The Past Is Another Country

Anyone who’s been to hell and back will recognise a fellow-traveller in Paddy Casey. With his third and latest album – the beautiful Addicted To Company (Pt.1) – this Dublin-born cartographer of the human condition carries on charting its lonely, painful places, and its paths to salvation through the heart.

Shot through with characteristic Peter Pan exuberance, Casey’s latest songs show that he’s developing as an artist, achieving a maturity in his soulful songwriting that points to long-term staying power – and indeed success. No stranger to irony, metaphor and symbol, and clearly a well-read and gifted wordsmith, Paddy’s lyrics on Addicted To Company (Pt.1) are typically abundant and colourful, dense with story and meaning. Yet – and here’s the rub – face-to-face, he’s an unusually reserved kind of guy, not at all forthcoming with his answers to the questions that are put to him in interviews.
To be honest, Casey is one of the toughest nuts I’ve been assigned to crack. You need a chisel to prise him open. He’s a ruthless self-editor, and has a tendency, while we’re talking, to drift off into a state bordering on catatonia. Extracting some kind of truthful picture as to the life he has led was like pulling teeth from a hen. I stumbled away from the experience exhausted, worried that when I listened back to the tape, I’d find nothing but terse monosyllabic replies with which to try build a story.
Yet strangely, reading over the transcript of the interview, I was struck by the insight and honesty of Casey’s thought-processes. Here’s someone, part born with but also pushed by circumstances towards an innately enigmatic, eccentric and perhaps troubled take on things, who instead of going off the deep-end, has managed to reach through the pain and confusion to an unusually profound kind of self-knowledge and self-healing. And much to his credit, he knows how to express all that difficult stuff in a zero bullshit, zero fat way – though you have to dig deep to reach it.
I suppose it’s to be expected, finding paradox in Paddy Casey. He is himself a fine purveyor of that particular artistic device. Maybe, as his song says, he’s an angel with enough room in his heart for everyone – including room, after a long and often extremely tough journey, for himself. Maybe...

