![]() She became a kind of outsider artist, answerable to no one but herself – fuelled by her beliefs, fascinations and commitments.Īfter that initial encounter, and before her long self-imposed exile from pop stardom, I became friends with Sinéad for a time in the 1990s, our paths crossing at house parties, in bars, at gigs. As many have noted in the wake of her passing, she walked her own singular creative path, sometimes stumbling, sometimes falling, always defiantly and wilfully out of step, uncompromising and intent on telling it as she saw whatever the cost. ![]() There was a sliver of truth in that, but her mercurial temperament defied labelling. She was, she would later say, a protest singer, not a pop star. She fought against it as if fighting for her life. The fame it brought in its wake was, for Sinéad, akin to an emotional tidal wave: unmooring and almost capsizing. By the time my feature was published as a cover story in February 1990, her second single from that album, Nothing Compares 2 U, had become a worldwide hit, transforming her life and utterly disrupting that short-lived serenity. Instead, the new songs were “prayerful – not literally, but insofar as they give off a religious feeling – spiritual happiness”. She was, she said, no longer “this desperately unhappy and fucked-up person” who had been “bolshy and aggressive to everyone”. ![]() Its title, Sinéad was keen to point out, reflected a newfound calmness and serenity following what had been a turbulent few years following the release of her debut album, The Lion and the Cobra, in 1987. I was there to interview the 23-year-old singer for the Face magazine about the making of her imminent second album, I Do Not Want What I Have n’t Got. ![]() On a bright wintry afternoon towards the tail end of 1989, I met Sinéad O’Connor in a flat on All Saints Road in west London. ![]()
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