There was nothing like the phenomenon of "Nothing Compares 2 U," which was ubiquitous on British radio in spring 1990 during my first-ever trip abroad. (I remember that song and "Birdhouse in Your Soul" by They Might Be Giants being in super-heavy rotation.) The indelible video -- a doe-eyed waif with a voice from the heavens interpreting a Prince song.
Imagine being forever trapped in that one image -- the tear streaming down her cheek, a beta copy of a manic pixie dream girl -- and having to always compete with that initial stamp on the pop-culture consciousness. Nothing, or no one, compares, indeed.
O'Connor, who died this week at 56 after a trying life, was a key contributor to the Heyday of the Planet of Sound, from the mid/late '80s to 1994. From power ballads to dance grooves, her voice was unmatched. She was already in heavy rotation on MTV's "120 Minutes" with her first hit, the propulsive "Mandinka," when she followed that up with the sophomore effort "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got," an album that is as solid from track 1 to 10 than just about any release you can think of. There is the sparse "I Am Stretched Out on Your Grave," "Black Boys on Mopeds" and the title track, plus irresistible dance songs, "Jump in the River" and "The Emperor's New Clothes":
Within a year, she ripped up a picture of the pope on national television and shredded that version of her career. Two weeks later, when she showed up for a tribute to Bob Dylan (his 30th anniversary ... 30 years ago), she was booed so viciously (while also being cheered) that Kris Kristofferson threw an arm around her to comfort the pariah. She would sideline the band and shout out an a cappella version of Bob Marley's "War."
She made what was probably a common mistake with her third album -- a one-eighty into jazz standards and show tunes. By the end of the '90s her album sales had plummeted. As the millennium dawned, she would venture into albums of traditional Irish ballads, reggae (!), and theology (she was ordained as a priest by an outlaw Catholic sect). She would deal with health issues both physical and mental (among other things, she had to reconcile growing up in an abusive, highly religious family). Last year her son died at age 17.
In 2021, the New York Times profiled her here. The first sentence: "Sinead O'Connor is alone, which is how she prefers to be." It marked the release of her memoir, "Rememberings."
My favorite memory related to her is from 1988. I had made my way down to Atlanta for the 1988 Democratic convention, never scoring a ticket to the convention floor but spending time in the overflow hall of the Omni to watch on the big screen with the common man. (One of the few regrets in life was not taking up the offer of a pretty woman to be an extra in Robert Altman's "Tanner '88" HBO series, which was shooting concurrently as a quasi documentary.)
My college friend Nancy B, who had recently relocated to Birmingham from Chicago, drove over to meet me for a night. We went to a club called Rio. It happened to be the same night that Rob Lowe and his brat pack pals were partying in a private room at the club, where Lowe would eventually pick up a 16-year-old girl, leading to a salacious video scandal. While celebrity shenanigans were unfolding, Nancy and I were on the dance floor of Rio, reliving our college-era club days, and we were completely blissed out to O'Connor's "I Want Your (Hands on Me)," a feeling I'll never forget.
Let's leave it with her live in 1990 in Rotterdam, starting out onstage alone (as she prefers to be) and tiny, before opening her mouth, with the unrivaled anthem "Last Day of Our Acquaintance." Alone and at peace.
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