2008

Amongst the 80,000 roaring music fans, Alice feels a sense of quiet detachment. Alone with her thoughts she feels as though she has been beamed to that very spot from a distant planet, an alien, indifferent to the manic world of revelry and enthusiasm around her.
The celebrated extravaganza she was attending was 'The Greenhouse Rock Festival'. It was the latest Worldwide Musical fund raising event and the largest effort to date. Global concern and political realization in the face of increasing drastic climate change has, much like oil production, finally peaked. The world is now fully aware, awake and active in a united effort to turn the ever rising tide.
The tide..In Alice's mind grey green waves lap and foam against ancient rocks.
As often before, Sir Bob Geldof has spearheaded the campaign. Lassoing down the stars, and announcing their magnetic presence for the line up bill. Sir Bob is now masterful at luring the Hollywood elite and music giants and using them to create media awareness, youthful enthusiasm and public sway. Combining these, the pressure mounts on politicians and corporate moneymen to bend and lend for once towards the greater good.
Alice remembers the day the tide brought the American stranger to dock at Ard na Ri harbour. It was raining that day almost thirty years ago.
It was not raining now. Rock legend Sting has formed a musical alliance once again with Stuart and Andy. The Police were reunited and singing 'Every little thing she does is magic'. The fans were exuberant, yelling and dancing. The happy crowd were on average around twenty years younger than Alice. They were on their feet. Alice sat, high above them in a VIP box. Like the guys on stage, she too was a little greyer, but beautiful nonetheless. Her eyes grey green - the colour of turbulent seas, lit with a sparkle of hope. A man could easily drown in those eyes, or be rescued by their glimmer.
The man she now loved did both. Jesse Delamere, from a single glance, died and was resurrected once again in those deep shimmering eyes.
Jesse Delamere was the reason she was here. Unknown to him, she had dragged herself from behind her cosy nook in her sleepy Irish village to the thronging beehive that was Wembley Stadium. She had sworn she wouldn't visit him as he pleaded to her to do so over the phone. But there she was, alone amongst strangers, having used the plane and VIP tickets he had sent to her. She wondered if he had yet found out that she had finally arrived.
Jesse Delamere, the man who helped her sing again, the man who brought flowers to the cracked streets of her village, the man who rubbed shoulders with the superpowers of music, and who was specifically drafted by Sir Bob himself to help with this cause with his unique allure.
He was too old for it. He knew it and she knew it. She disapproved of him leaving and she had urged him to turn down the request. He assured her he was only needed as a consultant. His presence was required merely to shake hands, make some calls, and have a few drinks with the music industry's movers and shakers as he had done on previous occasions. But this time was different. He had been gone three weeks. They were overstretching him.
She was adamant that she would not attend. She was a stubborn woman. But he begged. He promised her it would be the last time - again. He said the world depended on her presence. 'Stupid hippy', she thought and remained staunch. But it wasn't until he said he depended on her presence there that she caved. She tried to call him back. She wanted to say sorry for being so pig-headed. She wanted to tell him she'd be on the next flight. But he was unobtainable. Lost in a world of booming sound checks she assumed.
The headline act for this festival had been kept a secret. It was a great way of generating interest, speculation and media hype. It was a great way to sell tickets. Every major artist in or out of retirement had been nominated by pundits. The favourites now were McCartney, Springsteen and at 7 to 1 odds, a Jackson 5 reunion. As a marketing ploy it had worked brilliantly, the donations had come flooding in, smashing all expected estimations. Alice felt Jesse's involvement in this strategy. It would be very much his style to blindfold the world before revealing the aurora borealis on the very stage before them.
Back home he played down his prior status in America. He had apparently been a music producer in Minneapolis, and before that he had run a radio station in Massachusetts. He had made his mark and his money. Then he opted out of the hectic lifestyle to seek peace and tranquillity. He found it on the still streets of Ard na Ri Village, on the tail end of a rugged peninsula in Co. Kerry. Ireland.
The waves that washed him to the harbour, where Alice waited for her supplies to arrive off Gerry Dwyer's ferry, were the same waves that took her first and beloved husband, John. The same waves that lapped cold and heavy at her heart ever since the sea swallowed him, his crew and trawler. After John, she vowed she would never love again.
The Police wound down with 'Walking on the Moon' and bopped off stage to ecstatic applause. Bob Dylan was performing next.
