BROOKLYN GIRLS

New York neighborhoods used to be measured by the quality of their saloons. One of the reasons Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge always hovered near the top of my list was Tomorrow’s Lounge on 86^th Street.

It was a Donegal joint, owned by Jimmy Morrow (hence the name) and managed by the dapper Tony Harkins when I first visited back in the 70’s.

 

Tomorrow’s was like paradise to Turner & Kirwan of Wexford. It sported a piano for Pierce, we bought a Fender amp for my guitar, stuck two Shure microphones into it and voila, we were a happening band with our own PA sound system.

 

We had already snagged a Manhattan Thursday residency at John Mahon’s Pig and Whistle (frequented by a bevy of Radio City Rockettes, no less). We were on the pig’s back!

 

But Bay Ridge was the making of us. Within weeks, staid Tomorrow’s piano lounge was rocking to a whole new clientele of twenty-somethings singing along to Dylan, The Dead, Simon & Garfunkel, T Rex and our own thorny songs.

 

It was a whole different world to Ireland, socially and otherwise; we were unleashed and liberated by this lovely neighborhood. We played at least 4 hours a night and got better by the minute. 

 

On one of our first breaks I was standing by the jukebox when a lovely young woman murmured, “Wanta dance?”

 

I looked over my shoulder. There was no one behind – could she really mean me? I had never been asked to dance before – not even at a ladies’ choice back in Ireland. My life changed, American women were open and friendly, they worked long hours and didn’t have time to beat around the bush.

 

My brother, Jimmy, soon arrived from London, the three of us along with our best friend Bob Schwenk got a roomy apartment on Ovington Avenue. Now we could really explore the wonders of Bay Ridge.

 

Back then, the three main ethnic groups were Italian, Irish and Norwegian with sprinkles of just about every other nationality. In the more commercial areas  it was a rare street corner that didn’t house a bar, each with its own steady clientele.

 

These saloons functioned like clubs, everyone was on first name basis, and you were made to feel at home as soon as your butt hit a barstool.

 

Bay Ridge food too was splendiferous, especially in the Greek diners and Italian restaurants, while the Sicilian and Calabrian young ladies vied to take you home for dinner, so their families could delight in your “cute accent.”

 

On nights off you’d stroll hand-in-hand with one of these sultry beauties down by the broad Narrows and marvel at the sea-going vessels inching by. 

 

“The Verrazzano hangs like a string of pearls in the night

I’ll steal them for you, darlin’, wear them tomorrow

Make everything be alright.”

 

Those lines from Brooklyn Girls still echoes from those innocent days, while across the river Staten Island brooded mysteriously. 

 

Word of Turner & Kirwan of Wexford was spreading. The Daily New devoted two pages to us, we bought a van and began to play from the Jersey Shore to The Hamptons, all through Queens, up into the stormy Bronx and beyond to New England.

 

In an odd way, my heart always remained in Bay Ridge and those early days of acceptance. We released an album and WNEW-FM played it often. 

 

In Bay Ridge no one ever called us Turner & Kirwan of Wexford, we were just Pierce and Larry – still are to those who remember.

 

Many of our original following got married, and moved off to Staten Island, Jersey and Pennsylvania. But every now and again I hop what used to be the RR and walk the old streets.

 

Vestiges of the past still remain, The Three Jolly Pigeons rocks on, The Canny Brothers still sing their Bay Ridge anthems, the local “wise guys”, once so formidable, are all old men now who shuffle down 86^th Street for espressos on 3^rd Avenue.

 

New nationalities abound in the carefully kept side streets, all friendly when smiled at, and why wouldn’t they be? Bay Ridge is still Old Brooklyn, a little paradise nestling at the mouth of New York Harbor where apartments are large, and rents lower than in trendy “new” Brooklyn.

 

As for Tomorrow’s Lounge, it’s long gone but lives on in the hearts and minds of all who ventured there.

18 YEARS WITH THE ECHO!

Almost 18 years ago I wrote my first column for The Irish Echo. It concerned an official projection that in order to stay solvent Social Security benefits would need to be cut in 2034.

Back then in 2007 we were about to enter the Great Recession that would continue until Barack Obama brought some stability to the economy in late 2009.

