Sinead O'Connor

In the late 1980s, the young Irish woman Sinéad O'Connor came powerfully to the forefront of a lifeless singer-songwriter scene. O'Connor, with her angry punk edge and a touch of poignant romanticism, dramatically boosted her entire genre. Her persona was era-defining: O'Connor had effectively "de-sexualized" herself by shaving her head - nullifying the sex appeal of her cat eyes - and screaming like a banshee. There was not much that was feminine about her public demeanor or her style of singing. If anything, her ungainly intensity harkened back to the blues "screamers" of the 1950s, but with a cold, sarcastic tone that was akin to Baader-Meinhof terrorists, not Mississippi sharecroppers. In this respect, O'Connor broke with tradition.

Over the years, O'Connor has seldom been able to justify her fame artistically, although her influence is undeniable.

O'Connor showed up precociously, at the age of twenty, with the intense and groundbreaking album The Lion and the Cobra (Chrysalis, 1987). The biggest shock here is her vocal register: O'Connor enjoys using her voice in ways that would make other singers (literally) choke up. Her sudden high notes - sung in the throat - are harmonious and exhilarating, successfully channeling the intense emotions of her lyrics. Conscious of her talent, O'Connor doesn't just limit herself to singing songs. Her acrobatic vocalizations fuse Gregorian chant, African-American spirituals, Celtic ballads, and Middle Eastern litanies with the vocal experiments of Meredith Monk and Laurie Anderson. In short, the lifeblood of the album is O'Connor's very strong musical personality, more so than the record's refined arrangements, hard rock riffs, and exotic, technological rhythms.

On the strength of such expressive power, the record weaves a tapestry of a magical, fairy-tale universe. O'Connor scampers about in enthralling rock songs like Mandinka; she grafts funky basslines and African percussion onto the epic, spacey dance track Jerusalem; and she also loosens up on tender, martial Celtic songs like Just Like U Said It Would B (classically arranged with accordion, harpsichord, and flutes). Laurie Anderson's experiments inspire the "free singing" of Never Get Old (with choral overdubs and distant drum rhythms), and Peter Gabriel's avant-garde funk inspires I Want Your (Hands on Me), an ante litteram trip-hop track with dub bass and soul singing. O'Connor even allows herself the luxury of performing the high Greek drama of Troy with a backing symphony orchestra. With the ability to soar into epic high notes, sink into poignant laments, and soften into enamored whispers, O'Connor's voice is one of the most pliant and expressive in the history of rock. Her voice is intensified through immersion in violent, multijointed songs (influenced by the harmonic rifts of hip-hop) that are completely outside the tradition of folk songs, more closely resembling hallucinated psychodramas. Her tragic wail tears the music apart into excruciating confessions of pain, vulnerability, and solitude.

O'Connor had, however, almost completely run out of things to say after that artistic breakthrough. The violent psychodramas of that work completely disappear on her follow-up I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got (Chrysalis, 1990). Nothing Compares 2 U, a Prince song which she performed with a desperate amorous melancholy, earned her international stardom.

The rest of the album is something of a tribute to pop music of the past: instead of the seismic frenzies of hip-hop or electronic undercurrents, string sections and choruses peep in. What's worse, her singing register, with all the rough edges of her dissonant high notes having been smoothed out, has become a velvety cocktail-lounge whisper. The production (by her own hand) is highly sophisticated and turns each song into a delightful exercise in kitsch, but nothing more.
The theme of the album seems to be an premature sentimental insecurity (instead of the previous album's impudent rebelliousness). Her pre-feminist lyrics always define her individuality in relation to man (or the absence of man). The heartfelt litanies of Feel So Different and Three Babies, barely whispered over an orchestral breeze, suggest a cross between a more contrite Springsteen and a more crepuscular Enya. The transcendent quality of this new style of singing is almost the opposite of the exuberant and vehement "corporality" of her debut. The strong rhythm and blues pacing of I Am Stretched On Your Grave is not harnessed to one of her surreal flights, but rather to a lullaby so soft and so unmodulated as to sound like a mantra or a requiem. The lyrics are personal to the point of embarrassment.
However, in the guise of a refined lady, rather than an irreverent bad girl, O'Connor must feel a bit cramped; so much so that on The Emperor's New Clothes the Irish songstress slips into an immaculate power-pop chorus and cadence, and on Jump in the River, she also tries to imitate the sensual register of Chrissie Hynde and the rock and roll swagger of the Pretenders.
O'Connor becomes an international celebrity by singing Prince's Nothing Compares 2 U, a performance that cashes in on her chronic state of depression. The singer's style has not disappeared, though it is almost kept concealed: she is a musician who needs to adjust her sights.

