The sadness of Sinead

Sinead O’Connor’s death was announced yesterday. She was what – 56? 57? Far far too early to leave this life.

I remember being startled by her shaved head and the way her beauty made that seem totally irrelevant. She also seemed, although shy, somebody who was fond of thinking and ideas.  And – most importantly – she recorded the definitive version of ‘Nothing Compares  2 You’. Soaring, swooping, terrific backing, amazing voice. As a pop song it’s up there with ‘Teenage Kicks’.

But like many artists, Sinead made the mistake of thinking that because she had an angelic voice, she must explain the world and life to people. She was like John Lennon: when she opened her mouth to sing, you swooned, when she opened her mouth to give her views on contemporary matters,  she talked largely tripe. Her religious journey from a Catholic background to a detester of the pope (whose picture she tore up on TV in a patently attention-getting and slightly toe-curling gesture) to ordained priest complete with round collar, to Muslim woman. You could admire her constant search for meaning in life; or you could see her as erratic and immature, bouncing from one denomination to another.

We expect too much of our artists. Because someone is a great painter, his/her views on politics must be great also. It ain’t necessarily so. Because you excel as a singer, or an athlete, or an actor, that doesn’t mean your opinion on anything other than your art means a damn thing.

Poor gifted Sinead. She delivered near-perfection in her trade. In other matters, she was as dumb as the rest of us, with the added disadvantage that her cringe-making daftness was exposed to the world. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a h-anam.

Ar fheis Dé go raibh a h-anam.