 

Small wonder that the Social Security crisis of faraway 2034 was put on the back burner. We could all be dead by then. Some of us are.

 

But after two Trump administrations, with a Biden one in between, and a Covid pandemic, the latest projection is that we are now only 7 years away from what could well be a social Armageddon in 2032.

 

I sometimes wonder if I’m living in a different universe than the vast majority of American politicians and political commentators.

 

I appreciate a little titillation as much as the next person, but it doesn’t surprise me in the least that two American presidents had close relationships with Jeffrey Epstein. The rich, the famous, and the depraved often move in the same circles.

 

Nor does it surprise that almost every person I know above the age of 62 really depends on their monthly social security benefits.

 

Politicians and the chattering classes seem to believe that these benefits are the icing on every retiree’s cake; when in reality, that monthly SS bank deposit tends to be the main part of their cake.

 

In an economy where working people have been fleeced by high prices, rents, education and health costs, few have amassed much of a retirement cushion.

 

And yet when President Trump’s Big Bad Beautiful Bill was recently passed by both houses of congress, did you hear one mention of the coming Social Security reckoning?

 

I did – but it was the projection that tax breaks, new and old, had moved the SS date of reckoning up to 2032!

 

Indeed, there was scarcely a mention of the $3.4 trillion dollars addition to the national debt that the BBB Bill had bestowed upon us. 

 

There’s an old saying, “Each country gets the government it deserves.”  Americans voted for the King of Debt so we must accept the consequences.

 

However, I’m not sure how many of us realized we were also voting for a rubber-stamp congress only too ready to relinquish the power of the purse.

 

It’s hard to believe now that the US Federal Budget was not only balanced but delivered a surplus in the Clinton years between 1998 and 2001. That’s just 24 years ago.

 

With the current national debt over $36.2 trillion, when you add the $3.4 trillion cost of the BBB Bill, that will bring us within shouting distance of a $40 trillion debt in 2035.

 

And that’s at current interest rates with absolutely no room for any national emergencies over the next climate-changed 10 years.  All hail the glorious Republocrats!

 

The once debt-haunted Republicans have completely caved to their master in the White House, and does anyone believe that if the Democrats regain Congress in 2026 they will announce, 

“First things first, let’s come up with a credible plan to reduce this unsustainable National Debt!”

 

In the recent BBB Bill debates, the main argument seemed to be - we have to extend the tax breaks because the electorate doesn’t have the stomach to pay higher taxes.

 

Imagine if we ran our households like that?

 

But back to Social Security benefits! Unless we get our ship in order by 2032, many more millions of senior citizens will join those already mired in poverty. Is that the kind of America we wish to live in?

 

I don’t have any easy answers but here’s a gradual solution over 10 years that could return the Social Security Fund to some form of solvency by 2032:

 

Raise the taxable maximum amount of earnings from $176,100 to $250K.

 

Raise the current Social Security (FICA) tax rate from 12.4% to 13.4%.

 

Raise the full retirement age for Social Security Benefits from 67 to 68.

 

I know, that’s a lot of pain to go round. But we allowed the Social Security Fund to approach insolvency on our watch, we can begin to deal with it now or face a tsunami of pain in 7 years.

 

Oh, and one other small thing. Why not elect politicians who are more interested in saving Social Security than pontificating about conspiracy theories? 

 

You’ll have an opportunity in 2026. Use it! Time is tight.

ROCK 'N' ROLL NEVER FORGETS

With its working class roots and boozy background, rock ‘n’ roll often teeters on the edge of chaos and violence.  

Rock music, on the other hand - usually the popular music of the day - tends more towards the predictable and mainstream.

Having played both, I barely differentiated between them until I began to try and make some sense of a life spent in music.

Basically, rock ‘n’ roll is about sparking an interaction between band and audience that can take both beyond themselves. While rock music is putting on a show that you invite the audience to enjoy and participate in.

The differentiation can be applied to any kind of music. For instance, I might describe The Dubliners as a rock ‘n’ roll type of folk band and The Clancy Brothers & Tommy Makem as more from the rock end of that spectrum.