“I used to put a speaker beside a tape recorder when I was a kid and do four-tracking that way,” says Casey. “I’d no instruments so I used to do it singing all these rubbish lyrics. I was nine or 10. I’ve always been into writing lyrics. I think I should be better at it by now though. I think I got lazy for a few years. Or I just got better with big words.
“I suppose the best lyrics, most of them seem to stem from when someone is in a bad place. I think the best lyrics are lyrics that need to be written. A lot of shit comes from what people think they need, rather than what they actually need. A lot of everything comes from what people think they want. I suppose it’s all to do with self-esteem. I think I’m, most of the time, writing for the kid I used to be.”
Aha. After 40 minutes dragging words from the singer-songwriter, here’s an inroad at last…. I push him on it.
“It’s kinda me looking at myself in a weird sort of way,” he continues. “When I was younger I used to be quite mental, to be honest. I wasn’t right in the head like. I just kinda write for that person I was. I’m cool now. I levelled out.”
Were you ever diagnosed with anything as a kid?
“No. But I just know it was a very dark place I was in.”
What age are you talking about?
“I don’t know…from when I was born.”
This causes me to burst out laughing.
“I was OK… the thing was, it was all on the inside. I wouldn’t say ‘boo’. You know what I’ve copped onto, lately. Most people have some sort of mental stuff going on. You only have to watch people. They’re not as together as they let on to be.”
I press on. What exactly does he mean when he says he writes for the child that he was?
“It’s just that I’m always aware of that guy. That he’s out there. Or in here. I don’t know how to say it without making it sound corny. I know what I was like and I know that it’s not really going to make a difference to me, because I would never have understood back then – there’s not a chance in hell that I could’ve understood.”
Understood what?
“Just seen clearly.”
About what was going on in your life?
“It’s just the way I was. I had a different outlook on things. The wrong outlook.”
Not the normal outlook?
“Maybe I did. Maybe it is the normal outlook. You just feel very…shit, if anyone knew what was going on in your head, no one would talk to you.”
So were you very quiet?
“Sometimes, yeah. But I was giddy enough – I was a kid, kids are giddy. I was secretive.”
So you would’ve had a secret inner world going on that other people didn’t know existed?
“I don’t know. Sometimes I just wanted to be like other people. When I met Glen Hansard and them, I just wanted to be them, straight away. I was 12 and they were busking and stuff. They were maybe 16 or 17.”
Considering Casey, even now, could pass for a 22-year-old – though he’s in his early 30s and has an 11-year-old daughter – I can only imagine how young-looking he was at 12.
“I thought if I could just be them, that’d be grand, that’d be me sorted,” he laughs at the memory. “I had actually started busking by then. I saw Glen and those busking back then and I asked, ‘Can I bring my guitar and play with yez?’ I’d only been playing a little while. They didn’t say no, they said yeah. They were very good though; they were really, really good. It’s something you had to have heard for yourself. That whole busking thing in Dublin was amazing, because Kila were playing as well. To me it was like the best thing I’d ever heard.”
Complete silence. No further offerings. Instinctively I become confessional myself: it’s sometimes a way of getting beyond the shutters.
“It’s interesting, that childhood thing,” I blubber. “That isolated experience in childhood is such a foundation for a lot of people who are creative. I would’ve had that experience as well, of feeling like I got off on the wrong planet when I was a kid. And now I’ve got a child with autism which is an extreme version of that.”
Nothing. I go on, to fill the void.
“Like I would’ve had autistic traits of feeling extremely isolated and a real lack of comprehension of what was actually going on… and then confusion about the rules of social interaction, it took ages trying to learn that, and then I would’ve retreated into my own little world, which is what a lot of creative people do when they’re kids, they construct an imaginary world which can be very fruitful later when they’re adults.”
“Mmmm,” says Casey. “Yeah. I don’t remember being a kid.” He laughs.
AAAAAGHHHHH! The tape’s been running for an hour. My patience is running out. And my journalistic radar is going wonky.
“Jesus Christ,” I blurt. “Come on! I have to write a cover story from this interview! Please continue about the madness of being a strange kid!”
“I think that’s it,” he proffers. “The whole buzz is everybody’s a bit different. Can you make that into more words?”
Did it get you into trouble?
“Ah no, I was all right. I knew what people were like and what people did, I knew all that. I knew about people. But there was no way in a million years that I would’ve shown someone something I’d written or something I was thinking.
“Even after I’d started busking, up ’til when I was older, still I wouldn’t have shown anyone. It was all very dark. I lived in, like you said, an alternative universe. But that’s just you’re a kid… Maybe that’s all it is sometimes. You’re a kid and your imagination runs away with you. But when you’re not playing with someone and it does it all the time and you’re on your own, then maybe it’s kind of weird. Because then it’s not a game. It’s not an interaction.
“Everyone I knew when I was that age was 18 or 19. I was the only one who was that age.”
What, when you were 16?
“No, when I was 12. Anyone I busked with – and I stayed in loads of people’s flats – lots of them were in their 20s. I wasn’t living at home by then.”
Were you still in school?
“No! Jesus, no.”
Why did you leave home and school so young?
“Oh, I don’t want to go into that at all. I think I just wanted to play music and I had no interest in doing anything else. I got a guitar at 12 and I learnt some chords so I could actually go out and do it.”
Are there musical people in your family?
“No, but my brother had a great record collection. He’s a kind of genius. He was 20 and he had a flat. I stayed with him.”
Did you enjoy that time?
“No, I didn’t enjoy it at all actually. I really enjoyed playing, though. And I really enjoyed hanging out with all them heads, y’know? And then at the same time I was having a really weird time of it. I think I figured that if you could just play music for the rest of your life then people might treat you better or greet you more openly because you play music. Whereas if I’d just been a kid running around town I probably would’ve had a much harder time of it.”
Did you carry on with your own education?
“Yeah, I read a lot more books than I would’ve read if I’d stayed in school. Thanks to Eason’s, I used to read a book every day or two.”
Where, in the shop?
Silence. Oh I get it. Casey was robbing books.
“I got caught one time when I was 18, but I told them I was 15, 'cuz I looked kinda young. So then I went OK, I can’t do this again because if I get caught and they find out I’m older, I’ll actually go to prison. So I stopped.”

