Declan Finneran

I recall first hearing music when lounging on a living room carpet, below a timber-framed TV. It was 1990, “The Saw Doctors” were bringing "I Useta Lover” to the Late Late Show.

In 94, from the cab of a Vanette in Roscommon town, I heard Whigfield’s “Saturday Night”. The tones soaked into my bones like butter on steaming roosters. Ears hung on every line, as heels hammered the street to the disco, and amber sodium vapour stretched down Main Street like a runway.

Music can draw you in and paint a backdrop of your life, years later it can haul you back to old times in new places, where memories flood the wiser mind, as brass, keys, strings, wind or drums; springboard from the stage or stereo.

Snug in vinyl furrows, iron filings, CDs, MP3s, or laminated in the soul of a live performer, music seeks release, to free the artist from the art, to enchant the listener to jump on-board.

From a young age I’d become fired up whenever I realised I shared a space with a musical instrument. It became the fulcrum of the room. Christmas later brought a nylon stringed guitar, and over time each string was set free from the neck. In the later 90’s a Tanglewood moved in. Aimless anthems began to merge with reason. The rest has wrought into history.

I hope my sounds render well in your life, and encourage you to also explore a creative chasm!

Deaglàn