Thursday, 12 February 2009
I am a loose woman. Not many people know this so I will explain. Just over a year ago I was asked to become a panellist on Linda McDermott’s “Late Night Live”, a BBC Merseyside program where an eclectic mix of topical news that might be interesting to sassy ladies is discussed. Initially I was a Monday Madam, but quickly I became a Tuesday Tart.
Asa Murphy would definitely be of interest to any lady, sassy or otherwise, who likes that old fashioned, romantic Sinatra kind of thing. One Tuesday he was invited into our garrulous sanctum and entertained all with his smooth voice and down-to-earth manner.
That night he was riding high, having just sung to great acclaim at a sell-out concert in the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall. Before it had been Ronnie Scott’s, and later it would be the Liverpool Arena, not to mention Colleen McLoughlin’s Hen Party.
After one of his songs was played on air, someone commented that he could be Liverpool’s answer to Michael Bublé. I thought he was even better, possessing that rare talent for perfect phrasing. Furthermore there was a certain intense energy about him, the essence of which came across in his singing. Certainly it caused the collective hearts of The Tuesday Tarts to beat faster.
This aside, Asa was very unassuming. Growing up in a large working class Irish family provided a level grounding for whatever life might throw at him. Airs and graces were strictly off the menu, the ability to laugh at yourself always on. Previously a care worker, and before that an assistant in WH Smiths, Asa has never been trained musically. His natural talent has propelled him forward by chance, opened back doors and led to his full time career singing at “front of house” today.
Intrigued by Asa’s resemblance to Chet Baker, I looked him up on the net. His photos did not do him justice so I got in touch and offered a free shoot - he was beginning to get a lot of publicity and I figured he could use a solid headshot to tide him over. Also, I told him, I would like to do something more unusual for my own projects.
Two days later Asa was sitting in my kitchen, talking candidly about things that were troubling him deeply. It was there that I captured the kind of shot I like. Then, we went upstairs to the studio and I took the kind of shot I thought he could use. And that was that. I gave him the photos and forgot about it.
Some months later he called me up and said that his first CD was coming out on this forthcoming Valentine’s Day and that he had used one of my photos on the cover. Normally I would have been miffed at not having been consulted before the fact, but not so with Asa. I was genuinely pleased that I had been of help. He was bright and happy and his troubles were behind him. I asked him about the songs on the CD and he went into long detailed analysis of each one, his enthusiasm brimming over. Finally though, he said modestly, I do not really like doing studio work, it is the on-stage performance that gets me going.
Disarming and unassuming as ever, Asa Murphy is one to watch.
To catch Asa live or order his CD please visit www.asasings.com
Sunday, 1 February 2009
What do you say to a grief stricken woman who has lost her only son? It was January 13th and we were sitting in the front room of her pristine house in Childwall drinking tea, and today was his birthday. Pauline had put the fire on.
If he had been alive, Joe would have been 25. But he had been dead for three years, and his mother was still distraught with unspeakable emotional pain. Especially so on this day. I asked Pauline if she would talk about Joe, and talk she did, unable to come terms with what had happened. While listening, I set up my camera.
Not long after this lovely, dignified lady started to cry, just lightly, and I sat down next to her. I have never seen such raw grief up close and it entered me forcibly. I was at a loss.
With Pauline’s permission, I began to photograph her and in so doing captured the gauntlet of emotions a bereaved mother experiences through sudden death. She cried, and frowned, expressed anger, remorse, guilt, and yes, when she recalled the mannerisms of her beloved only child, Joe, she smiled and, sometimes, almost laughed.
I stayed almost three hours and wept too. We hugged. Every ounce of my being felt for Pauline. There were no solutions or remedies I could offer, just a shoulder to cry on, and a stranger to be able to be open with. It did us both good.
On October 29th 2005 Joe was a passenger in a car that spun out of control in Wavertree. Such was the force of the collision that he was flung from the car and killed instantly. The driver survived. Joe was meant to be in another car, but it was one of those twists of fate that sent him to the back seat of this car. Life, and death, always seems that way.
His end was abrupt, and his suffering short, but the same cannot be said for Pauline who lives with the consequences of that night, and the subsequent painful court case, every second of her life. For her there is no respite as the tableau of every day existence only serves to remind her of what and whom she has lost.
How do you cope when a child dies? It is a question that I ask myself often, a fear that I hold deep inside myself like most mothers. I cannot imagine surviving the loss of a child, let alone the loss of my ONLY child. But survive Pauline does, for she knows she must, though that does not ease her pain.
By working with specialist organizations to create awareness of the consequences of death caused by road crashes, Pauline has sought to create something positive out of tragedy. Joe’s family and friends have raised money for a number of charities and a chorister’s award has been set up at the Metropolitan Cathedral where Joe himself had been a chorister. This very afternoon there was to be a presentation at The Walton Centre in Joe’s memory. But she was hurting so much I could feel the strength of it in the very atoms of the room, and so I did the only thing I know to do, that could help. I recorded her breadth of her emotions.
I hope this image of Pauline, unplanned, raw and real, is intended, shows how terrible bereavement is - that it does not just happen in war, but here, in our safe modern world.
Every day, mothers, and fathers, like her are being bereaved unexpectedly. Some stories make the news, others, like the murder of Rhys Jones, spark off the public’s consciousness, and yet more get a brief mention, then trickle away quickly from the public eye, leaving the bereft family adrift in a world that for them has changed forever. The best they can do is to allow their suffering to make them better, more caring people. Because sudden death is negative. It is destructive. The future has to balance this sorrow. It has to heal and mend to create something whole. But this whole will never be the same again. Never. Again.
Look at Joe’s Mum and imagine.