We all know the scene: It’s long past midnight at the house party and things are shifting into a new gear. People clutching beer bottles or wine glasses are shuffling off into little groups. New couples are about to be created, old secrets are set to be spilled. Things aren’t quite Bacchanalian, but there’s a certain fizzing energy running through the room.
And then. Someone grabs an acoustic guitar by the neck and shouts: “Singalong?”. You groan, predicting this stranger is about to crush the festivities by launching into an impromptu set featuring the best of Oasis, sprinkled with misremembered Irish rebel songs. There’s a chance that they could ruin all the fun.
It’s understandable that the “guitar man” or woman at a party has a bad reputation — in their enthusiasm they can sometimes hijack an event, forcing people into a half-hearted rendition of Caledonia when they’d rather be connecting or confiding.
For years, I wished I could contribute to these singalongs properly. I never saw the annoyance in them —instead, they felt exciting. The fact you could never tell which way a singalong would go — wearying or revitalising — just gave them that extra edge. The great ones, where people ended up roaring together in a show of intense unity, or where someone revealed a surprising talent, proved that a good singalong was all about feeling. Emotion was key.
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I grew up in a musical house, in the sense that we loved music. But I didn’t live in a musical house in the sense that we performed music. To make up for it, as an adult I took guitar lessons. Sadly, I’m not sure that my five-second gap between each strum of the three chords I know qualifies as playing guitar. And while I love to sing, it was mostly done in private after the days of childhood party performances with my sisters. Until I started going to singing courses in my early 30s, I rarely sang in front of strangers.
This meant that when I was at weddings or parties and a singalong session started, I would look on in envy. It didn’t help that I only knew snatches of choruses to the most popular songs. I felt like everyone else taking part had gone to classes I’d never been invited to, ones that had names like “Irish rebel songs 101″ or “essential singalong tunes”. Or were they just born knowing the words?
Someone who did grow up among family singalongs was my stepdad Kieran, who came into our lives when I was in my early 20s. His large family is filled with people who are sickeningly talented at playing various instruments and who are blessed with gorgeous voices. They all know the words to countless songs. To them, singing together is baked into the family. Needless to say, I was instantly envious of this.
When Kieran became part of our family, he brought the singalong with him. I took part, but for many years I had to be coaxed into it and would sing with a look of reluctance on my face. It was as if I didn’t want to admit it was actually something I’d dreamed of doing. I was just so unused to getting to do it. Still, Kieran always encouraged me, playing James Taylor classics and learning Magnetic Fields songs so I could sing with him. When I look back at videos of us performing together at the kitchen table, I wish I’d made the effort to smile.
A couple of years ago, the singalongs at home after family events became less frequent. I didn’t notice so much, what with Covid and the subsequent fewer visits home. By the end of 2021, they were even more rare. That Christmas, Kieran was diagnosed with a lung condition that gradually and cruelly robbed him of his ability to sing.
Kieran died last October. We’ve kept his guitar where it was always kept, in the TV room with two grey plectrums tucked under the strings near the neck, and a black capo clasped on the headstock. Last Christmas, my brother-in-law took out the guitar and he and I valiantly tried to get a singalong going, nursing the others out of their fresh grief to sing just as Kieran would have done. It wasn’t a perfect singalong, but it was an attempt at grasping something from the past.
At a recent birthday celebration, we became more confident, thrusting the guitar into the hands of my partner’s mother, an accomplished player. She led us through rounds of 1970s favourites from the McGarrigle sisters, John Lennon and others, and even family members who rarely sang were emboldened to sing a tune. Google was on hand to help with the lyrics. We felt Kieran’s absence, but he seemed to be there too, nudging us along.
Kieran’s guitar could be seen as a symbol of the loss we’ve shared and that it sits unused by him is incomprehensible. But by taking it ourselves and using it to create more singalong memories, it has come to represent something hopeful. There’s now a gently renewed energy in our family when we sing together, not because we’re better (just ask the poor neighbours) but because we know how precious a gift the singalong is, and how quickly it can be taken from you.
In turn, I feel a new sense of empathy for the often-bemoaned singalong leader. I don’t see myself ever taking their place, but I can sense what they’re aiming for. Not perfection, but the corralling of people together to experience something as a group. To help them share the same melody, in the same moment.