“You come home late, and you come home early,” whines the bleary-eyed man with the beachball belly and the deflated, puckered face that resembles nothing so much as a balloon the morning after the party the night before. “Sometimes, you don’t come home at all.”

The singer (for that is what he claims to be) is perched upon a three-legged barstool which possesses all of the act’s charisma and stage presence. Its tendency to creak and snap beneath his weight also adds a much-needed melodic touch to the proceedings.

His voice is probably not quite the worst in the world, but it’s definitely a safe bet for the European title. When he tries to croon, it sounds like a garbage disposal unit with something stuck in its teeth. When he chances a falsetto, there’s mutiny on the high Cs.

Thankfully, the old saying gets it wrong. There is rest for the wicked. Eventually, even a song-murderer as ruthless as this guy feels that he’s due a break, and he slopes off to the bar to dunk his whiskers in some pots of foamy ale. Unfortunately for the well-being of my ears, stomach and psyche, however, there’s no time to enjoy this respite. The man from IMRO tells me that we have to go. Our next port of call awaits.

We drive out into the frosty Monaghan night, savouring the noise of every passing Northern Ireland bound cattle-truck: a medley of Beach Boys harmonies compared to what we’ve just had to endure (Who says that cross-border smuggling is an entirely negative phenomenon?). Before long, we arrive at Ballybay, and The Ballybay Inn. And not a minute too soon either. As we enter the premises, the four-piece house-band have just struck up their Saturday night showpiece. It turns out that they’re playing our favourite tune.

“You come home late, and you come home early,” they warble. “Sometimes, you don’t come home at all . . “

I have never been a particularly brave or courageous indi-vidual. I may not be completely yellow but I’m certainly a rather dark shade of primrose. Panic under pressure, hyperventilation under fire – these are my bywords. When it comes to the crunch, I’ve got nerves of solid steam. You get the picture?

Therefore, having swiftly dismissed valiant heroism as a motivating factor, I can only conclude that it was something closer to raving lunacy that prompted me to agree to this assignment. Indeed, short of a sleepover in a cutlery warehouse with Lorena Bobbit, I can’t think of any activity that sounds less appealing than a Saturday night tour of some of Monaghan’s “Singing Pubs.” But, hey, I guess I should thank my lucky stars. At least I don’t have to do this kind of thing for a living.

The man from IMRO does. As the Irish Music Rights Organisation’s Infringement Officer (to give him his official title), it’s his job to travel throughout the country collating evidence of copyright violation in venues of all kinds where music is played – bars, discos, supermarkets, shopping centres etc. – but where the obligation to pay composer royalties through an IMRO licence is ignored.

Owing to the surreptitious nature of his job, the man from IMRO prefers not to reveal his true identity, and describes himself only as Agent Ruairiquinn, a reference to the uncanny resemblance he bears to the current Minister for Employment. Fortunately for her, Agent Ruairiquinn’s assistant (codename: Corporal Punishment) has not been cursed with any physical similarity to a Cabinet Member.

For those who have still to be introduced, IMRO was established in 1988 as the Irish licensing and collecting arm of the British-based PRS (Performing Rights Society) which, since as far back as 1914, has controlled the whole area of musical copyright in Ireland. From January 1st, 1989 onwards, this responsibility was transferred to IMRO who now administer all performing royalties in this country, both on behalf of Irish composers and overseas composers whose music is played here.

Obviously, given the sheer number of Irish recording artists that has emerged in recent years, and the scope of their success, the setting up of this home-based bureau with its local knowledge and expertise was long overdue. This fact has been emphatically borne out by the increase in copyright revenues collected, from IR£1.7 million in 1988 to IR£6.7 million in 1993. The monies collected from public performance alone (non-broadcasting) has risen from just IR£700,000 in 1988 to IR£4.2 million in 1993.

Nevertheless, despite this massive transformation wrought by IMRO, the curious anomaly continues to exist whereby Ireland is still regarded by the PRS as merely an ancillary territory to the U.K. As Hot Press has previously reported in more detail, IMRO’s campaign for recognition of this country’s independent status has gathered considerable momentum during the past couple of years. They certainly seem to have gone much of the way towards winning the argument where it counts, with the PRS themselves. Some last-minute attempts at filibustering by the U.K. headquarters aside, IMRO now believes that autonomy by 1995 is a realistic prospect.

At the moment, there are sixteen IMRO agents operating in different regions throughout the country. Their stated aim is “to inform and adjust the attitudes of people who use the work of the hidden composer for gain – monetary or otherwise – and to take the appropriate action to protect the composer against such illegal exploitation of his work and to secure for him a just remuneration.” Put more simply, they want to create an atmosphere in which the requirement to pay the annual IMRO tariff will become as widely accepted as the requirement to regularly pay ESB and gas bills.

Slowly but surely, this message is sinking in. The licences themselves are not exorbitant, especially when one considers that payment entitles the licensee to blanket permission for the public use of any copyright music controlled by IMRO. Furthermore, after the first year’s tariff which includes a once-off administration fee, there is a significant reduction in the cost of second and subsequent years’ tariffs. The actual licence charges themselves are calculated on the basis of the size and nature of the business in which the music is played and the method (live, radio, television, etc.) by which it is played.

