I'm not going to write about his songs, I can't. 'To write of music is to dance about architecture...' Or something like that. I'm going to write about the man.
I want to say 'our Foy', but that feels overly twee and belittling to a man of such veracious talent. Perhaps I should start with why I want to say 'our Foy', or maybe even 'my Foy'.
You see, as a fumbling, wannabe guitarist in my teenage years I was completely and utterly enamoured with this smooth headed, Bangor lad that my brother and I first encountered in a coffee shop on the Lisburn Road.
It soon became a regular Saturday afternoon jaunt to skip up to Roast for this chap's mind, body and soul shaking vocal honesty. Before long we were dragging along other family members and friends to see this guy, this singer songwriter that we had taken ownership of, adamant that they too should love this man and absolutely everything that spilled from his mouth.
It wasn't long before Foy became acquainted with us, and our own particular brand of fandom that sat perhaps a little uncomfortably for him in a coffee shop environ. We followed his pursuits to the Rotterdam (R.I.P) and so to other evening gigs as he slowly but surely got himself a healthy following; and much needed watering down of what was becoming an almost stalker situation where my family was concerned.
He had just about absorbed the whole NI scene when he upped sticks with his family and headed for London's big smoke. Utter devastation. What was I to do? Who else could I sit myself in front of for my fix of gospel soul come Irish folk, all raucously packaged together with good old rock and roll?
I'm still mourning his departure. But then we hear his warmth and indisputable passion flowing over the transatlantic airwaves (and that Denny advert he'd rather not dwell on too much), even featuring in an episode of Grey's Anatomy. Friends and family from America telling me about this Irish guy they heard on the Nashville circuit that broke their heart and filled them with a weary optimism. Yup. That's 'our Foy'.
So fast forward to Monday 25 August 2014 and I'm taking my fiance to his Open House Festival Gig at Bangor Abbey. Said fiance suitably indoctrinated a few years previously and now too an ardent fan.
Candle lit and crammed full of the faithful Foy-ites, we waited...and waited. He did take his sweet time. But then he knew we would wait, and we knew his word wouldn't let us down.
Took to the stage he did and like his beloved and late preacher father, laid down the gut wrenching, soul baring sermons we have all longed to hear back on our shores. But then he's longed for our ears too. He's homesick. That much is clear, not just in his chatter with us, but deeply ingrained in much of his song. Home is a regular theme.
His biography details his heartbreakers as 'uplifting in their many forms of destruction' and this couldn't be more true. Not only does he pull you into his rascal of a life with that infectious eye twinkle and plentiful NI centric banter, but he envelopes you in his many journeys from misery to mirth, each time making sure you are fully a part of every step.
He is an emotional rollercoaster, but rather than departing the church feeling the exhaustion you would expect from such a journey, I find myself uplifted and full of a weird optimism that everything really is going to be ok. And maybe, I'll even pick up that guitar again...
Hats off to the Open House Festival for the inspired venue of Bangor Abbey, but most importantly for bringing our boy home.
Hilary McEwan
