Neil Hannon's lost Promenade-era biographical poem
Long time correspondents will be aware of my near obsessive love of Neil Hannon's band The Divine Comedy. I declared them as my favourite when I was an awkward sixteen-year-old and have held that line ever since.
The first few albums - Liberation and Promenade - are particular favourites. They're full of songs about slightly literate, slightly awkward people trying to find their place in the world. Young Ben loved albums that had songs based on F Scott Fitzgerald short stories, or Wordsworth poems, or that had a checklist of authors. Older Ben still does too.
The albums went out of print in the mid-2000s and were extensively remastered and reissued in 2020 with reference to old notes, press releases, and reviews. Obsessive fans have collected and collated much Divine Comedy material over the years including demo tapes of pre-Divine Comedy Hannon groups and appearances as a choirboy on Songs of Praise. It's very unusual to find anything new, particularly from that early era.
I'm a little amazed that I recently found a nice piece of otherwise forgotten ephemera, a small A7-size booklet labelled "THE DIVINE COMEDY - PROMENADE" on the front page containing a mostly iambic ABCB biographical poem. It's typed (and even has an obvious smudge of Tippex), photocopied, and stapled like a zine. Context suggests it was maybe sent out with postal orders made directly from the label, or possibly as a bit of promo for journalists who were sent an advance copy of the album.
It's funny, it's unpolished, and it reveals a few biographical details that, to my knowledge, aren't widely known. My favourite part is Neil revealing his lack of faith despite his parents' best efforts.
For posterity, I've transcribed the full poem here. Each page is shown as its own block of text. Odd capitalisation or punctuation is the author's own.
It came to me this morning
This morning in a dream
You cannot share a story
Where no story has yet been
It Came to me this morning
While sitting up in bed
That writing my biography
Is harder done than said
With many a deadline pressing
As pressing as can be
And Every hour Upon the hour
A phone call just for me
And many a call expressing
Some doubt about my birth
While telling me incessantly
You’re costing us the earth
It all helps to remind me
Remind me of my youth
I’d lie in bed and groan
‘My heads sore
And thats the truth’
It all helps to remind me
Of listening to Moz
Funny how I’m still ill now
Back then I never was
Oh it doesn’t half remind me
Though I’ve tried to forget
Of homework due in ’82
That I’ve not finished yet
And suddenly you find one
In a reflective mood
With phone unhooked and
We’ll start this book
With my awakening rude
I was born on gift day
on gift day I was born
That last of three young boys
To be dragged from the dorm
Yes I was born on gift day
Into the Derry air
Unfortunately I had difficulty
In breathing my fair share
So I began a whooping
A whooping cough had I
I whooped and whooped
Until I puked
They feared that I might die
Yes I began a whooping
and some of you might say
This whooping sound
Can still be found
In vocals to this day
But valiant doctors saved me
They saved me from that fate
They placed me in a plastic skin
And watched me incubate
And valiant nurses bathed me
And cleansed me of my sins
Much more than I can say
Of my religious upbringing
My valiant mother brought me
She brought me up to be
So pure in thought in word
In sport in bed in court indeed
My valiant father taught me
How faith and god will call
with the result
That this adult
Believes in bugger all
We owned a grand piano
A Beckstein grand at that
A brilliant sight
In black and white
Although a little flat
We owned a grand piano
I hammered it one day
Some keys were chipped
Some ears were clipped
This boy was born to play
Grade 1 I played it badly
Grade 2 I played it worse
Grade 3 I played
To their dismay
So badly that it hurt
And so I laid it sadly
To one side of my stool
Switched on a tape
To ape Nik Kershaw
Like a fool
I got my first real six string
A six string made of trash
I got if off a dodgy goth
In need of ready cash
I got my first real six string
I played it every night
I didn’t know an amp shop
So it sounded pretty shite
I got a second six string
And formed my first real band
A motley crew of school friends
With nothing better planned
I got my act together
Soon after leaving school
And so began the D.C. band
and we were fucking cool
We did some gigs in Belfast
To Belfast we did go
The Limelight star , Rosetta bar
And Johnny Hero show
We did some gigs in Belfast
And played in Dublin too
And all have paled
*Through memories veiled
While one comes shining through
For this gig was a battle
The Battle of the bands
And every year
*The vintage cheered *
And made signs with their hands
We’d always lose the battle
And always we’d complain
This ruddy gig
Is bloody rigged
But nothing ever changed
Until we did a demo
A demo we did do
And everywhere
The demo dared to go
It was refused
Untrue declared the demo
And holding in its hand
A Contract signed
In hand refined
Neil Hannon and his band
The label was Setanta
*Setanta was its name *
And if you hate
My work to date
Setanta is to blame
The label is Setanta
And Divine Comedy
Is the thing
To which I cling
And ever more shall be
Whoopee .