Most proprietors, when alerted to their obligations in this regard, opt to do the right thing and take out an IMRO licence. Others, however, are more obdurate. They give an entirely new definition to the phrase treat like royalty – being treated like a royalty by such people means being completely ignored, dismissed, derided and never paid. That’s where Agent Ruairiquinn comes in.

“In each region, the local IMRO agent visits any unlicensed business where music is being played,” he explains. “The agent will go back many times, explaining that the law is on IMRO’s side and that they’re obliged to have a licence if they want to play music. Eventually, however, no matter how often they’re told, some people will still refuse to pay the tariff. The agent then sends in a report to head-office in Dublin and, at that stage, I’ll make a sort of undercover visit to the premises in search of hard evidence of copyright infringement.

“By law, IMRO are entitled to apply to the courts for an injunction and an order for costs and damages against an unlicensed premises. We don’t like taking it that far but if we have to we will. When I visit, I have to hear evidence of at least three infringements of copyrights vested in the PRS, and that then is the first step towards taking them to court. We still give the proprietor another opportunity to comply, however. But if they still refuse at that point, then there’s nothing more we can do.”

“You come home late, and you come early. Sometimes, you don’t come home at all.”

Speed kills, but not as slowly or as painfully as ‘Speed Of The Sound Of Loneliness’. Every Monaghan pub we visit tonight seems to feature someone or other wielding this John Prine standard like a lethal weapon and causing considerable GBH to the hearing apparatus of all present. Despite what appears to be this song’s status as the unofficial county anthem, however, its composer, like all composers, is not deemed worthy of payment. Monaghan, it turns out, is a bit of an IMRO blackspot.

Take the afore-mentioned Ballybay Inn, for instance. Its proprietor, Patrick O’Brien, has not taken out an IMRO licence and has insisted that the only music played on the premises is “traditional” music, which by its nature is out of copyright. When we pop by, however, a four piece rock ’n’ roll outfit called The Jets are in full flight with a set that includes material by Bill Haley, Fats Domino and Big Tom, not to mention a certain well-known John Prine track.

“We do an odd night like that but that’s not the point,” asserted Patrick O’Brien when contacted by Hot Press later. A member of the Vintners Federation of Ireland, O’Brien says he objects to the IMRO tariff because, among other things, it has to be paid a year in advance (“that’s crazy – in business, you never pay for anything a year in advance”) and because, he believes, too much of the money goes out of the country to the PRS in Britain.

Meanwhile, back on the trail. We travel to Shantonagh to a pub which asserts that it “never has music” – aesthetically, they may have a point but, curiously enough, there in the corner sits a guitar-strumming troubadour belting out the likes of ‘Travelling Light’, ‘Things’, ‘Workin’ Man’ and, of course, ‘The S-of-the-S-of-you-know-what’. Over at Deery’s (Supermarket, Undertakers, Seeds and Fertiliser Merchants, Auctioneers and Lounge Bar) in Carrickmacross the Saturday night clientele are glued to ITV’s Barrymore on a TV set for which they do not have the appropriate IMRO licence (when contacted subsequently by Hot Press, a Mr. Deery cryptically told us to “ring Callan’s up the road” and then hung up). And so it goes, on and on and on.

In reality, Monaghan is no worse than a lot of other counties when it comes to IMRO licences. When pushed, Agent Ruairiquinn singles out Kerry as the region he has had to visit most often on the trail of copyright transgressors, but he adds that every county is pretty well represented in his case-book.

Part of the problem in rural areas is that the Vintners Federation of Ireland, the group which represents all publicans outside the Dublin area, refuses to do business with IMRO and, indeed, could be said to actively encourage its members not to comply with the copyright requirements. Meanwhile, though there are several instances of bar and disco owners in the capital who are trying to renege on their obligations, the society of Dublin publicans, the Licensed Vintners Association, has had meetings with IMRO and has alerted its membership to the importance of being properly licensed.

Finally, it has to be said that there is one oft-neglected side-effect to IMRO’s current campaign of intensive surveillance. Judging by my experience in Monaghan, were it not for Agent Ruairiquinn’s spot-checks then nobody would actually sit down and listen to some of the performers who showcase their talents in the nation’s public houses of an evening. The man has the patience of a saint, or else the ears of a statue.

“IMRO is here to look after the interests of composers,” he says. “It’s not our fault if a band doing covers somewhere is bad or good, or if they only do the usual clichéd few songs. We’d be more than happy if new and unknown songwriters were getting more exposure and therefore a bigger share of the royalties. Some people think that all songwriters are loaded anyway, and that they don’t need any more money. But the truth is that 80% of Irish composers earn less than £250 per year from the performance of their work. They’re the people I’m really working for when I’m travelling around somewhere like Monaghan. That’s why I feel that it’s a very worthwhile job.”

I couldn’t agree more. But if only I could get that bloody song out of my head. “You come late, and you come home early. Sometimes, you don’t come home at all.”

Aaaaarrrgggh!