I was on the Union Square subway platform when I heard the familiar notes cascading off in the distance. With the arrival or departure of a train they would choke into silence. But I knew those notes and the choice of chords that anchored them, and as I strolled closer I remembered hearing them for the first time in Sin É Café.
A young man was rehearsing on the makeshift stage, picking at what seemed like random chords on his guitar, worrying them into shape. He finally settled on a sequence that pleased him and began to sing, quietly, to himself.
I vaguely recognized the Leonard Cohen song that has since become an anthem. Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah is now a standard, and 35 years later the busker in the subway was copying it note for note; it sounded as ethereal as when I first heard Jeff work on it.
It says a lot for Sin É - and even more for Shane Doyle - that Jeff Buckley and so many other artists found their way inside Shane’s bare-bones emporium on St. Mark’s Place.
I’m not sure there was even a sign outside the premises when I first discovered it in 1989, but I did notice a mention in the window that “Tea & Irish Scones” were available inside. So, I took a look.
The proprietors, Shane and his angelically handsome partner, Karl Geary, gave me the once-over too. We got talking about scones and Ireland, the price of turnips and whatever else was au courant in those days. Conversation tended to flow like water in Sin É.
I was trying to cut back on drinking and began frequenting this then dry hole-in-the-wall. Soon thereafter I came upon Jeff Buckley working on Hallelujah. It turned out he was the son of Tim Buckley, legendary for his ethereal voice and heroin habit. Father and son met but once.
Jeff was hard to ignore for he was tall and drop-dead handsome. Proprietor Karl Geary was no less stunning. I guess that was the reason the clientele of Sin É often tended towards young lonesome ladies.
Karl eventually took to the stage himself and wrote some beautiful songs – he is now a well- regarded novelist.
I don’t think Shane Doyle ever thought much about his own looks but he had charm aplenty, though he could be diffident and would sometimes retreat behind the counter to brew coffee and, no doubt, gather his thoughts.
He was not one of those in-your-face proprietors but when he turned his full attention to you he was very charismatic.
He rarely spoke about himself, though I gathered that he came from a working class Dublin background. He was very curious about the world around him, and in particular of the show-biz and entertainment life.
His real genius, though, was that he appreciated musicians of all sorts, and in particular anyone who had made any kind of breakthrough in the artistic world.
He did not ask for auditions or audition tapes, instead he encouraged aspiring artists to just get up on stage and give their best. Those who showed any promise were added to a roster of hundreds.
Those who didn’t were treated equally well - given a cup of tea and a genuine thank you. In Shane’s recent New York Times obituary the names of the famous who gathered there: Sinéad, Bono, et al were trumpeted, but in truth everyone was welcome.
Black 47 even played a benefit for the legal defense fund of our friend Sean Mackin and nearly blew down the walls of this small space. All fine with Shane. He always appreciated a full house.
He had a sharp brain, unerring instincts for hospitality and publicity, and learned quickly how to work the entertainment business. He recognized that the agent, manager, A&R person were vital to any artist, and he didn’t hesitate to pick up the phone and let his contacts know when an emerging talent was performing in his sitting room sized cantina.
Sin É didn’t last forever. Rents rose, the nabe gentrified, and Shane moved on, a restless Dub forever seeking his particular grail.
But I still treasure that moment I heard Jeff Buckley magically transform Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah into a worldwide anthem in a bare-bones room on St. Mark’s Place called Sin É.