Sinéad and Quincy Jones, on the blower, and with Michael Hutchence

It's wild, really.

A long, long white Lincoln limo like a benevolent shark glides up to this itty bitty pickup truck
that's whizzing down Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood. It's night-time, see, the infant hours
of the new morning, and above there's an almost-full moon and on either side. out of the
corners of both eyes, purple and blue and yellow and green neon lights flash by.

The black windows of the white limo move down electronically and bow-tied faces, all teeth
and money, poke themselves out of their cushioned womb into this unairconditioned world.
"Hey!" they regale, stretching the word like a rubber band. "H-e-e-e-y! You were great, rilly
great...". And the limo's parallel to the pickup truck now, it's silently rocketing past, and in the
open back of the truck beneath the balmy Californian nightlight Sinéad O'Connor smiles shyly
back, embarrassed at the praise and exhilarated too.

In Hollywood, people hire a white stretch limo to carrry them to the toilet. And here now this
girl who a few hours ago stunned the big ol' USA from New York to L.A. to anywhere even
vaguely in between, this girl Sinéad O'Connor and her manager Fachtna O'Ceallaigh are riding
around town in the back of an open pickup truck, their backs resting against the cab and their
feet stretched out under the skies, stretched out and exhausted and wired with excitement,
running the events of the day through their minds.

It's been wild. The car - just a regular Mercedes 'cos Sinéad doesn't like limos, doesn't like
what they do to people's heads, how it makes some folk feel superior - the car picks up
Sinéad and Fachtna at 7:30 in the morning, drives 'em for an hour or so through the heat
of the morning to the Shrine Auditorium. It's rehearsal time, rehearsal for The 31st Annual
Grammy Awards. This ain't like appearing at the Marquee or The Palladium or The Wembley
Arena. No sir or madam. The Grammys are to the music business what the Oscars are to
movies.
Big Stuff, y'understand. America watches it on coast-to-coast TV, America reads about
it in The New York Times and The Los Angeles Times, front page stories.
Who won and who did what and who wore what....

Sinéad O'Connor has been nominated for a Grammy Award for 'Rock Vocal Performer, Female',
for her stunning debut L.P. 'The Lion And The Cobra'. Competing against her in the nominations
are two other newcomers, Melissa Ethridge and Toni Childs, plus the anachronistic soft metal
singer Pat Benatar and the old warhorse herself Tina Turner. Melissa Ethridge and Toni Childs
are going to be performing on the show. And so too is Sinéad O'Connor, this special and
compelling and gifted artist of innocence mixed with awareness, of delicacy flavoured
by power.

And now Sinéad is moving around the backstage Artists Green Room, this 22 year old child
mother from Glenageary in County Dublin in Ireland, and she's asking people for their
autographs: Anita Baker, Sarah Vaughan, Henry Mancini, the composer who's had 70
Grammy nominations since 1958 with The Peter Gunn Theme.

It's 9 o'clock in the morning and these people, they don't know what to make of this girl with
the five-o'clock shadow on her head, a short black leather jacket hung with exquisitely painted
sleeves like a biker's tattoos, this jacket worn over a white t-shirt graced with a picture of the
Blessed Virgin Mary. Her jeans are open at the knees and on her right leg above the gaping
denim there's a patch that bears the name of her 18-month old son, Jake. And on the left side
of her head, drawn on, there's a circular something that looks like the sights of a rifle. The logo
of rap group Public Enemy. There's been a wee bad vibe from some rappers, a boycott of the
gig for not fully reflecting their music, but rapper Kool Moe Dee is here, shades on and shiny
blue suit like the Bacofoil they undoubtedly use in Buckingham Palace.

Out of politeness she asks Andy Williams for his autograph, seeing as she's asked everyone
around him. Andy, who compered the first seven Grammy Awards, is marvelling at how they
get the show together these days, "all those microphones and things."

She goes up to trumpet maestro Dizzy Gillespie, a white-haired man just sittin' on a little table,
asks him for his autograph. "You're jokin'!" he says, amazed and pleased that this slip of a thing
wants to know. "I just did a two month tour of Africa" he announces to no-one in particular.

"They made me a chief."

Now Sinéad approaches a smart and casually dressed gentleman whose glasses hang from the
v-neck of his expensive sweater. This man has arranged or produced for everyone from Aretha
Franklin to Ray Charles to Frank Sinatra to Michael Jackson. In music bizness terms he's hotter
than heat and he's lookin' cool, lookin' truly bad. Quincy Jones, yes. So Sinéad asks him for his
autograph and Quincy asks Sinéad for her autograph "for the kids, they'll kill me if I don't get it"
and someone takes a photograph of these two people together and Quincy hands the man with
the camera his card, gets him to promise to send him the photo of himself with Sinéad.