There's the beginning of a rhythm to the conversation now. The knot in my stomach feels less heavy. Marginally. I keep the conversation moving. That must’ve been mad, I say, floating round Dublin city from the age of 12.
“It wasn’t really,” Casey disagrees. “I never really thought about it. When you’re a kid you don’t think about these things, you just do them. And I had music. I’d say it would’ve been a completely different story without music. There were two things I was good at – stealing and music. With music I always figured that I’d be going to the States to do stuff, and if you had a record [criminal as opposed to vinyl] it’s very difficult to get in. So I thought if I want to get a visa for the States, I better stop robbing.”
Were you stealing out of necessity? Or because you just wanted to?
“Well, I liked books and I liked music and I suppose I didn’t have money to be buying them all the time. I was too young to sign on. I think the only choice for a lot of kids, in that situation, would be to go to one of the homes or something. But having said that, I could’ve gone home. And I did go home a few times. I stayed at home for a month or two every couple of years. I even went back to school once. I had a dream I was in school and in the dream it was great because there were all these kids and they were my age and I was just hanging round with kids. That’s why I went back. Because of the dream, I rang me ma and said do you think you could get me into a school? And I went back and I was fucking horrified. Because I’d been living out and everyone else was like a kid and I was not like a kid any more, even though I was the same age as them. I was about 16 at the time. It was just the buzz of wanting to hang around kids again. And then I realised that I didn’t want to at all. So I left.”
How long did you spend back at school?
“A month or so. I dunno. School’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Are you happy these days?
“I’m on a level now. I don’t know if I’m looking for anything. I’m into films. If they brought out a new film everyday that I could watch, I’d love that. But apart from that, I don’t really want anything. I have guitars and keyboards and anything that I need to make music. I have friends that I’ve known for years. I’ve figured out who my friends are.
“I have a house in Kildare. Because it’s near to Dublin, where my kid is, and it’s cheaper than Dublin. Sure you couldn’t afford a house in Dublin; not a house where you could make noise and make music. I did half of the album in the house, in the kitchen.
“It’s nice having the house. I’ve spent the last while out there, not hanging out in town. Maybe that’s just middle-age setting in. I live there on my own, but I’ve got a friend who stays there a lot.”
Casey hums to himself smiling slightly. He clams up and gazes into the middle distance. Earth to Planet Paddy…
Do you get angry about things?
“No, I don’t get angry at all. I used to get pretty pissed off. But I stopped drinking years ago, so I find you don’t get as angry when you’re not drinking. It was great craic but I’d be dead by now if I was still drinking. I stopped when I was 26 or 27, five years ago. It came to a head so I had to stop. I was a raging alcoholic. I always had fun though. But I was pissed for years. I’d been drinking since I was 13 or something. Mind you I didn’t drink properly, all the time, playing music or whatever – till I was 19. But before that I was just smoking dope all the time. It was one or t’other. I don’t even smoke any more. When I’m 60 I’ll go back on the drink and try yokes. I’ve never taken an E. I just figured that if I like the other stuff that much, E is supposed to be great so I would’ve loved E. I reckon that I would’ve been too into it and I didn’t need another drug on my hands.”
Did you find it hard giving up drink? Did you go to AA or anything?
“Not at the time, no.”
Did you have a bad withdrawal?
Silence.
“I won’t say anything, I’ll leave it.”
But he changes his mind.
“It was pretty mental all right. I spent a lot of time talking to myself. The madness was good fun, the DTs. It’s quite strange. I had this thing where I could watch anything I wanted on a telly in front of me, even if there was no telly, just the wall. A whole film,” he laughs. “You’d see it. It was good fun.
“I wouldn’t recommend the DTs though. When you get so much pain, your body... I think it just releases this thing so you don’t feel the pain any more. It was gas craic. I was hearing things, I was seeing things. It was just like… there were bad things and good things, but I didn’t give a shit about the bad things. It was like no fear, but having all this really horrible weird stuff as well. It was more real than acid or something, more real than a trip. I wasn’t average DTs. I was full-on madness. I’d say if I’d gone to a psychiatrist I could’ve been put away for a while. But if I was talking to you at the time you wouldn’t have known what was going on. I was good at hiding it. But I’d say I looked like shit.
“At that time I couldn’t play a note. I physically couldn’t pick up a guitar and play. I hit it hard because I couldn’t play. When that happened, I was like shit, what’s going on? I felt I was fuck-all use. I suppose it was depression.”
Do you use anything now to get high?
“No, I never even take painkillers unless I really, really have to. I did so much damage to myself drinking that I can’t actually take them. Shane MacGowan wouldn’t be a patch on me. I drank a lot. I was in the big drinking competition in the sky.”
What would you have done if you weren’t a musician?
“I probably wouldn’t have been drinking if I wasn’t a musician, because it’s all free when you are. I don’t know what. Football or hurling or something. I was good at sports.
“I used to think that music was the be-all and end-all of everything. But it’s not. And I suppose it was stupid to think it was. There’s a lot more people doing a lot more worthwhile things out there than satisfying their own needs. Music’s kind of selfish. But I suppose it helped me.”

We've arrived at a place where at least some kind of truth is to be found. We've lifted the stone together. I feel a weight off my shoulders. And then the dreaded words…
“You’re not planning on using that stuff I said about drinking?”
Well yeah, I say, the tape was rolling.
I know, and I’m sure he does too, that this is what interviews are for. Getting a perspective on things. Offering readers and fans new insights… I tell Paddy that it’ll help people struggling with their own personal demons to read how successfully he’s come through some seriously mad shit. And I believe it: he has lived a remarkable life – and in the process, despite the slings and arrows that life has aimed at him, despite quitting his education at the age of 12, he has become a poet, capable of distilling the big truths that others merely dilute. Just listen to Addicted To Company (Pt.1), a great record by any standards, and one that’s packed with songs of real emotional depth and resonance, for confirmation.
He doesn’t try to twist my arm or bully me. He leaves it up to me, but implied is a request not to abuse what he’s said or to sensationalise it. I understand his concern. And I think: fair play to Paddy Casey – a private person who spent much of his youth keeping his true self secret – for agreeing to lay himself open.
“I’m really shit at interviews, by the way,” he says, after two hours of me doing most of the talking. “I’m a bit of a nightmare. To be honest, I really wish I was like Kate Bush and didn’t do interviews. Just because you do music doesn’t mean you’re any good at talking.”
Yeah. But what a brilliant – and ultimately triumphant – story Paddy Casey has to tell. b

Paddy Casey’s new album Addicted To Company (Pt.1) is out now on Sony/BMG