I met Dolores a few years ago in a restaurant in Edgewater, New Jersey. It was a small place off the beaten track, the kind of place you go to where nobody knows you and no one will bother you. Dolores was there with her boyfriend [Olé Koretsky], and we recognised each other, so the waiter hooked us up and we started talking. I liked her immediately. You wouldn’t think of who she was, or about the life she’d had with the Cranberries, or the life she’d had before that.
Dolores hadn’t had a great time in her life. But the music that came out of her despite everything was incredible. I remember first hearing Zombie in the 1990s – that was the first time I was aware of her. Her voice caught me straight away. The way it went from this beautiful, soft whisper with this real Celtic vibe, to this huge rock voice, was fabulous, really unique. She didn’t get enough credit for that.
I told her I was a fan of her band, and she told me she was a fan of the Kinks, and she had listened to us a lot growing up. We met up a few times and talked a lot about music. She talked about the problems with her dad, and how she was missing her children, about how she’d had to cancel tours, and how happy she could be making music.
We had a mutual respect. We talked about writing together – I had an idea for a song called Home, about being home again, and she understood what I was trying to say. But we never sat down to do it, and that makes me really sad. She was very kind to me, too. We said we’d meet when she was next in London, and that was that.
When I heard what had happened, I couldn’t believe it. It was so awful. It must be so awful for her family. It was an honour and a pleasure to get to know her. The world’s a poorer place without her.
