▶ For reasons revealed below, this post was created as a blank entry on June 24 of this year and actually updated on September 6, 2026 — the date when one of the greatest and most singular musical phenomena the world has ever been fortunate enough to know would have turned 55.
▶ Dedicated to David Houston, my faithful companion on my most unusual adventures; Julia Volker, my inspiration for putting together the Dolores Forever playlist; Anna Flores, who enthusiastically cheered for me to bring to life the sudden idea that ultimately gave rise to this (not so) brief private memorial (and, I believe, also for me to finish it by this symbolic date); Des and Martin, the two Irish gentlemen who actually made the execution of that idea possible; and to all fans of Dolores O’Riordan and The Cranberries around the world.
Ever since I created the Dolores Forever playlist, I’ve always wanted to write a few words, however brief, about how these awesome songs have become a huge part of my little life; but, justified by the full awareness of my most absolute irrelevance, I kept this desire sleeping peacefully for the last five years. After all, what could a fan as invisible as me possibly say about the already widely acclaimed work of one of the brightest superstars in international music?
Yet, a recent and partly unexpected experience I had, abruptly awakened that dormant desire, urging me to try, before it’s too late, to offer my tiny contribution so that, at least within my own small universe, this voice that has reached the deepest parts of my soul continues to be heard loud and clear, literally.
It sounds like an ambitious daydream, I know. But, to my disbelief, it’s not exactly rare to come across someone who says they’ve never heard of Dolores O’Riordan, nor even her renowned band, The Cranberries . “The world is truly lost,” I keep wondering as I retreat into my complete inability to fix a single and minuscule piece of it.
But this is not about saving the world! By recording a portion of the moments when Dolores, even without knowing it, embraces me with her loyal and cosy company, I am saving my own memories, before time, inevitable and relentless, comes to fade them, little by little or all at once. Now, if despite being completely personal, these memories can prompt someone to get to know the fascinating legacy of this deeply unique artist, whose songs have so often been my saving grace, I will feel that I too will have left a little bit of beauty in the world.
THE SUDDEN EMPTINESS
January 15, 2018: oblivious to the news of the last few hours and living my normal routine, I went to the gym. While exercising on one of the machines, I saw a face on one of the TVs that, from afar, looked like a Brazilian actress whose career I would enjoy following. I interrupted my workout to go see up close what new project she was promoting. As I got closer, I realised it was, in fact, a face even more familiar to my eyes and, above all, to my heart. On the screen, Dolores O’Riordan — whom I, in my imaginary intimacy, have always referred to just as “Dolores,” but whom a good part of the world only recognises after being introduced as “the lead singer of The Cranberries,” the Irish band internationally known for hits like Zombie, Linger, and Dreams, among others that many people, distracted as they are, don’t even realise as part of the soundtrack of their lives. Thrilled with the possibility that she was announcing a concert in Brazil, I hurried to read the headline below the photo. In that split second, something left my life and it suddenly seemed empty… Under circumstances that were still unclear, her body had been found in a bathtub of a London hotel.
She never knew it, but she was part of my life from my late teenage years until that fateful day. She will never know it, but she will continue to be a part of my life until the end of my days.
THE ACADEMIC YEARS
I wish I could remember only January 1994. Those were different times. Before the popularization of the Internet, information, including music news, used to take months, sometimes years, to cross the borders between countries. Because of this, it was only eleven months after being released in Ireland that Linger reached Brazilian radio stations; at the time, my main source of music consumption. From then on, The Cranberries would stay in my life forever — all of them, because I strongly believe that the work of a musical group is always the result of the sum of the individual talents of each of its members, but I can’t deny that my connection with the owner of that voice, at once so powerful and so gentle, became so special and unique that I can’t even find a word to describe it. And, modesty aside, I know it’s not due to a poor vocabulary, but because some feelings simply transcend all the words that the richest languages have ever been able to invent.
That same year, I was studying to get into my first college and had just bought my first CD player. Obviously, the album Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We? was one of the first to join my small collection of these now-obsolete items. Besides Linger and Dreams, which were massive radio hits, my 1994 was strongly marked by Put Me Down.
