Fine Girl You Are, Beyonce!

            Where does the time go these days? Have you noticed that you’re busier than you’ve ever been but never seem to get much done? And despite all that, you’re sleeping less, and always have a nagging feeling that there’s something you’re forgetting? Welcome to the modern world!

            What’s going on? No matter how hard I work I still go to bed at all hours with many the task still incomplete.

            It has to be computers, Internet, smart phones and all the other agents of benign digitalia. The fact is - I’m so hooked up and ahead of myself, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.

            You know where I’m writing this? Somewhere out over the Caribbean. I woke up in a sweat a few minutes ago on a plane to Barbados dreaming about Ray O’Hanlon, the editor of this newspaper.

            Now, not to worry Mrs. O’Hanlon, it was all quite chaste. But your husband was frowning at me – and, as you know, Ray is a very affable and understanding man. So, I thought to myself, “Jeez, I must have forgotten the column.”

            Instead of ordering another beer and ogling the latest Beyonce video like any self-respecting rock ‘n’ roller, I guiltily grabbed my laptop and began tapping out this missive from a mile high.

            Now, wouldn’t you know it, while grabbing the laptop I dropped my iPhone and iPad, and panicked that both might not be charged for this 4 hours plus jaunt with Jet Blue. Time, after all, is money nowadays.

            It was then I had my Eureka moment – too many gadgets, too many apps, too many calls on my time! 

And I don’t even text that much. Much to the chagrin of those around me, my text alert is switched off.

“What’s the point in getting texts if you don’t know they’re there?” This is a question often fired at me.

            Perhaps it’s self-preservation – since the vast majority of my texts demand accusingly, “Where are you?”

            Now be honest with yourself, when was the last time you got a bit of good news in a text?

Well, I have to admit there was a recent one I received that read, “Mary had a 7 lb baby boy!!!” However, that was followed by four others demanding in increasingly graphic terms, “Where the hell are you?”

            Where was I, indeed? I was indulging in my latest crusade – Phone Free Fridays. Yeah, just take your eyes off me for five seconds on the best day of the week, and I’m out that door, cruising up Broadway with the damned iPhone forced to fend for itself amidst the detritus of my cluttered desk.

Granted, I felt very guilty about these unaccompanied walks at first. But I did reason with myself that Mary was unlikely to have another seven pounder for at least fifteen months – and knowing Mary it will probably be longer since she’ll spend so much time in the gym getting slim again, she’ll be fast asleep every night before her geeky husband clambers in next to her, worrying about what he’s forgetting.

            And that’s the problem nowadays. We’re always turned on, plugged in, hooked up – and in all the wrong ways! Right now the plane is hopping around like a herring on the griddle-oh, and still I write on for fear this column is due.

Back in the late lamented 20^th Century, before digitalia enslaved us, I’d be so looped on shots and beers I’d be either humming Buddy Holly songs or passed out and dreaming of something a lot more delectable than Ray O’Hanlon.

            What’s the solution? Retire to the Dingle Peninsula and put up a “Gone Fishing” sign on my Beehive hut? Nah, I’d never hack the wet winters.

How about only checking texts and emails three times a day. No way, think of all I might be missing!

Still, would the world be a much worse place if we didn’t know the latest Kardashian tidbit or Manchester United disappointment? And even Mary’s news wasn’t any less joyful for hearing it in the evening than the afternoon.

            So, here’s to Phone Free Fridays! Pass the rum and coke, fine girl you are, Beyonce! Barbados here I come!

Sandy Denny

A hush often falls on conversation when the name, Sandy Denny, arises, usually accompanied by sighs and a gentle shaking of the head.  The initial pain at her passing over thirty years ago has eased but many of her admirers still experience a deep sense of loss.

What is it about Alexandra Elene Maclean Denny?  And why does she touch us still?  I really don’t know, but even as I write this I’m filled with a sense of gentle melancholia.  It definitely had something to do with her voice.  Even as a very young woman, that instrument ached with experience.

How could she have written a masterpiece like “Who Knows Where The Time Goes” as a teenager?  And to compound matters, it was rumored to be her first composition.  During an interview with Richard Thompson for Celtic Crush, I asked him if this was true.  He replied that to the best of his knowledge it was and, at any rate, she’d had the song when he first met her.

Fairport Convention are merely a footnote now in rock history but there was a time in the late 6o’s/early 70’s when their influence was huge and their star shone brightly.  There wasn’t a woman singer at the time that didn’t look up to Ms. Denny.  Sandy, herself, was racked by insecurity.  She longed for mainstream success but was unsure about, among other things, her appearance.  Add to that a harsh shyness and an uncertainty about celebrity.

