Many of Sinéad O’Connor’s neighbours in Brixton say they didn’t even know she was there. There were no fans gathered on Thursday outside Loughborough apartments off Coldharbour Lane in London, where she lived for the final few weeks of her life, and where she died alone.
No flowers tied to railings, no grief on display. Just whispered conversations between locals, stunned that such a musical titan had been living anonymously among them, before being taken far too soon.
But when somebody dies in Ireland, people always like to come together. Irish-born, London-based DJ Annie Mac said she stayed up half the night on Wednesday after news emerged of O’Connor’s death, playing her music, reading her words.
At 10am the next morning, Mac called the London Irish Centre in Camden, north London. She suggested holding a public gathering at the centre on Thursday evening to remember O’Connor. Irish people, and especially Irish women, in London wanted to come together to celebrate her. “There is comfort in communion,” said Mac.
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The gathering was quickly advertised online. Within minutes, all the places were booked up. By 8pm, more than 500 people had arrived for the event, which included music, recitals of O’Connor’s written work, stories and recollections of who she was, and all that she achieved.
Ireland’s deputy Ambassador to Britain, Fiona Flood, was among the crowd, which also included comedian Aisling Bea and television presenter Laura Whitmore. She read an excerpt from O’Connor’s memoir, Rememberings.
London-based Irish harpist Lisa Canny played and sang a stirring rendition of the Foggy Dew, a song closely associated with O’Connor in recent years. Canny drew a roar of approval from the crowd when she said O’Connor was “the original hysterical woman, but in the best way, the woman who talked back”.
Outside, more crowds of Irish and Irish-linked people assembled. Jillian Ryan, from Tipperary, travelled to Camden from Wimbledon for the event. She said she just wanted to be around other Irish people, and to remember O’Connor as a “truthteller and someone who believed in justice”.
London-born Ciaran Reynolds, whose parents are both Irish, said he was too late to book a place for the gathering. But he was drawn to the area anyway. “Something brought me here. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was her music. Or maybe it was just her. She was a one-off.”
Inside the venue, tears mixed with laughter, lots of laughter, as people were invited to share their memories and stories of O’Connor inside the Irish Centre’s McNamara Room, which by now was effectively functioning as the London Irish diaspora’s back kitchen at an impromptu wake.
As the evening wore on, the queues at the bar lengthened and the atmosphere became ever more intimate and personal. At one stage during the event, background music played while the organisers waited for someone to come on stage. It was Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.
“All through my wild days, my mad existence, I kept my promise, don’t keep your distance.”
Nobody was keeping their distance. In life, O’Connor was at times divisive for some. But in death, she had brought everyone together.