From 1995 to 1997, the happy days when I was attending my first college course were often accompanied by the albums No Need To Argue and To The Faithful Departed — and it is with deep sorrow that, so as not to triple the number of paragraphs in this post, I will for now resist the immense temptation to talk about the relevance of some of their songs to me. Fast forward twenty-five years, between 2020 and 2022, the gruelling days when I was attending my fourth and (hopefully) last college had their extremely rare and short intervals of relief visited by the albums Something Else and In The End, along with the track Losing My Mind, from the album Roses, whose lyrics sounded like the perfect synthesis of the insanity that was imposed on me by that institution.
That is, Dolores was with me from the first to the last day of my twelve (non-consecutive) years of academic life. Curiously, the first of them was lived in my hometown, where I heard her for the first time and now record these memories; the last, something I would never have thought of in that distant past, in Toronto, a city with which she maintained a strong connection due to her twenty-year marriage to Don Burton, the Canadian with whom she had three children.
THE “CITY OF THE SUN”
Among my many addresses, I lived for ten years in a metropolis famous for having temperatures so high that it could be nicknamed the “City of the Sun” (although, to me, these words sound far too poetic to describe that chaos). Its characteristic heat, however, was the least of its problems when compared to the brutality of urban violence, as well as the widespread rudeness and dishonesty that, explicitly or subtly, affected all social classes of that population, from the poorest to the wealthiest. Living twenty-four hours a day, every day, with all that constant fear and social wear and tear weighed even more heavily on issues that, for as long as I can remember, have troubled my soul. In many ways, I was dying inside, like a frail little plant slowly drying out… in the sun! In my fan daydreams, it felt like Dolores had written Dying Inside and Dying In The Sun just to comfort me, like a close friend who, attentive to my pain, knew exactly which melodies and words to sing while enveloping me in a cosy embrace.
On those long, sunny, and scorching days of eternal summer, the sound of the waters in Them was such a real refreshment that I could almost feel on my skin the coolness of the drops running discreetly between the dramatic and surgically precise beats of Fergal Lawler’s drums. Even today, every time I listen to it, it feels like I’m fulfilling my wish that music could transcend sound waves and exist also as a palpable matter in which I could dive into and forget the rest of the world. It’s curious how such a dense and tense song can make me feel so good! [An effect, by the way, achieved also by many of her other sophisticated compositions.]
This refreshing well-being that today is just a few clicks away arrived for me via international shipping, in the Treasure Box — a compilation containing the complete recording sessions for the band’s first four albums (and I could never fathom why in the world Them had been left out of the first one!). Along with it also came the albums from Dolores’ solo career. What I could never have imagined was that one day I would come to live just a few hours from the lake pictured on the cover of one of them, let alone that the very landscape which had served as a comforting refuge would later reveal to me the side of the desert I had yet to experience: the long, dark, and freezing nights of an endless winter.
THE COLD AND FROZEN DESERT
In the twists and turns that life takes, after ten years walking on the nearly positive 40 degrees sands of the “City of the Sun,” my feet suddenly landed in the almost negative 40 degrees snow that covered the Canadian soil, believing that there they would have their forever home. The first four months in that place were so packed with commitments that I didn’t get to listen to In The End, the band’s latest studio album, as soon as it was released (in April 2020, therefore, after Dolores’ death). But, despite filled with activities, the days were still filled also with the hope that we would soon be fully established in that country that had promised to be as magical as a fairytale castle. It turns out that every castle has its dungeons — and this was the true face that that land did not take long to show: a prison coated with illusions, where both my soul and life would quickly get cold and frozen. A few months later, already aware of having fallen into the hugest of all the traps hidden in the places I had been, I was walking around Toronto streets when I finally got to listen to that album. I could barely believe it when the last track, not by chance also titled In The End, began:
“Ain’t it strange when everything you wanted was nothing that you wanted in the end?”