When alive, John had loved Dylan, aka Robert Allen Zimmerman. He'd strum tambourine man for her as she'd sing. She had the voice of a nightingale. They called their son Allen - with two L's, John was quite subtle for a fisherman.
Three years after his death, Jesse's blue dessert boots came strutting off Gerry's ferry and onto the weathered stone of the harbour. Blue - no less! Not the kind of gaudy fashion statement the widow Costello was accustomed to, or would approve of in the humble rural Ireland of 1980. The widow Costello was 36.
Even in hindsight she can't say for sure if she immediately liked him. She sneered at his showy suede shoes, and asked him for no help with her deliveries. But he helped Gerry unload a case of cigarettes to her regardless.
Atrocious boots aside, he was handsome. Thick dark hair hung loose around his square jaw. Strong and slender. Graceful in his movement. American obviously, he dressed well, less flashy than the others that breeze through this particular nook of Ireland on their way to more popular tourist spots along the west coast. She expected it was to one of these places he was destined. He wasn't. He was looking for Alice Costello. He asked the bearded Gerry where he might find her.
'Your in luck Mr. America', said Gerry, 'You're just after handing her 200 Woodbines'.
Alice, a solitary thoughtful presence amongst the thronging crowd, is in her mind miles and years away. Dylan sang 'Like a Rolling Stone'. She briefly wondered if the Stones might headline then returned to her reverie.
She recalls the alarm in her stomach and her eyes widening with surprise at the mention of her name. She didn't know anyone in America. What did this stranger want from her?
Although flabbergasted she kept her usual outward stern. Gruff as ever she announced that indeed she was Alice Costello and, 'who the hell are you and what do you want of me?'
Smiling and almost charmed by her abrasiveness, he offered her his hand and said in his deep drawl, 'pleased to meet you Ma'am, I'm Jesse Delamere from the U.S of A. I've been searching a long time for somewhere quiet to escape to,' he smiled, 'I'm hoping to discuss the sale of your public house with you'.
She scowled and wouldn't take his hand. Stomping off with her trolley of cigarettes and sundries she yelled back, 'go home, it's no longer for sale'. But she knew he'd follow.
Her village, with a population of just 412, had hit on hard times. Alice felt it happened when John had died. But it had been happening for a good while before then. In 1977 the aluminium plant closed and the town suffered serious damage from a terrible storm. With little income the town struggled to rebuild its roofs and walls and return to the quaint little oasis it once was. No, the absence of her dear John merely compounded the fact. It could have rained all year and she wouldn't have noticed whilst John was still there to strum her a tune and hold her hand.
1n September 1979, she reluctantly hammered a 'For Sale' sign outside the 'Pot O'Gold'. Their Pub. The pub where she and John laughed and gossiped with the locals. The pub where they had danced atop the bar on their wedding night. The pub above which they made love so many times and conceived their son.
Many of the townsfolk turned to the sanctuary of stout and the warmth of whiskey after 77'. Managing the pub and mothering her 5 year old now weighed heavy on her listless heart. She was also accruing financial difficulties.
In happier times the 'Pot O'Gold' Inn was a wonderful refuge of hospitality and conviviality, chatter and song. The community bickered and bonded there. Sports celebrated, deals bartered, romances born, newlyweds toasted, wakes tended and new arrivals cheered. For a while it was the heartbeat of the town, now the atmosphere had all but dissipated.
The locals did their best to console, motivate and support Alice through her bereavement. But they had each their own woes to tend to. The vibrant spirit of the town now drowsily wisped away, like smoke curling from the embers of a once hearty fire.
Back at the harbour, Alice paced steadfastly away from the American. She was resolute in her determination not to sell to this interloper. She had assumed the deed would pass into the hands of someone local, or at least someone Irish.
She slammed the door on her Morris Minor quickly so she wouldn't have to talk further with this impudent stranger, but was not quick enough to escape him rapping on her window. 'Is there any chance of a lift.' he began.
'No', Alice yelled, and sped off.
Alice was sure to lock the bar door behind her then furiously flung the cigarettes onto their shelves. She knew he'd come knocking. Ten minutes later he did. But she would not open again that day. She went to bed and cried.
Alice, now regarded Bob Dylan, and deemed that she did not feel as old as he now looked. Nor, she thought, did Jesse. And although Jesse was a little older than Mr. Dylan, he still looked better. He, like Alice, had aged well.
