fought valiantly against the conversion. Rusting car parts and stumped farm tools scattered around the stony garden surrounding the…

  • Meb Jon Sol: Bound For Glory

    July 14, 2014 - By 

    I pulled my cap further down my brow and buried my face deeper in my scarf to shelter from the biting cold. It had been threatening to snow all day but so far only delivered misty rain that cascaded down in brilliant sheets through the winter night. First came a pair of headlights, piercing the rain grey. Soon the entire shape of the lorry tore around the McKenzie roundabout I was standing on, shuttling at a speed which I feared would cause it to topple over on top of me. The driver maneuvered the roundabout with ease, circling and parking…

  • Meb Jon Sol: The Art of Fanciful Begging

    June 23, 2014 - By 

    I felt someone step over me in dark. They slipped quietly out the door and it shut behind them with a soft click, extinguishing the thin strip of light from the hallway that had briefly appeared, casting the room back into darkness. I pulled the sleeping bag tight around me and rolled over, negotiating a fleeting moment of comfort with the unforgiving wooden floor. The room was already stuffy with the early morning heat. I could tell the figure leaving that morning was tense, and I was the reason. I couldn’t blame them. They had generously offered their floor as…

  • Meb Jon Sol: Four More Fish

    June 6, 2014 - By 

    When the battle lines had been drawn a ripple of laughter broke out among the the groups of lads gathered on the playing fields at Lover’s Retreat. It echoed around the high trees that loomed over the banks of the Camowen river at the edge of the pitch. The teams were unintentionally split straight through the middle of Northern Ireland’s religious divide. It was reflective of the past and the present of a perpetually confusing country: together but still separated. ‘Hold on, we’re one down and yous have an extra.’ a voice from our team remarked. ‘Simon, you go with…

  • Meb Jon Sol: Pay No Heed To Tripod

    May 25, 2014 - By 

    The gig was in a small cafe outside of a town called Clifden, situated on the outskirts of everything, separated from the rest of Ireland (and seemingly the rest of the world) by the wild, unrelenting Connemara landscape. On the door was a rain-sodden poster that played fast and loose with the truth: ‘The much acclaimed Meb Jon Sol’- well at least they were expecting me. I walked up the stairs and into the Cafe. Folks were gathered eating, drinking and enjoying the panoramic view of the bay. It was mid afternoon but the sky was darkening with creeping rain…