More than ten years of planning to move to those lands and, in less than ten months there, that country took almost everything from me: my house; my car; not the clothes, but the very few pieces of jewellery I had, including a gift David had given me on our four-year wedding anniversary that I had never worn, first because I feared being robbed (or, worse, attacked) in the “City of the Sun,” and later because I was waiting for a special occasion; my freedom; almost all, if not all, of my convictions; face-to-face time with the people I love most; so many other intangible values; and, ultimately, my beloved four-legged son, my most precious treasure. As for my spirit, it was shattered into pieces that, to this day, I’m still trying to put back together. But it was too late! Going back to Brazil wouldn’t bring back anything that had already been lost. While I once again would feel that I was dying inside, the only thing to do was stay there, insisting on believing that one day all those promises would be fulfilled.
THE CREATION OF THE PLAYLIST
Countless times I wanted to give up on everything, everything! Among the few other oases that brought me some relief were the affectionate and providential messages from Julia Volker, one of my very favourite human beings in the world, then separated from me not only by long seven-thousand kilometres, but also by an inconvenient six-hour time zone difference. Whenever she asked me “how are you doing?” (and she is one of the extremely rare people who ask this question truly wanting to hear the answer, whatever it may be) The Pressure crossed my mind, because at least for a few moments all my worries would dissipated from me and I would felt so much better, despite all that overwhelming weight that burdened my shoulders so heavily. Geographical limitations didn’t allow it, but how I wished we could meet! Once again, it was Dolores who brought me the comfort that could not be consummated. During those long and harsh winters, upon listening to The Glory, somehow I felt Julia close to me, almost warming me with her embrace — and that’s how I had the idea of creating a playlist in order to introduce her, beyond the obvious hits, to these songs that move me so deeply. 🥹
By coincidence or by destiny, it was the eve of what would have been Dolores’ 50th birthday. Because of this, I decided that my playlist would have 50 songs and, on September 6, 2021, I published it on a Spotify profile that, due to technical issues, I ended up deactivating. In the description, I wrote these simple words: “In loving memory of a voice that has reached the deepest parts of my soul.” I shared the link with only four people. A few months later, on December 15, the posthumous release of Angela’s Song (theme from the movie Angela’s Christmas and one more reason to increase my desire to visit Limerick) captivated me right on the first listen and, thus, the playlist ended up with 51 tracks (well, since one of them appears in two versions, I can still argue that they are 50 😇). At some point later, I recreated the playlist on my current profile, shared it with the same four people, and went back to my routine. About a year ago, I noticed by chance that it had organically gained a few dozen followers. ☺️
PS: I swear I’ve tried, three or more times and at different stages of my life, to like at least one song from Science Agrees, album by the trio D.A.R.K., which was a Dolores’ side project in partnership with Olé Koretsky, her boyfriend at the time of her passing. But it was in vain… I can only think that it’s just a huge waste of Dolores’ immeasurable talent (and I no longer have the slightest inclination for another attempt). [#ThereISaidIt 😬]
THE MOST UNIQUE CRY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE
In 2024, due to unforeseen circumstances, I had to go to Brazil. As a safety valve for the turbulent situation I was about to face, I dared to pull an old desire out of the drawer: “learning to play” the drums (in quotation marks because it’s too much ambition for someone completely devoid of musical gifts). Right from the first lesson, understanding that after my mini-intensive course I would return to Canada and, at best, continue to study on my own, the teacher deemed it would be important for me to learn to read sheet music and, with extraordinary patience and didactics, always combining theory with practice, she began to teach me the ABCs of those magical symbols that until then I had seen but not understood. A few days later, during a short break in a series of relatively more complex exercises, she looked at me and asked: “Do you have any idea what song we are playing here”? Curiously, it was while looking at the sheet music, not “playing” it, that I realised it was nothing less than Zombie, one of the songs I had told her that, if I ever managed to play it, I would have beaten the game of life! For the first — and, to this day, only — time, I cried, compulsively, with joy! 🥹
Me, daring to play a simplified intro of Zombie on the drums, accompanied on the bass guitar by Heloísa “Miyagi” Helena, one of the best teachers I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. [“Miyagi” is an affectionate nickname I gave her due to her surprising teaching methods]
To clean our ears from my evident musical ineptitude, here’s The Cranberries’ most famous song (which, for me, is one of the two best protest songs ever written):
THE BIG BALD LAKE
Back in Canada, we soon began to plan our definitive departure from that cold and frozen desert. Before leaving it for good, however, David, always attentive and eager to fulfil all my wishes, remembered that we still hadn’t been to the place I most wanted to see in all the vast expanse of that territory: the Big Bald Lake, depicted on the cover of the No Baggage album, and around which Dolores established her home during the years she lived in that country.