Despite these doubts she was an electric performer who devoured light.  When she was onstage it was hard to take your eyes off her, notwithstanding the fact that she was always accompanied by stellar and equally charismatic musicians the like of Richard Thompson and her husband, Trevor Lucas.  I guess it was her intensity.  The song was everything to her and she effortlessly channeled the times, along with the ghosts of the people she sang about.

Take a listen to Banks of the Nile with her band Fotheringay.  I still delight in the perfection of the song’s arrangement; and then that voice – laying bare the story of a girl who dresses as a soldier to find her lover in England’s army fighting Napoleon in Egypt.

Or lose yourself in the longing and regret of No End where she mourns for the idealism of an artist she loved and admired.  Now that he’s forsaken his craft – and her – what’s left?  Well, actually, a lot, in particular that ineffable feeling we’ve all experienced at being let down but were never quite able to put into words.

Sandy died from a brain hemorrhage after a fall down a stairs in 1978.  At the end of our interview, I asked Richard Thompson to describe Sandy.  After praising her originality, voice and craft, he halted for a moment then continued in his very understated English manner, “she was a woman of considerable appetites.”

Lucky for us, I suppose, for her songs, though delicate, throb with life, loss and pain.  She was the best and we’re lucky to have been touched by her considerable talents, spirit and soul. 

1992 All Over Again?

            Ah, it’s a great old country. We might only have presidential elections every four years, but candidates may toss their hats in the next ring before the last winner has even waltzed into the Oval Office.

            However, in the interests of sanity, I never write about upcoming elections until 21 months beforehand, which makes me a Johnny-Come-Lately, for the fields on both sides are already teeming with candidates.

            Still, it looks like 1992 all over again with the Clinton-Bush dynasties squaring up.  

         

There’s a calming quality to these names, in that neither seems likely to drive the car off the cliff. Though, on closer inspection, both already did in a little matter concerning the invasion of Iraq that a Bush initiated and a Clinton okayed.

            Toss in the near collapse of capitalism in the financial crisis of 2008 and you get another strike against the Bush clan. But that’s all ancient history, since most of us can barely remember last week, let alone Autumn 2008 or Spring 2003.

            Besides what Democrat in their right mind would run against Mrs. Clinton? Oh I forgot - she isn’t even running yet. But she’ll need to decide soon, if only to give her party a viable chance of retaining the White House. So, let’s check out the Democratic field.

            Gov. Martin O’Malley could move into the White House right now – he only lives up the road in Maryland. Don’t underestimate this Celtic Rocker. He may not be showing well in polls, but he’s smart and tenacious, and knows all the words to The Fields of Athenry. Besides, he’s principled, pragmatic and a friend of 20 years. I’d vote for him.

            Senator Jim Webb is intriguing and may be a dark horse. He’s one of our Scots-Irish brethren and had no problem in standing up to President Bush over Iraq.

            Then there’s Vice-President Biden – a decent man, a big ego, and lots of chits to call in, but he doesn’t seem to be anyone’s flavor nowadays.

            Senator Elizabeth Warren is the other great lady in waiting! The stock markets would swoon, and she’d put manners on the financial industry; but she’s not running – for now.

            What’s not to love about Senator Bernie Sanders - the Vermont socialist from Flatbush? Raise the red flag, comrade! He’ll enliven any debate with his sharp tongue and intellectual heft.

            Given the Sheldon Silvers fiasco, it’s unlikely that Gov. Cuomo will even test the waters. 2020 seems a far safer option.

            Now I know Mr. Jeb Bush is the most formidable Republican: he’s a Catholic convert, speaks Spanish, will have loads of money, and doesn’t frighten old ladies. 

But take a look at Senator Rand Paul. Sure, he’s got loads of libertarian baggage, but heck I’m even drawn to him for his opposition to blowing the hell out of other countries. This ophthalmologist sees what the Bushes and Clintons don’t – a $100 Iraqi IED can destroy a $150,000 American armor-plated Humvee.  

            The guy can play all sides too: while singing Hallelujah with the God and Guns brigades, he’s not quite Attila The Hun on immigration; and I’ve yet to hear anyone question his integrity.

            The Rev. Huckabee will split the fundamentalist vote in Iowa with Mr. Santorum, and both will run out of God and cash in New Hampshire.

Gov. Christie still has the George Washington Bridge hanging over him – besides Mr. Bush will wipe the floor with him in the financial donors department – and having cash to burn on two projected Republican Super-Tuesdays, March 1 and 14^th, 2016 will be essential.

