Louis McManus

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I HOPE THAT, one day, somebody will write a biography of Louis McManus.

And I hope it's soon; because, when I was at Louis' funeral in December I could not help noticing that a high proportion of the friends I met there were getting greyer and slower. And quieter, gentler, and more modest. And they have begun to devote more time to consideration of their pasts than expectations of their futures. And they now seem to realise that their contribution to the advancement of culture and civilisation has been far less significant than they had believed it to be in the past. In brief, they are getting older. But these are the people who knew, respected, loved, listened to, and made music with Louis McManus. And these are the people who carry the rich memories of his talent and his personality.

Of course, if Louis was still around, he would tell the stories instead; because telling stories, true or false, was one of Louis' great passions. Once, when Louis was touring, he rang me, at 2:30 in the morning, simply to tell me a very, very long, rambling and rather appalling joke. But it was not the joke, or the point of the joke, that appealed to Louis; it was the opportunity to embellish, exaggerate, surprise, amuse and entertain; regardless of the merit of his material. And he was precisely the same with his playing. Give him a poor piece of music and he would manage to embellish, exaggerate surprise, amuse and entertain. And, because it was Louis playing, he would astound as well. Give him a great piece of music and it would become something exquisite.

Louis loved telling stories, you can hear them in his playing too. He loved telling tales about people he had known, about people he had never known, and about people who had never existed at all. But it was the stories drawn from his own experiences which were most memorable and, unlike so many of his other stories, invariably true. If he wanted an analogy, or some counterpoint to a given situation, he would invariably draw on an appropriate anecdote from his own library of memories.

But Louis is gone and his memories have been buried with him. But there are still the memories of those of us who knew him and they are well worth preserving. So, I hope somebody will write a biography of Louis McManus. And I hope it is soon.

Occasionally I have considered writing it myself. A book about the immigrant boy from Werribee who went on to become one of Australia's great musicians. It is a great theme; better even than the story of the boy from Werribee who went on to become one of Australia's great fast bowlers. And plenty of people have written about that bloke. But, whenever I have thought about writing such a work myself I have had to concede that I could not be dispassionate and objective enough to write the book as it should be written.

People admired Louis the musician. So did I, immensely. But it was Louis the story teller, the raconteur, the outrageous liar who I knew best. And Louis the composer.

The story of how Louis and I began writing together is too involved to repeat here. It is sufficient to say we began this liaison on a project conceived by Louis and his wife, Max, the singer, Seamus Gill, and Randall Percy, who for the previous four million years (or thereabouts) had run the Dan O'Connell Folk Club. It started as a vehicle to obtain government funding, but, as far as vehicles went, it was a very slow conveyance indeed. What we eventually ended up with – several years later - was a musical called, for want of a better name, The Pudding, which was, forever after, confused with The Magic Pudding. (Needless to say we obtained no government funds at all; not even from the ABC which reneged on a production agreement.)

Louis and I did not write songs quickly. I would slave over lyrics for a few weeks and then present the finished work to him. Louis would read it and ask me what sort of tune I had in mind. I would attempt to sing it to him and he would usually – and with justification - ask me to stop moments after I began. Then, for the next two or three hours we would converse on all manner of recondite subjects, drink beer, talk some more, drink some more, and then, minutes before Louis had to be somewhere else we would return to the neglected song. Louis would think about it for a few moments, pick up his guitar, and ask what I thought about “this”... And he would play a tune; complete with embellishments, exaggerations, surprises, the lot!

As likely as not the tune would be right, and if not, well, we would leave it till "next time."

That was the thing about Louis, he was never in a hurry. Some people have said that he was without ambition. And, to some extent this was correct. But what sort of ambition could he have nurtured? He had Max, he had his family, he had his friends. He rather liked the idea of having a lot of money, but not if it meant participating in some sort of cutthroat musical shitfight. So what else was there? He could not aspire to be a greater musician; and even if that had been remotely possible, why would he bother? Louis did not play music for the money and he certainly did not want to compete. I remember him being furious that a well-known guitarist, with whom he happened to be playing, appeared to be treating their temporary affiliation as a competition. Louis was never a showoff and musical one-upmanship angered him.

I said that Louis did not play music for the money, but, of course, music brought him his only income and Louis never got as much as he deserved from it, and, at the risk of being provocative, as much as he was entitled to. (Louis was not always paid for what he produced; but that is an issue I had better avoid here.) Louis played because it was what he loved doing. It was not necessarily a mode of self expression (he was quite capable of expressing himself verbally, usually with astonishing eloquence, sagacity and flair), but it was a form of communication. It was Louis telling stories.

Louis' favourite writer was Flann O'Brien and I reckon that, if that great Irish humorist had been a guitarist, or fiddler, or mandolin or banjo player his music would have sounded very much like Louis'. Not as good, perhaps, but with the same sort of wit, fun, embellishments, exaggerations and surprises etc. It would take somebody like W B Yeats to express the poignancy, sensitivity or melancholy that Louis was also capable of producing in his playing.

You see why I could not write Louis McManus's biography? Because I only see Louis as I want to remember him. Louis had faults too. While he could be gracious, thoughtful and generous, he could also be selfish, abrasive and unkind. But that is not the Louis I would write about. I would write about the wit, the genius, the stunning musical story teller, the phenomenal mandolin player, guitarist and fiddler. (And bass guitarist, tin whistle player and whatever else came his way.)

Louis played all over the world. He played with some very famous people. He had been a child prodigy, he was a great musician. His life needs to be documented. I hope that, one day, somebody will write a biography of Louis McManus. I hope it is soon.

(c) Brian Appleford 2005