She wanted this carnival to be over soon. She wanted to see Jesse and fly home with him. She worried about the melee after the concert had finished, though during their truncated phone call Jesse had assured her that he would arrange for her total accommodation and swift exit afterwards.
She believed this would be his last musical foray. Although he was a very fit seventy something, she felt he had had enough of this malarkey years ago. He never talked much about his history in the music industry; it was an era he wanted left in the past. Now he carried out but a few obligations, which he tended to when the phone rang and the need arose. He had always maintained a low profile. Never one to hit the headlines or take the limelight, he was just an honest music producer. At times she wanted to pry and find out more than the anecdotes he occasionally divulged to her. However, there was much from her own past that she wanted kept private, so she respected his secrets too.
The day after she had cried herself to sleep, Alice knew she would have to venture outdoors and most likely face the American named Jesse again. During a restless night she had resolved to begrudgingly sell to him. To cheer herself up a little about the arrangement, she decided to up her initial asking price - and he could sod off if he didn't like it.
She found him quickly enough, chatting quite amicably on Main Street with Mikey, the normally sombre grocer. He turned to see her approaching, again she walked with an angry determination. Her amber hair strewn from the wind, her jaw set firm beneath soft pallid cheeks where roses once bloomed. His eyes, meeting hers properly for the first time, were now those of a man at sea, drowning in those sorrowful pools. He was a man disarmed. In that moment he let his guard down and he reminded her of someone, and her heart too skipped a beat.
Quickly regaining their composure, she cut him off before he had a chance to talk. 'If your serious, you can have the pub, but the price is gone up I'll have you know'.
His tanned face smiled, 'Ma'am, I don't wish to buy the Pub from you, if you don't mind, I'd just like to help you run it, are you interested in a business partner?'
Alice had felt a lot of things for a long time now; she had been a churning mass of anguish, emptiness and despair. Now she felt as though a gold coin had just been thrown, into the deep well of hopelessness she felt, like a wish, and in those wonderful stormy eyes there now appeared a tiny reflection of sunlight, like a dawn.
She walked away from the American at pace again, saying over her shoulder in the same nonplussed manner, 'I'll think about it'.
He could not see the tiny smile that curled to her lips as she walked by the first flush of daffodils on the village green.
Jesse liked this hard-headed Irish woman.

Tiny candles mottled the heaving masses. Dusk and 'Blowin in the Wind' brought lighters to the sea of swaying hands. It looked very pretty. Fireflies of optimism for a greener planet. Alice mused how this act, ironically, might be contributing to global warming.
The penultimate performance was Madonna; she blasted onto stage amidst fanfare and fireworks with 'Ray of Light'. Her arrival brought rapture to the audience, now a landscape of rippling limbs and lights. Alice's heart lightened a little too, just as it did that cold Spring morning long ago.
The small spark of hope that now glowed faintly within Alice also induced some feelings of guilt after her long spell of mourning. But she had to think of Allen. She saw this Americans' offer as a way to keep her beloved pub, raise income and keep her son schooled nearby. To deal Jesse in was the right thing to do. Soon after, they met again, hands were shook, papers were signed and generous investments lodged. Overtime, uninvited affections grew. It was quite quaint to watch these adults, like bickering teenagers, clumsily trying to conceal these burgeoning emotions.
The business partnership was good and the new impetus breathed life into the old bar. No he wasn't the greatest barman, his agility with the Guinness tap had the locals amused, bemused and at times horrified. Nevertheless, his zest, easy manner and wit easily made up for his amateur bar skills.
It began a turning point not only for her, but for the village as well. Mr. Delamere's repartee with Mikey the grumpy grocer seemed to extend to almost all he met. Jesses virtues of humility and humour were embraced by a rural village that had held up to now preconceptions of a brasher brand of American.
With his looks and manner, the ladies of Ard na Ri, so familiar with the usual faces and stories of the locale, made him an overnight favourite. While not having the same immediate effect on the townsmen, aside from Maurice the well manicured barber, it didn't take too many short drinks and tall tales to win them over.
He initiated ceilis and quizzes, raised funds and donated generously towards the GAA teams. Free sandwiches on the weekends, and first drinks free for the returning football players on a Sunday, win. lose or draw. Music again played. Lock-ins stealthily provided. Stout, smoke and smiles were abundant.