February 9, 2025: right in the middle of winter (after all, I wanted the lake to be frozen, like in the photo), we rented a car and off we went! We knew beforehand that we wouldn’t be able to identify exactly which house she lived in, because, out of respect for the privacy of the current owners, the inhabitants of that area don’t disclose that information. But being able to set foot on the same lake that once was partially part of her house’s backyard sounded good enough to satisfy an innocent fan desire, and going on such a small adventure couldn’t possibly be that difficult…
…as if anything within those inhospitable borders were easy! While all the lakes I had ever visited before had minimally regular contours, the Big Bald Lake looks like a huge and sloppy ink stain on the ground, but its exotic shape was the least of the obstacles to reaching its frozen waters. We spent a few hours zigzagging along its edges without finding a single access that didn’t cross the limits of private property. Even though those boundaries were invisible (few houses in North America have concrete barriers around them) and almost all houses were empty due to the harsh winter, out of respect, crossing them was not an option for us. Frustrated and exhausted, we decided to head home.
Source: Google Maps
A few minutes after starting our way back, we spotted an area between two properties that seemed large enough to pass through without invading anyone’s privacy. We agreed that if we managed to find a place to park the car, which is unlikely on narrow streets clogged with snow, that would be our last attempt. As we approached, to our surprise, behind all those huge snowdrifts we had seen from afar, there was a spot — flat, clean, empty, and public — that could easily accommodate at least two vehicles.
With a little more luck and some careful observation, we found a safe path to finally reach the lake, which was not only frozen but also covered with a generous layer of snow. There was no way of knowing how close or far I was from the house where Dolores had lived, but it was certain that, even from another angle, I was facing the landscape that for many years she had seen through her windows, sometimes while composing some of her most beautiful melodies. During the long time I stayed there silently contemplating that scenery, despite the many negative degrees around me, inside me, my heart and my soul felt embraced by a soft and warm blanket.
The soundtrack for the trip, obviously, couldn’t have been anything other than the playlist I had created a few years earlier. On the way home, however, those dark and deserted roads seemed especially inviting for listening, at full volume and on repeat mode, the song that, for me, captures Dolores’ most intense interpretation: her special vocals in the dramatic Senza Fiato, her special participation in the dramatic Senza Fiato, by the Italian rock band Negramaro. By the end of that night, I had nothing left to do in that country.
At this point, it’s clear that if I were to list all the times Dolores has kept me company, I could write a book — which, by the way, who knows, could fill an embarrassing gap on the shelves, physical or virtual, of bookstores around the world, since, at least to my knowledge, no book having her work and/or life as its central theme has been published yet. But, given my smallness, I finally move on to share the unexpected adventure that made me want to record these memories.
REFLECTING ON LIFE AND DEATH*
June 23, 2026: after so many other twists and turns in life, I have the chance to visit her grave.
[…]
“What irony”! Someone who became so huge and so special suddenly ends up in such a small and simple place” — this was the first thought that came to mind when I saw the size and discretion of the Caherelly graveyard. How can it be that some (or many) still haven’t understood that death makes us all equal?
Some contradictions surrounded me at that moment.
Under the bright daylight, with my feet on the vivid green grass that now covers the ground where her faded mortal remains lie, I remembered the night I held her hands — the most unique and indescribable emotion I’ve ever felt!