            Senator Cruz will raise hopes and dreams with the Tea-Party faithful, but he’ll have to watch his back since he’s the most hated man in Congress. Senator Rubio will raise his profile for 2020, but he’s going nowhere with his state-mate Bush at the starting gate.

Governors Jindal, Pence and Kasich will be pawns on the board. However, Gov. Walker, the Wisconsin union destroyer, will be there at the finish. And perhaps, beyond!

            Still, it will likely come down to the old guard, Bush and Clinton, and the perception that neither will drive the family car off the cliff. How soon we forget!

de Valera, Collins, and the price of water

            While on a recent tour of Ireland our bus was brought to a sudden halt on Wexford’s historic quayside by a large crowd protesting the proposed water taxes.

            Having come from the protesting class myself, I recognized many old comrades. What surprised me was the new universality of the protesters: farmers, shopkeepers, civil servants – people from strong Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael stock - marched in solidarity with the great unwashed.

            Although it seems ironic to charge anything for water in Ireland, given the annual level of rainfall, still water tariffs are common enough in developed countries. This proposed new taxation, however, appears to be the straw that has broken the Irish camel’s back.

            Probably because it feeds into a longstanding fury over the mishandling of the country’s finances back in 2008; you might remember, the then coalition government led by Fianna Fáil’s Brian Cowen agreed to unconditionally guarantee the loans, deposits, bonds and other liabilities of all Irish banks. That the debts incurred turned out to be even more than expected was bad enough, but that government politicians were seen to be hand in hand with profligate bankers caused even more anger.

            This led to a general election in 2011 where the once almighty Fianna Fáil Party was humiliated and its Dáil Éireann (parliament) representation severely reduced. The opposition Fine Gael Party was swept into power and entered a coalition with the Labour Party.

            Two other forces gained in that election – Sinn Féin led by Gerry Adams, and a large group of independent deputies led by – well, no one.

Due to the ongoing bleak economic outlook and mass youth emigration, things have since gone from bad to worse for the three establishment parties, Fianna Fáil, Fine Gael and Labour.   

          

With a general election mandated before April 3, 2016, current polls show Fianna Fáil, Fine Gael, and Sinn Féin support each hovering around 20%. Amazingly, Sinn Féin has become the most popular party in the Republic. Independents, however, are drawing over 30% support, while Labour appears to be headed for oblivion with 6%.

            One way or another the next election will be groundbreaking as Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael may be forced into coalition, thus finally bringing to a close the Civil War hostilities of almost a century ago. How stunning that a simple water tax might bring together what giants like Michael Collins and Éamon de Valera could not.

            There’s even a possibility that Sinn Féin could gain enough seats to enter into coalition with either Fianna Fáil or a combination of independents. Hey, we could have our first Irish Echo columnist elected Taoiseach!

            The ghost of de Valera must be raging around Dáil Éireann at the thought of his sacrosanct Fianna Fáil Party playing second fiddle to Gerry Adams and his ilk; but then, a movement will always trump a party and Sinn Féin, known for its financial probity, is becoming much more acceptable to an electorate disgusted by crony capitalism.

            Though there are many Irish citizens who will never vote for the old guard leadership of Sinn Féin because of its association with the Troubles, yet there are many new faces in the party including Vice President, Mary Lou McDonald, who have broad national appeal, especially to the young.

            One way or another, great change is coming, and about time. There’s a desire for a new beginning in Ireland, a feeling that the old ways haven’t worked, the old parties are indistinguishable, so throw all the bums out.

            Emigration is finally being seen for what it is – a failure of a country’s institutions to look after its people. My own generation who fled in the 70’s and 80’s were part of the old solution – when you’ve wrecked the economy, open the floodgates and let the people go – some other country can deal with them.  

But times have changed – unlike our parents the Celtic Tiger generation actually lived through a decade of prosperity. They didn’t raise their kids to mix cement or waitress in Sydney, Toronto or London.

            That’s why change is inevitable. It will be an exciting year in Irish politics, though not a particularly happy one for the establishment parties.

Bob Dylan - the greatest artist?

            Is Bob Dylan the greatest artist of our time? 

Probably, if you use three recognized criteria: sustained creative brilliance, influence on others, and length of career. Oddly enough, his main challenger could well be Andy Warhol, not known for originality but whose concepts have inspired a myriad of cultural movement from Hip-Hop Music to Facebook.

From the start Dylan was like a sponge – appropriating influences across the spectrum from folkie Woody Guthrie to rocker Buddy Holly.

When he got to New York in 1961 he threw himself into the Folk renaissance and became friends with Liam Clancy from whom he learned Dominic Behan’s Patriot Game. Recognizing the song’s brilliance Dylan adopted its template for his own anti-war anthem, With God On Our Side. Luckily for him the aggrieved Behan had himself employed a traditional melody, The Merry Month of May. Dylan never made the same mistake again.