Michael Hutchence from INXS, barely recognisable in his new look like he just stepped out of the
shower 'cos someone rang the doorbell and said "Let's go", Michael, he sits in the room quietly
taking in all the blather and the blanter. It's very relaxed here: no hassle. And there are sliced
raw carrots in a dish in the corner if you fancy a nibble. Fruit juices too, coffee even.

Come showtime at 5 o'clock Iggy Pop will arive with his lady Suchi. He just got in from Australia,
eighteen months on the road non-stop, something like that, and tomorrow he's off to Mexico
"for a holiday". Among the new bow-tied dinner jacketed men he looks odd and marvelous and
fresh. Suchi looks fab too, a short black skirt dangling loose suspenders.
The Big Ig has been nominated in 'Hard Rock/Metal' for his powerful single Cold Metal. "I'm not
really meant to be here" he lies, delighted that he is. "I'm from the streets".
You can only tell him that health has its hazards, tell this rubbish to this man who has rolled
away the stone to continue in the eighties and beyond as one of the most vibrant rock 'n' roll
arists ever.

Iggy gets an enormous cheer from the crowd behind the police barriers as he arrives at the
Shrine Auditorium. You tell him that you don't mean it rudely, but you're amazed at how
enthusiastically he is recieved by eager fans and onlookers and filmers and photographers.
The Mayor of LA, Tom Bradley, being interviewed under the canopy for TV. gets momentarily
forgotten. "I'm amazed too" Iggy says, laughing.

But the loudest pavement cheers greet the arrival of The Queen of Rock'n'Roll. He is here now
watching rehearsals, sits in the back row of the auditorium with Walter "my drummer". Little
Richard it is in the flesh, which is generously trowelled with make-up. His teeth flash, his husky
grin coming dangerously close to cracking the panstick that liberally adorns the face behind
his shades. He's wearing black leather motorcycle chic, all studded, the sort of thing worn by
people who wouldn't be seen dead on a motorbike. More camp than a row of tents, he looks
magnificant, radiating at full throttle as people timidly approach, heads bowed in respectful
supplication. His seat is his throne, and people draw near for an audience, to worship at the
altar of ego. "You're from Ireland, huh?" he whispers like he gargles with Brillo pads. "I recorded
with U2 on Sunday, added some vocals on 'When Love Comes To Town', the track with BB King".
He pauses, his shades gazing out at some unseen vision, his mind strolling like a cloud in a
breeze. "My my," he enunciates softly. "My my...."

Al Green, the Reverend Al Green, one of the sweetest soul singers of all time, he sashays off
the stage into the wings. Poetry in motion, he is. He's dripping diamonds from around his wrists,
from his fingers, from around his neck, a star of diamonds on his jacket. He oozes sex, and
females are lookin' back to see if he is lookin' back to see if they are lookin' back at him.
Foxes on heat, indeed.

Sinéad stirs up courage, joins in asking Al Green for his autograph.
"Love and Happiness" he signs. Then she asks quietly "Would you bless me, please?" and
he holds her hands, holds her hands out in front of him and he looks to the ground in silent
evocation and all around the hustle and bustle stops, hushed suddenly, all eyes drawn to
this private and personal holy act. He releases her from his tender touch and evaporates
out of sight. "Al Green blessed me" Sinéad repeats again and again, her eyes wide at the
wonderment of it all.

Finally it is almost 5 o'clock in the evening and almost showtime and those that aren't famous
enough to get freebie tickets, they're sittin' in seats that are being flogged on the street for up
to $1200. Brian Wilson sits stiffly trapped inside a monkey suit, Joni Mitchel's jewellery tinkles
expensively. A music business lawyer, all black tie and manicured mind with a wife in the
auditorium who's made a plastic surgeon a rich man, he escapes to take a leak in the marbelled
urinal downstairs, leans over and says "Three hours is a long time for a show". Why are you here
then, you ask. "Business", he says, shaking the drips from his third leg.

