Martin Boland (1963–2017)

How do you pay tribute to a truly irreplaceable figure?
Martin, I’d wager, would have had a few suggestions. A lying-in-state in the upstairs bar, pyrotechnics, something involving a Tardis. He would be poised with a glint in his eye, waiting for the reaction. There was no situation in which he could not find humour.
For me, Edinburgh without Martin Boland in it is not Edinburgh. He inhabited the city and the pub, lived its ups and downs, took on its burdens and its moments of brilliance, all with a stubborn determination.
In a town that’s ever more crowded with relentless comings and goings, Martin, whether in his “pilot seat” in the corner of the upstairs bar, or leaning in the doorway, seemed immovable.
He was the heart of the pub in both senses of the word: he embodied the place and how it felt, fought and dreamed. But he was also the great organ that gave life to the wider community. A community that took me, and countless others, into its heart when we needed it most.
People from every corner of the planet came to be with him, yet he often felt unworthy of their praise. He needn’t have worried: they would meet Martin, see him working like a Trojan at his craft, and realise straight away that here was the raw spirit of the place.
Martin was a mighty friend, a fine musician, a gifted songwriter, a generous mentor, and an old-school raconteur of the first-order. But I prefer to think of him as a worker of miracles. He could make a rowdy table of hard-men cry. He could turn tone-deaf teenagers into brilliant players. He could growl at a room and then charm it in the same breath. He made Infirmary Street a home that welcomed all. To a great swathe of the waifs and strays that stumble around in this city, myself included, Martin was their constant brother.
That soulful voice, the astonishing repertoire (at his guess, consisting of somewhere around 700 songs) and the brilliance of his sense of humour, are all legacy enough in their own right. Yet Martin, above all, was a genius at the work of connection.
And yet, though few are more loved by so many, he often felt immense, crushing, loneliness: an illness that worked its way over the past ten years with minimal let-up. He struggled. But despite the trials he faced, he scattered embers of light freely, and all who knew him are indebted.
He did all of this while holding down the toughest job in Edinburgh. Behind the jovial face of a decent night, this work was punishing, both physically and mentally. The frequent challenge of getting through it aside, he was lucky. The work you love, and can’t let go, is usually deadly. But he knew that he was the best at it and that what he offered to thousands of punters, week-in, week-out, was inimitable.
The lessons that Martin taught me are too many to mention. Here are a few. He taught me to project my voice over a hostile room. He taught me that no crowd is too tough to crack. He taught me that you could have a filthy mind and get away with it. He taught me that everyone’s story deserves a hearing and that you can find common cause with even the roughest of punters. He taught me that people who need support are not weak and that, in fact, they’re often the strongest of us all.
Martin did not live in a country that properly valued or understood his contribution. The struggles he faced are those that have taken countless men of his generation before their time, and will take many more. He fought against asking for help. He preferred to silently endure pain rather than deal with the fuss of asking for others to ease it for him.
Some would look at Martin’s life and see tragedy: maybe that’s inevitable for a man who once described himself in song as “the high-priest of the unfulfilled, the chief among the weaker willed,” They are wrong.
In the superficial things people obsess over — lifestyle, appearance, stability — Martin was chaotic and easily found wanting.
But on all of the things that really matter — music, community, friendship — Martin taught us how to live.
The heart stopped. But the beat goes on. We believe in these things not just because they provide comfort, but because they are true. I can’t express how much I will miss this mightiest of friends, all I can do is pass on all that he gave so freely, in turn.