He found his own creative voice by spending months in the New York Public Library poring over every available newspaper of the American Civil War period - distilling not only subject matter but speech patterns and cultural trivia. He emerged poet laureate of the “old, weird America” as Greil Marcus termed it.

Despite huge success he totally cast aside the Woody Guthrie mantle by teaming up with members of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band at the Newport Folk Festival in July 1965 thereby creating Folk-Rock.

However, no one was prepared for the sheer aural and lyrical brilliance of Like a Rolling Stone when it was released that same month and many of us have spent a lifetime aspiring to its standard. Back then “singles” clocked in well under the three minute mark, but Rolling Stone was over six – it even contained a number of “mistakes” with the inexperienced Al Kooper playing well behind the beat on the Hammond B3 organ.

Dylan didn’t care. A groundbreaking song demanded an innovative hook. He urged the producer to turn up the organ and changed the course of music.

I once had the same manager, Elliot Roberts, who assured me that “there is nobody quite like Bobby Dylan” – he cared nothing for critics or indeed anyone else. The man just liked to play, if he ran out of major markets look elsewhere; that’s how they came up with staging concerts in minor league baseball parks.

Dylan’s been an icon for over 50 years now but he reinvents himself often on a nightly basis. At a Radio City show I only recognized Like a Rolling Stone during the second chorus – and that’s a song I’ve performed hundreds of times.

Like another semi-recluse, Neil Young, Dylan is leery of mass exposure, valuing creativity before all else. At the height of his fame in 1966 he retired to Woodstock - sick of celebrity and being viewed as the new Jesus.

But even in the solitude of the Catskills he combined with The Band to produce musical magic as demonstrated by the recent release of the Full Basement Tapes. On even a cursory listen you can hear an artist delving into the weird music of America’s past as an impetus for a further creative jump forward.

I went to a Dylan show in Bridgeport last summer. I hadn’t seen him since the Radio City gig twenty years previously; I was probably one of the few people who enjoyed his performance.

He no longer plays guitar – apparently suffering from arthritic fingers – he ether sings out front or from behind a keyboard. He dressed like a 19^th Century prairie preacher, never acknowledged the audience and performed few of his expected standards. Most songs appeared to be of a recent vintage – all showed flashes of brilliance.

I worked my way up to the front of the stage – not hard as many were drifting towards the exits. This didn’t seem to bother Bobby in the least. His band, as ever was great. And so was he.

As far as I know he didn’t perform Like A Rolling Stone, or perhaps he did; but it hardly mattered. He was still the man, challenging, shape shifting, forever the joker and the tramp. Go see him while you can – they don’t make the like of Bob Dylan any more.

American Wake

            His mother called a couple of days after he got his Green Card. He could almost feel her tears flow down the phone.

            “You’ll surely come home for Christmas, Sean. How many years has it been now – seven, eight?”

            He’d been dreading the question. Besides, why go back now? He’d settled into his own Yuletide customs. Work late Christmas Eve, then a big night out on Bainbridge with the lads; hungover as hell on Christmas day he’d barely make dinner with the cousins on Long Island. Before you knew it was over, back to work again Stephen’s Day.

            Things were finally going well with the flooring business, and with the Green Card he could put the deposit down on the house up in Pearl River. Fix it up by the summer, have his mother over for a couple of weeks, take her up the Catskills, the usual.

            It wasn’t that he didn’t miss her but it was a small town back home and you never knew who you’d run into.

            His mother was waiting at Shannon. He hadn’t been able to say no and in the warmth of her hug all his apprehension drained away.

            It was all good, the sight of familiar places, the deep green of the grass that he’d forgotten. His sister had the big breakfast ready the minute he walked in the door, the perfect taste of the tea, the smell of the fry. The visits to aunts and uncles, the first night down the pub - all of it coalescing in a swirl of Christmas lights, smiles, hugs and jet lag.

            He stayed off the main streets. You never knew who you’d run into and as the days counted down to the return flight he began to relax.

            He shouldn’t have gone to the disco. The DJ played all the old familiar songs and every step of the way home provoked a memory.

            He only went to mass on Sunday to please his mother. He’d barely been inside a church in The Bronx except for weddings and christenings.

            He went through the motions, more interested in the crowd than the proceedings - guitars and folk songs now rather than incense and the old hymns. Fr. Joyce still ran the show, his face creased with age, far less sure of himself than when he was curate and they used to argue about faith.

            He was thinking about the big job in Pelham that he’d bid on when the mass ended. He was shuffling down the aisle in the thick of the crowd when he saw her. 

