Phil Lynott seemed the epitome of cool when I was a kid; there weren’t many black rock musicians in those days and Phil exuded a roguish, vagabond charisma that was the very opposite of the posh white boys I went to school with.
I never met him but about ten years after this I was sharing a flat for a short time with a girl who was named as “the other woman” in his messy divorce. Small world.
Back in 1973 I had no idea this was a traditional song, about 300 years old, or that it was about a real Irish highwayman back in the 1650s. It was first popularised by The Dubliners – their version has 18 million YouTube views to Thin Lizzy’s 10 millon – but this was the only one I knew.
That long-drawn-out opening guitar line by Eric Bell and Phil’s piratical persona – he could easily have been a highwayman himself – and strong Dublin accent entranced me and drew me into the song’s story of 17th century derring do and treachery.
This was the first time I had heard Thin Lizzy – at the time a power trio of Lynott, Bell and drummer Brian Downey. Not so for my wife, saw them regularly at the weekly Temperance Hall disco during her teens in Longford, the band alternating on Saturday nights with Taste and Horslips
I had only two encounters with Thin Lizzy myself.
On one occasion, as previously reported here, their guitarist (not this one but Brian Robertson) drunkenly accosted me outside a Patti Smith after-show party to admire my T-shirt and promptly threw up at my feet.
Around the same time I went to see Thin Lizzy live at the Hammersmith Odeon (as it was, and always will be to me) and Phil inquired whether there was anyone in the crowd with any Irish in them. After the roars of national pride came the inevitable punchline: “Well if there’s any girls wanting any Irish in ’em, come backstage after the show.”