Her provocative (or perhaps just immature) attitude leads her for the sake of consistency to an album that no one expected, Am I Not Your Girl? (Chrysalis, 1992), a collection of covers of songs taken (mostly) from the easy listening repertoire, all with the accompaniment of a small ballroom orchestra from the 1950s. In truth, this is the logical consequence of her new ego: O'Connor is first and foremost a performer, a great performer in the tradition of cabaret chanteuses; the bottom line is that there are not too many boudoirs separating her from Madonna. What does set her apart from Madonna is, if anything, her emotionality, that flicker of life (sometimes imperceptible, but always present) that she manages to infuse time and time again into even the dullest songs.

Her anger has subsided, but her need for public psychotherapy has not. Fire on Babylon is emblematic of Universal Mother (Chrysalis, 1994) as a whole: O'Connor uses herself - a child abused and abandoned by her parents - as a metaphor for all the evils of the world, from the tragedies of Ireland (in the rap of Famine) to the cruel dogmas of the Catholic church. The Renaissance chant John I Love You, arranged for chamber orchestra and Japanese percussion, is the boldest track. The others make this album the most Spartan of her career.

The EP Gospel Oak (Chrysalis, 1997) breaks her silence due to the birth of her second child with a handful of highly personal confessions that alternate between anger and sorrow, between pleading and longing. The fluffy This Is to Mother You (with a baroque arrangement, reminiscent of Enya) and the martial 4 My Love (with accordion and Spanish-style guitar) add nothing significant to her repertoire, however.

Interestingly, one gets the impression of a kind of continual repudiation of herself: from record to record O'Connor is probably moving away from what she would really like to sing, just as day after day she refuses to let her hair grow out and become the beautiful young woman she could (and perhaps would) like to be. In this sacrificial rite O'Connor consummates her frustrations and insecurities. In this cathartic bath she reveals her true identity: she is a mask, not a person. In this tribute to her childhood - or rather the world before her childhood - she celebrates the innocence she lost on the day she was born, and celebrates the ego that she was never given, and that she can only glimpse through other peoples' eyes.

Her stubborn and capricious independence, her standoffish and unpredictable personality (which never really left the streets) make her a "political" point of reference. But, musically, the bottom line is that none of her albums would hold up to an unbiased listen, uninfluenced by her public image.

In 1999 O'Connor was ordained priest by an unorthodox branch of Christianity.

Faith And Courage (Atlantic, 2000) could be O'Connor's best album since the debut. Emotionally, O'Connor finds again the anthemic pulse of the angry young woman (No Man's Woman, Daddy I'm Fine). Sonically, she runs the gamut of dub (courtesy of reggae guru Adrian Sherwood), ambient (Brian Eno) and hip hop (Wyclef Jean). The Healing Room sets a pace for a truly cathartic rebirth. Even Jealous (the mandatory romantic ballad from the pop diva who sang Nothing Compares To You) sounds more O'Connor-ian than anything she has written since hitting the charts. If The Lion And The Cobra's visceral shriek can never come back, this is the closest an adult woman can get to it. O'Connor writes the lyrics and sings. Most of the music is co-written with a crowded team of producers and quantity does not necessarily mean quality.

On Sean-Nos Nua (Vanguard, 2002) O'Connor performs traditional Irish tunes. An evening with Fidel Castro would be more entertaining.

In 2004 O'Connor had her third child, Shane (from singer Donal Lunny).

Collaborations (Capitol, 2005) collects her collaborations with Massive Attack, Peter Gabriel, Bono, Moby, Bomb the Bass, Asian Dub Foundation, Jah Wobble, etc.

Throw Down Your Arms (That's Why There's Chocolate And Vanilla, 2005) contains only reggae covers.

In 2006 she had her fourth child (from yet another man).

The double-disc Theology (2007) contains both acoustic and band versions of the same songs. Alas, the material is the worst of her career.

She attempted suicide in january 2012.

How About I Be Me (2012) mostly succeeds when it sticks to highly personal matters, like in the syncopated Bollywood dance 4th and Vine. She desperately tries to still sound blasphemous (and current) with the mostly vocal gospel anti-hymn Take Off Your Shoes. There's little else of note.

I'm Not Bossy, I'm The Boss (2014) could have run for the title of worst album of the year.

The single Milestones (2018) was her first release in four years.

Her mental decline seemed to parallel her musical decline. In 2018 Sinead O'Connor converted to Islam and changed her name to Shuhada' Davitt, perhaps a desperate attempt to attract some media coverage.

In 2022 her teenage son Shane committed suicide.

O'Connor died in 2023 at the age of 56.