Commerce and employment improved steadily too, as small businesses and cottage industries were initiated. Over time the uplift in mood had farmers out fixing old walls and barns still damaged from the storm. Onto the dull facades of shops and cottages paint was lavished once again. Telecom Eireann, after much demand erected a new phonebox. Window boxes potted and floral baskets hung. In summer, it became a postcard worthy picture of the quintessential Irish village.
He developed a great relationship with little Allen, who's guitar skills were exceeding under his tuition. Over time Alice allowed her reserve and scepticism to drop a little and the relationship warmed and eventually blossomed between them.
Initially he found lodgings down the road from Costello's in Madgie Brady's back room. After a little while he found himself allowed to sleep on the living room sofa above the bar if he'd had a few drinks too many. Inevitably, as their feelings grew, so did their passion.
They did well to hold out for nearly eight months, and kept their secret for a further two. When their relationship was announced officially to the villagers, there was not a begrudging heart amongst them. Except maybe for Madgie, who knew she'd be soon losing her well off tenant.
'Madge', she reminded herself that this was the light hearted moniker attached to the energetic and jubilant performer on stage right now. A name quite prematurely tagged to Madonna judging by her fantastic performance. Alice again briefly wonders who could possibly follow Madonna's' stunning showcase.
Just like a dream, you are not what you seem." Madonna bounced youthfully around the stage, startlingly fit and buoyant and clearly enjoying herself as she belted out 'Like a Prayer'. Alice had been so far off in her daydream that she had lost track of time. The last act of the evening was almost upon them. She decided to beat the crowd and use her backstage pass to meet Jesse before the show ended. This world was so far from the tranquillity and sanctuary of their village. All she wanted was to hold his hand, apologise for her ill tempered behaviour over the phone and get him home, away from the all the noise and hysteria. At that moment, how anyone could stick the life of a megastar was beyond her reasoning.
Madonna left the stage to thunderous applause. It was well earned after a fantastic performance. Her act finished as it had started with blasts of pyrotechnics, even from the elevated VIP area Alice could feel the heat from the fiery bursts warm her cheeks.
Upon showing her pass and ID backstage, a senior member of security was radioed to her assistance. A huge black man in a neat suit arrived and keenly greeted her. Smiling, he gently shook her hand and introduced himself as Jerome. He had a very kind face. He addressed her rightly as Ms. Costello, and announced that they were very glad she made the journey and that special arrangements had been made for her. He led her to a crescent shaped VIP area just in front of the stage.
Jerome then ordered champagne to be brought to her and assured her that everything has been arranged to have them whisked away directly after the last performance. He shook her hand again and said it was a pleasure to finally meet her. He then hastened off, walkie-talkie pressed close to his ear.
Alice was elevated and exhilarated by Jesses' consideration and thoughtfulness. Molten emotions of love swam in her chest. She knew he wasn't mad at her now. It had been selfish of her not to want to be there for him, when that was the only thing he wanted from her.
Almost dizzy, she was in awe of her present circumstances, literally rubbing elbows with the glitterati. Pink champagne in a tall flute, the effervescence, like the earlier fireworks, rising and popping then lightly misting on her hand and lips. In her daze she didn't notice the gentleman beside her.
'That's a fine Irish accent you have," he said.
When she turned to see Pierce Brosnan beaming at her she nearly coughed Champagne on him and let out a giddy yelp of disbelief. Alice managed to giggle to him, "That it is Mr. Brosnan. Look at the state of us. It's a long way from champagne on ice we were reared".
Amused, he smiled his perfect smile at her and clinked her glass as the house lights dimmed. "Well let's see who our mystery guest is eh?" he mused.
With the lights lowered, an enormous cheer came from the crowd. There had been a ten minute break in performances, allowing the excitement to reach fever pitch, which was now climaxing all around them in emphatic fervour. The atmosphere was like nothing felt before at any concert. Electricity seemed to fizzle through the air. The VIPs around her, usually starchy in their demeanour, clapped wholeheartedly, they too, marvelling in the occasion.
A billion viewers worldwide held their breath in unison as they awaited the final, undisclosed act of the night.
One billion viewers, 80,000 spectators and one elderly Irish lady were now transfixed on a darkened stage. Every thought poised on who might upstage the performers who had gone before, every single heart thumping with anticipation.