Only in my most audacious fan reveries would I have imagined such a feat! In my real life, back in 1994, when The Cranberries became popular on Brazilian radios, this country simply wasn’t on their tour routes; much less was it within my po$$ibilities the expectation of going anywhere beyond the borders of my unimportant hometown. Sixteen years later, to my surprise, the band announced their first performance in Brazil, in the very same neighbourhood where I then lived in the “City of the Sun”! On January 28, 2010, there I was, right at the barricade, watching Dolores sing just over two meters from my incredulous eyes! At some point, I almost had a heart attack, out of frustration, when, as she came down from the stage to greet the audience, she walked in the opposite direction from me. At the end of the gig, I came back home obviously euphoric for having been so close to those four artists who have always been so close to me, but with the images of the most unexpected and improbable concert of my life partially tinged with a hint of sadness. A few days later, to my even greater surprise, I could barely believe it when they announced they would be back in a few months. On October 12, again glued to the barricade, but this time knowing which way she would walk as she approached the audience, I got a more strategical spot and managed not only to hold her hands, but also to touch the tattoo she had in honour of Taylor, her firstborn son. Again, I almost had a heart attack! But this time, out of absolute ecstasy!
Life and its coincidences, happy or sad… Another sixteen years later, there I was, not fascinated in front of a stage that amplified her most beautiful melodies, but powerless before a tomb that now confines her voice to the most irreversible silence. As is typical of me, I was soon overcome also by the most intense feelings, including a sort of “quasi-resentment” that still disturbs my poor heart to this day: “why, Dolores, why”?
The rumours circulating back then raised suspicions that divided my thoughts. Despite being aware of some of her struggles, including an attempt to end her suffering, the part of me that knows, through her music, the moving love she held for her children was certain that this feeling would give her the strength to stay here for them for all eternity, if possible. On the other hand, the part of me that day and night experiences incomprehensible pains and not infrequently also considers giving up on everything wondered: even if she had made that choice, who could judge her? Yet, when the official report finally came out, a year later, the revelation that it was indeed an accident reignited a secretly smothered question I had kept quietly suppressed. Getting into a bathtub after drinking alcohol? It may look beautiful in movie scenes, but, in real life, of course that will not end up well! Once again, the echoes of that cry kept murmuring withing me: “why, Dolores”?
What lies behind my apparent rebellion is, in fact, my indomitable difficulty in accepting the fact that sometimes there is nothing left for us to do but to accept swallow, without the slightest pinch of salt or even a drop of oil, what some call “destiny” — often a sneaky thief who, in the still of night, steals from us our most precious belongings.
Only 46 years old! She could have lived so much longer! But behold, fate arrives and surprises all of us with its relentless and inescapable claws. In the blink of an eye, those close to her were deprived of all the love she had to give them; her millions of admirers around the world, of all the beautiful songs that her unique talent and sensitivity would have written to soothe and embellish our lives. My only consolation comes from the observation made long ago by another equally talented artist who was also taken from us far too soon: “the good die young” — and it’s not even that strange, but just the way this so-called fate finds to spare them from the new diseases, new wars, and all the other new misfortunes that this mad world never stops producing. For all of us who were touched by her Art, all that was left is the piercing pain of her absence. For her, finally, came the liberation from the pains she carried in her own name.
*Reference to the phrase inscribed on the bench donated by the O’Riordan family to the Caherelly Graveyard.
THE MEMORIAL PLAQUE
As I turned my attention back to the grave and to the mementos left there by a few other people who had also passed by, I realised that, despite having planned that visit, I hadn’t even remotely considered doing something similar — and, indeed, such a thought wouldn’t have been natural to me. Despite understanding that these are acts of affection, in my Cartesian reasoning, I see no point in posthumous tributes; after all, for obvious reasons, the honouree can no longer appreciate them. Furthermore, I wouldn’t have had the slightest idea of what to offer as a tribute to an artist of Dolores O’Riordan’s stature. Even so, I felt a twinge of regret over my lack of creativity. But, since there was nothing more I could do about it, around an hour later, we returned to our temporary home on wheels, not without first going to see up close the mural depicting Limerick’s most illustrious citizen.