At 5 o'clock, the televised Grammys start. Amidst the drek and waffle there's some exemplary
music: the gospel groups Take 6 and The Winans united in song, their voices crying out to the
heavens in happiness and celebration. Country music giant Buck Owens, clad in a cow-hide coat
that almost reaches the floor, his malted voice lassooing the weaker ones of his duettist Dwight
Yoakem. Deep-voiced Luther Vandross. Dizzy Gillespie, his cheeks puffed like a bullfrog weaving
muted trumpet, Sarah Vaughan - the woman of whom Frank Sinatra said "Sassy sings so good,
I want to cut my wrists with a dull blade and let her sing me to death" - her gorgeous voice
effortlessly gliding. Opera singer extraordinaire Leontyne Price, winner of 18 Grammys, soaring
through Puccini's Tu Tu Picollo Iddio. The classical player Itzhak Perlman breathtaking on the
violin.

And now the compere, American superstar comedian Billy Crystal, is introducing this girl from
Ireland and the music starts and this girl walks out on the stage, same jeans with 'Jake' on 'em
that she'd been wearing all day, same ol' clunky Doc Marten boots, and a black leather basque
over her chest. "I don't know no shame, I feel no pain... I can't see the flame" she is singing in
her extrodinary other-wordly voice. "I'm dancing the seven veils" her voice all soft and ethereal,
this mysterious song Mandinka, a pop song, a rock song, a Sinéad song dammit, and she's
swaying, dancing, moving, her mouth to the hand mic.

The audience can't believe this girl with the shaved head with the wierd circle on it and her
torn jeans and big black boots and... bloody hell. But they're entranced, the audience are,
they're mesmerised by this startling artist. Now the singer is carried by her music. "I do know...
Mandinka... I do-o-o ...." and she plays with the words. "I swear I do" and the voice rushes
skyward, free and flying.

Everybody goes bonkers, converted and going absolutely crazy for this captivating girl. A Star
revealed, truly. SO... Bobby McPherrin and Tracy Chapman scooped up seven awards between
them. Iggy and his 'Hard Rock/Metal' namination lost out to those cobwebbed dinosaurs Jethro
Tull. George Michael got 'Album of the Year' for Faith and Sinéad, now sitting in the audience,
jumped up in the air with excitement. Whitney Houston opened the show dressed in a slinky
white glittery dress, the sort that fits where it hits. She sang One Moment In Time and her
voice was soulfully dazzling, better than any Whitney Houston records. Tracy Chapman closed
the show, clad in humility and shyness and a true sense of shared emotion, singing Fast Car.

And Sinéad?

Sinéad was beaten to the Grammy post by Grammy veteran Tina Turner, who recieved her third
annual award - this time for the long-forgotten LP Tina Live in Europe. Ah, what the heck.

See, she'd nearly drive you mad, Sinéad would, if you didn't love her so much. She says she
hasn't slept properly for days, thinkin' about the Grammys. She's been sometimes wound tighter
than a watch spring. All very well for you to say "Relax...." All day long, well for days actually,
she's been asking "Do you think I'll win?" until you cruelly forbid the question. Now, backstage,
she says that she wasn't nervous about the singing, no not at all.

"I'm going to be singing to Al Green and Little Richard! Can you imagine?" Sinéad had said some
days beforehand.

But when she was on stage, it was a man in a gold suit that caught her eyes. Sitting in the
front row, he was. Grinning ecstatically, his head weaving to the music. If ever you saw a man
visibly pouring out love and warmth and joyous energy... well, there he was. Stevie Wonder.
Groovin'... "When I saw Stevie Wonder was into it... well..." Her enormous eyes go bright and
excited at the unbound thrill of it all, shining brighter than Al Green's diamonds.

And she beams the most captivating smile in rock.

And then... flashes of uncertaintiy.

"Was it alright?" she asks about her performance on stage, her face all serious and self-doubting,
her eyes like a frightened doe looking down at the floor and then back at you, praying for a good
truth. And you want to hug her and tell her she was brilliant, and you do. Sinéad's parents come
backstage now and the first thing she says is
"Was it alright?".

And now Sinéad and Fachtna are breezing through the lit-up darkness of Hollywood on the back
of a pickup truck driven by some American friends. The Grammys seem a million miles away,
unreal, unbelievable, like an extrodinary dream. It's been a long day, even longer than a limo.

A brilliant day. Fachtna and Sinéad are cruising on exhaustion pumped up by exhilaration.

"This has been the best day of my life, ever" Sinéad announces, then turns and says laughing
"Can I borrow your camera? There's an amazing sign coming up at the Car Wash that says
'Bees do it. Birds do it. We undo it'."

Hollywood...

That's showbiz.

Fresh Magazine April 1989
Words and photography by and © BP Fallon