A low rumble began heavy bass. Some thrilled yelps amongst the hushing noise. Sustained synthesiser notes gained momentum and joined the bass. Then a solitary spotlight grows to the left of stage. More and more screams, the audience delirious, ecstatic.
The music stops. A figure in a hat enters the spotlight. A weird delight reigns over all. Then murmurs, "Who is it..?"; "I think it's." "I can't make out." "I can see.It's..."
A gentle high pitched voice, cracks from the wall of amps.
"Ladies and Gentlemen."
Roars from the crowd as they realize who the star performer is, making his first public appearance out of his exile after ten years it was.
"Michael Jackson" the crowd screams his name with applause, whistles and roars.
"Ladies and Gentlemen." he repeats and continues, "It is with immeasurable pleasure and humility I present to you the final performance of the evening."
He said no more, gestured to the curtain in centre stage, and bowed offstage again leaving the watching world and the stadium guests bemused and bewildered. Confused expressions on every face, Alice too was mystified.
All eyes now on the slip of light that was widening as the curtains parted. The strong backlight blurred and silhouetted a solitary figure, who slowly walked out of the light like ET from his space craft, towards the front of the stage where a guitar awaited.
The mass of flummoxed features stood agape and searched for recognition as this shadow picked up the acoustic and began to pluck gently.
The tune was familiar to the audience, but gave no clues as to who the singer was. He continued to pluck the gentle melody as the backlights dropped and the spotlight found him and presented him to the world, again.
An old man, grey and unimposing, holding himself still with grace and poise, had the whole world in his thrall, all scratching their heads while he plucked this gentle tune. All but one. Alice.
He lifted his eyes over the crowd and smiled. FLASH. Something unbelievable triggered in the hearts of millions. Then he sang and the world froze, skin prickled and eyes illuminated in wonder, as a global epiphany dawned.
"Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as often as I could have
Maybe I didn't treat you
Quite as good as I should have"
ELVIS HAD ENTERED THE BUILDING.
At a well run event the security officers and the stewards can clear the bulk of 80,000 people from the arena in a little over an hour. This night, it took four hours to clear just half of the crowd.
People wandered listlessly around or remained rooted in a mute stupor. There wasn't the usual onus to rush or be rushed home. Many stayed till dawn in huddled circles of quiet reverence. It would take long time to fully absorb the incredulity of the night's apparent reincarnation.
The man they once called Elvis played five simple songs.
'Always on my mind'.
'Suspicious Minds'.
'Jailhouse Rock', (adapted to Greenhouse Rock)
'Love me Tender'
And 'An American Trilogy'.
Between Always on my Mind and Suspicious Minds he spoke to the silent audience. He apologised for being away so long, that he was once a very lost soul and needed to go away, disappear. He said he loved all his fans who kept the spirit of his music alive. He joked that the Aliens had treated him very well. Then said there was no need for suspicion anymore.
He spoke once more before his finale. Making an emphatic and moving statement about the green planet he loved, and urging those who have the power to keep it beautiful to implement policies that will do so immediately. He thanked God for his long life and this opportunity to help in this momentous effort. He thanked his adoring fans once again with his infamous 'Thank you very much' drawl and said he sadly won't be signing autographs after the show. And finally he thanked Alice.
Beside Pierce Brosnan, an attractive elderly lady, overcome with awe, confusion and amazement began to cry. Click. All the tiny mysteries and oddities that surrounded the man she loved fell neatly into place. Overwhelmed with joy she began to sign along with the crowd and the man she loved.
Jesse Delamere. Elvis Presley.
His departure was as secretive as his arrival. He did not join the encore of stars on stage for the farewell song of the night. As the chorus of superstars, led by Sir Paul McCartney, performed the finale 'Let it be', an old man in blue jeans slipped away. Alice too was quickly ushered backstage by Jerome and his entourage. When finally the two estranged pensioners met, the first thing Alice did was deliver the mightiest slap to her beloved's cheek, she then hugged him closely and dearly as the small contingent applauded.
A lady close by announced 'I hit him that hard nearly 30 years ago'.
Alice turned to see Priscilla Presley, who smiled kindly at her. 'I suppose he has a few questions to answer for you Alice.'
Sheepishly Jesse looked Alice in the eye. 'Honey, I'm wondering if we could all just head back to the bar and discuss this over a few pints.'
Together they left the building. Their destination - a remote Irish village that was very good at keeping secrets.