Being in those places moved me so much that at the end of the night, in an extremely rare act on my part, to the sound of When You’re Gone, one of the songs sung at Dolores’ funeral, I posted two photos of those experiences on the status of a popular messaging app. I remembered my playlist and decided to share the link to it as well.
When David saw my status, only the next day and with just fifteen minutes left until an appointment I couldn’t postpone, he looked at me and said, “Hmm, you know what would have been nice? [dramatic pause] Making a ‘little frame’ featuring the playlist cover to leave there at the grave.”
The typical insight as brilliant as it is obvious! How come that I hadn’t thought of it before?! This, indeed, would make sense there: something not exactly for Dolores, but that could contribute, even if timidly, so that her voice continues to resonate throughout the world. Of course, the visitors who go to that place don’t need someone to introduce them to Dolores O’Riordan. The Caherelly Graveyard is far, waaay far, from any minimally tourist location. To get there, one has to really want to visit it. That is, I don’t believe that “fans” who “do not associate the name with the person” would make such an effort. But, for this very reason, I dare to imagine that those who actually go there are precisely the ones possibly interested in finding the essence of her work in a single playlist, from the massive commercial hits to the B-sides.
A race against time started right at that moment It was a little past noon on a Wednesday. We had planned to return to Dublin right after lunch; this, in turn, would be after my appointment, scheduled to finish about an hour and a half later. The ‘little frame’ David had mentioned was a kind of customised picture frame I had made as gifts for some dear ones, featuring covers of other playlists. In all previous cases, I had created the images freely and then ordered frames based on their specific measurements, a job that usually takes a few days to be done. We needed to simplify the idea and reverse the order of the steps: first, we had to find a ready-made frame; then, I would create the image based on its dimensions; and, finally, we could print it. I went into my meeting and David went to downtown Limerick to look for a frame shop and a place to print photos with minimally decent quality.
When we met again around 2 PM, he told me that, in just a few minutes of walking, he came accross a photo centre that, to our complete surprise, printed photos on materials suitable for funeral occasions. We would never have imagined this solution, mostly because we had never seen anything even remotely similar in the photo centres of the various major cities where we had lived. The granite memorial plaque, the most resistant material and one that lasts for centuries, would require at least a week to be produced. Our return flight was on Saturday. An alternative would be to make it in slate, a material that, although not as resistant to the sun, would withstand other climatic factors for at least a few years, perhaps five. For someone who had already resigned themselves to getting, at best, an ordinary picture frame holding a photo that would disintegrate at the first drops of rain, that possibility was the most surprising and beautiful light that could have appeared at the end of the tunnel — and, if we managed to send the image by 5 PM (which, in practice, meant giving up the other activities scheduled for that day), the plaque would be ready the next morning.
It turns out that, to create the image, I needed to better understand some technical details. We returned to the photo centre, which cost us about twenty minutes of walking. After clarifying my questions, we decided to enter the café next door and order a snack. In practice, we were buying the right to use its facilities (desks and Wi-Fi) so I could work on my newest “project”. I knew beforehand that this attempt to save time was bound to go wrong. For starters, unlike the rest of the world, I can’t stand even the smell of coffee. 🤢 Besides that, I have sensory hypersensitivity — which means that all my senses (smell, sight, hearing, touch, and taste) are much more acute than those of a normal person, not to mention the intensity of emotions. To complicate matters further, I also have Central Auditory Processing Disorder, a difficulty of the brain in processing sounds in noisy environments. Simply put, I literally can barely add two plus two when I am surrounded by lights, sounds, aromas, crowds, and any other elements that disorient my poor neurons.
In less than three minutes in that place, I was in a panic! The only chance to recover my capacity to reason was to retreat to the quietness of our “hotel”, which would consume another forty minutes of the already compromised time. After so many comings and goings, internet connection failures, unresponsive websites, and many other technical difficulties involved in creating the image, at 4:06 PM we were back in downtown Limerick, ordering our improvised memorial. We left there and went to find a restaurant for lunch.
