Michael Cunningham - U2 Tribute Band Elevation 2014

There are certain sentences in life that stop you in your tracks—not because they are profound or poetic, but because they are so unexpected that your brain needs a moment to catch up.

“My ma’s cousin is the bass player in the Eagles.”

Back in the day, I played in a cover band around Belfast. We had a good run—packed venues, lively crowds, and the kind of nights where the audience seemed to grow louder as the pints disappeared. For a while, it felt like we were part of something that mattered.

But like many live music scenes, things gradually slowed. The gigs became less frequent, the crowds thinner, and the momentum faded. Rather than let it drift away completely, we decided to adapt.

“If the gigs aren’t coming to us,” we thought, “we’ll bring Bono to them.”

And so, the U2 tribute band was born.

I won’t claim we became U2, but in the right lighting, with enough goodwill in the room, we were at least convincing enough to carry a night. The real test came on St Patrick’s Day 2014, when we found ourselves booked for two gigs in one day.

The first was in Limavady, an outdoor performance in March—never the safest bet in Ireland. Against expectations, it went remarkably well. The crowd was engaged, the sound held together, and we came off stage feeling quietly confident.

From there, we travelled to Maghera for the second show at Walsh’s Bar. As is often the case, the evening did not begin smoothly. Our equipment failed to arrive on time, and for a while it looked as though the whole thing might unravel before it had even started. There was a certain amount of stress, a bit of improvisation, and more than a few anxious glances at the clock.

But we got on stage in the end, and the gig itself could not have gone better. Ireland was playing for a 6 Nations win in the rugby that day, and the atmosphere in the bar was already electric. By the time we finished, the room was full, the energy was high, and we allowed ourselves the small satisfaction of a job well done.

Afterwards, we did what most musicians do in that situation—we went looking for feedback.

We struck up a conversation with two young lads who had been watching and asked them what they thought of the set.

“It was alright,” one of them said.

There are few words more capable of deflating a performer than “alright.” It is not quite criticism, but it is far from praise.

He added that he would have preferred a different sort of tribute band—something more like the Eagles. That was fair enough. Few bands are harder to argue with.

Then his friend, with complete casualness, offered the remark that would stay with me long after the night was over:

“My ma’s cousin is the bass player in the Eagles.”

We laughed, naturally. It seemed exactly the kind of claim you might hear in a bar at the end of a long St Patrick’s Day—harmless, slightly absurd, and not intended to be taken too seriously.

Still, we decided to humour him.

“Who’s the bass player, then?” we asked.

Without hesitation, he replied: Timothy B. Schmit.

That gave us pause. It was the correct answer, delivered without any sign of uncertainty. The tone shifted slightly. What had seemed like a throwaway comment now carried just enough weight to make us reconsider.

He went on to describe the connection—family ties, visits, even meeting the band. It was all presented calmly, without embellishment, in a way that made it difficult to dismiss outright.

At the time, we left it there. It remained one of those curious, half-believable encounters that you collect over years of playing music.

Only later did I discover that there was, in fact, a genuine Northern Irish connection. Timothy B. Schmit has family ties through his wife to County Derry, in and around Dungiven—a place not far at all from Limavady, and certainly close enough to Maghera to make the story plausible.

With that in mind, the remark takes on a different quality. What first sounded like an exaggeration begins to feel entirely possible.

Perhaps we encountered the most convincing bluffer in Ireland that night. Or perhaps we dismissed, with a laugh, a story that was largely true.

Either way, it serves as a reminder of something you learn quickly when playing live music: the unexpected moments are often the ones that stay with you.

You go out thinking you are there to provide the entertainment, but occasionally the night offers something back—something stranger, better, and far less predictable than anything you could have planned.

And if there is a lesson in it, it is a simple one.

Never take “alright” too personally.
Never argue with a man who asks for the Eagles.
And never underestimate the reach of someone’s ma’s cousin.