Her hair was shorter but there was no mistaking the color, and anyway James was ushering her along. He had filled out and there were flecks of grey in his hair.

            Sean tried to turn around but the crowd pushed him forward. He lowered his head and was almost past them unnoticed when Fr. Joyce called out, “I thought that was you, Sean!”

            The crowd parted and there she was holding firmly onto two fidgeting children.

            He’d always imagined that the girl would look like her. But no, she was bland and uninteresting like James. The boy though had his mother’s sensitive green eyes and the perfect shape of her face.

            James dropped his wife’s elbow and over-eagerly thrust out his hand. “I’d heard you were home, Sean, you never called.”

            Sean muttered some banality.

            “I’m sure he’s too busy for us now.” His wife stated calmly.

            She hadn’t changed much, just a little older but it suited her. She held his eyes unflinchingly and the years drifted away. She was as lovely as ever.

            Then the boy dropped his coloring book. As she rose from picking it up, their eyes met and for an instant she was her old self again. She took his hand as if to shake it but instead squeezed it gently.

            Then she was gone in a flurry of embarrassed goodbyes, off home to cook the Sunday dinner.

            “I suppose you’ll be having the American wake tonight, Sean?” Fr. Joyce diplomatically broke the silence as Sean counted the devastating hours until the flight from Shannon.

Paddy and the velvet revolution

           We were lost – gloriously lost in the enveloping darkness – at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere with no signpost. We had crossed into Czechoslovakia from East Germany some hours earlier and were trying to reach Prague before the following afternoon when we were scheduled to play at a boys club.

            We were a band of fractious New York improvisational musicians that raised hell behind a poet named Copernicus whose philosophy was:  We do not exist.

            For once he appeared to be on the mark as our driver pored over his maps unable to nail down our location.

            “I could use a drink,” muttered Thomas Hamlin, later to become drummer of Black 47.

            It was then I spotted a flicker of light in the distance. It could have been Dracula luring us to a necking session but the thirst was upon us.

            To our amazement we stumbled into a candlelit tavern occupied by a group of surly peasants not one of whom turned a head to look at us in our black leather New York splendor.

            Not until I flashed a $20 bill and was almost knocked down such was the stampede to fulfill our every desire. When it was established that our only wish was for a couple of cases of beer, these were carried out to the van and we were dispatched without delay on the correct road to Prague.

            It was past midnight when we reached Wenceslas Square and met the very anxious looking dissidents who were promoting our show. In broken, but very familiarly accented, English they informed us that the gig had been transferred to the National Ice Hockey Stadium and we would be headlining.

            It was June 1989 and the dissidents had decided to challenge the government by running an unauthorized rock concert. In order to hire the stadium, however, they needed “an international act of considerable cultural and popular appeal.”  Though we emphasized that we had never played to more than 50 people and had yet to receive a kind review we were shushed into silence.

            The next day we could barely get near the stadium such was the crowd outside jostling for tickets. We had apparently attained star status overnight. It didn’t hurt that the best bands in Czechoslovakia, including members of the banned, but internationally renowned, Plastic People of the Universe, were on the same bill.

            The scene backstage was chaotic but it was then I identified the familiar Czech-English accent. It was Lou Reed’s “take ze walk on ze wild side,” since hey had all learned their English from Velvet Underground records.

            After a couple of slugs of Armenian brandy I was beginning to enjoy my elevation to superstardom until a phalanx of the Czech State Militia marched to the top rows of the stadium and aimed their weapons at the stage.

            When I notified the chief dissident, he smiled conspiratorially and replied in his best Lou Reed, “Zey will not kill all of us.”

            “Yeah, right,” I replied in some dudgeon, “but you won’t be a sitting duck on stage.” 

            He appeared to find the idea of a duck on stage the height of hilarious originality; apparently Lou had never mentioned such a sighting in a Velvet Underground song. He did however give me another bottle of Armenia’s best and on stage we trooped to a rapturous welcome.

            It was one of those nights a musician dreams about. Everything went perfectly from the moment Copernicus screamed to the 12,000 people, “I have always been in trouble with the authorities” and flung a bible down on the stage. Every note, tone and movement gelled; the audience cheered us from start to finish.

            We were the kings of Prague that night, feted wherever we went. Our dissident friends told us we’d helped light a spark. Five months later the Velvet (Underground) Revolution swept away the communist regime and dissident hero Vaclav Havel became president.

            I came home a changed man. I had regained faith that music could make a difference. A couple of months later I met Chris Byrne and we formed Black 47.

            Sometimes you have to be really lost before you learn to find your way.