While we waited for our dishes, I kept agonising over the flaws in the image I had created. The website name, the link to a post that was still blank, and the Spotify code, which isn’t even very popular, were all too large. On the other hand, the QR code, which everyone knows how to use, was too small. Everything seemed disproportionate and out of place. In my eagerness to send the file by 5 pm, I simply put together the relevant pieces of information in the first minimally acceptable layout, without even trying a second possibility. In my defence, besides lacking artistic talent, technical skills, and the right tools to produce graphic work, I was completely overwhelmed by all the emotions involved in the process — and these little creatures, by themselves, affect my mental clarity much more than any external factor! Only there in the restaurant did I realise that there was still some time to improve that image, but it was too late! At that moment, all I could do was hope that nothing went wrong in the execution of that project. Before we even finished our lunch, other customers started arriving for dinner.
At 10 AM the following morning, our order was ready — and it turned out to be so much more beautiful than I had imagined that the imperfections of my own creation faded into the background. That is, the QR code does require a bit of patience to be read, because, since I forgot to consider the image’s border (🤦🏻♀️), it ended up even smaller than I had planned. But, after all, what use was a code that led to a still-blank page? All that really mattered was that Dolores’ voice continued to be heard; and, for that, the Spotify code was doing its job with honours!
🙏🏻 THANK YOU NOTE
I can’t fail to express here my most sincere and profound gratitude to the two helpful gentlemen who assisted me at The Photocentre Limerick. Without Des’s genuine interest in advising me on the best solution for my case, and without Martin’s dedication in producing the piece in such a short time, these notes, which are so precious to me, would not even have been written.
Des/Martin,
Lacking Dolores’ gift for writing a beautiful thank-you song, all I have to offer you guys are these few and simple words: thank you so very much for sparing no effort to fulfil our last-minute request. I hope one day I can meet you again to thank you in person. But, if that day never comes, know that both of you will also be in my memories forever!
THE LAST GOODBYE
To return to the cemetery, we decided to rent another car. Better put, a “real” car. As I subtly mentioned, we were touring Ireland in a RV. Putting it into numbers, a vehicle that is 2.33 meters wide, 3.00 meters high, and 7.40 meters long. As if manoeuvring these “symbolic” dimensions while driving on the left hand didn’t make us apprehensive enough, the back roads of that little island-shaped music factory defy the law of impenetrability — the one stating that two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time, but this topic alone would spawn another whole series of posts. For now, I’ll stick to the fact that we chose to rent an extra-tiny car rather than face those “roads” again aboard that monstrosity.
When we got there, after contemplating the serenity of that place a little longer, we gently moved a few items that were already on the grave a few centimetres so we could fit our “little frame” among them. At that very instant, within the limits allowed by the circumstances, on that small piece of slate lovingly placed at the foot of the most beautiful tombstone in the discreet Caherelly Graveyard, the intangible connection I feel with Dolores was, at last, materialised.
BACK TO MY LITTLE LIFE
In my (now public) fan fantasies, I would have been a reserved part of Dolores’ most intimate circle.
In my reserved real life, that was the closest point I was allowed to reach within the history of Dolores O’Riordan, who will always be a huge part of my most little and intimate stories.
For someone who, in their teens, had never imagined that crossing the borders of their unremarkable hometown was even possible, the last thirty-two years have been quite a journey! And I’ve gone incredibly far!
To sum up her relevance in my life using her own words, here are two slightly modified lines from a song that, due to the limitations of my self-assigned challenge, ironically, wasn’t included in this playlist: Cordell, composed as a posthumous tribute to Denny Cordell, the producer who helped boost the career of The Cranberries and whom Dolores used to see as a father figure within the music industry.
She means something more to me than what many people will see
(and I hope she has gone to a better place…)
Cordell, from the album To The Faithful Departed, featured in the In Loving Memory Of… playlist.
♪ DOLORES FOREVER
A playlist by Musings N’ Music]
My playlist in loving memory of a voice that has reached the deepest parts of my soul: Dolores O’Riordan [The Cranberries].
[Songs in mostly chronological order]