The early Dubliners were chaotic, strayed from a set list if there was one, drank copious amounts of alcohol, and interacted spontaneously with their audience.

Liam Clancy once told me that everything about his group was choreographed, down to the last yelp and joke. Each member had acting experience, they rehearsed their sets thoroughly, and would often perfect them in their dressing room.

They were instantly recognizable by their uniform of the Aran sweater, while The Dubliners looked as if they might have slept in whatever they were wearing, and probably did.

Both bands were brilliant on stage and you can trace the roots of most current Irish folk groups to one or the other.

Being strictly choreographed, the Clancy’s/Makem shows were well behaved; while there was plenty of alcoholic chaos and the occasional dustup at a Dubliners’ outing.

Both bands were political, but there was the little matter of the Irish Civil War between them. 

The Dubliners boasted a left-wing, urban antipathy to the Irish Free State government, while the Clancy’s/Makem tended towards a more general anti-British imperialist stance.

My own journey through Folk, Rock and the general kitchen sink of music, was definitely affected by the roiling elements of chaos, alcohol, and politics.

Wexford was a Labour town in the midst of a Fianna Fail/Fine Gael county. Though most people were Catholic and paid at least lip service to Rome, yet socialism had strong roots in the town.

 

Oddly enough, the songs of Stephen Foster were very popular in the working men’s pubs along the Main Street and the Quayside.

But if one were singing Old Folks At Home, “comrade” would be effortlessly substituted for such racial slurs as “Darky.”

At the age of 17, I was recruited to play bass in a band run by local maestro, Johnny Reck. Talk about chaos, we rarely rehearsed, and I had to learn bass while standing on one foot in the midst of near riots.

Why so?  Well Johnny promoted “young people dances” where testosterone and preening ruled without the restraints of official security, so when a cider brawl broke out – as it invariably did - bodies would come flying towards the stage, and one had to kick them away until the participants exhausted themselves. 

Johnny’s cardinal rule was that music must continue through all dancefloor battles and the stage be protected at all costs. This strategy ensured that violence would remain localized, courting and kissing could continue unabated, thus preventing “all hell from breaking loose.”

A true rock ‘n’ roll apprenticeship, yet it hardly prepared me for The Bronx. There in the boom-time 80’s and early 90’s chaos, alcohol, and politics ruled unrestrained, along with the seeming right of every punter to demand their choice of songs.

This presented no little problem, since Chris Byrne and I had decided that Black 47 would become an all-original-songs band as quickly as possible.

Not only did the patrons despise unfamiliar songs, some didn’t want to hear Reggae or Hip-Hop beats either. I guess those rhythms challenged some undefined color bar.

These patrons’ demands rarely occasioned intellectual debates, the besotted clientele would have already put in a full day’s work on a building site and could sling sacks of cement as casually as I could swing a guitar.

Yet I wouldn’t give back a minute of the experience. With new songs nightly ricocheting off the sheet-rocked walls of Bainbridge Avenue, you had to fight to survive, and your only weapons were a dogged determination and an unshakeable belief in the chaotic, boozy power of Celtic Rock ‘N’ Roll. 

LAWRENCE DURRELL - A NEGLECTED IRISH WRITER

We Irish tend to admire our writers. After all, it’s a lonely old job - long hours spent mooning into monitors, broken only by visits to the pub, occasionally enlivened by feats of slagging or bouts of fisticuffs.

Behan, Kavanagh, and Donleavy spring to mind, but wait a minute, should Donleavy even be classed as Irish. Well, yes, if we go by blood rather than place of birth.

Which brings me to a writer who vehemently claimed he was Irish, though usually pigeonholed as British, or at best a hapless colonial.

I speak of Lawrence Durrell. Born in India in 1912 to Anglo-Irish stock; upon the death of his father in 1932, the family moved lock, stock and barrel to England, a country that young Larry despised; in fact, he was known to call the imperial way of life “the English death.”

The Durrells were barely settled in Bournemouth when Larry prevailed upon his mother, family, and recently acquired wife Nancy, to move house once again to the Greek island of Corfu.

From then until his death in 1990, through four marriages, he spent most of his life in close proximity to the Mediterranean.

A man of great learning, Lawrence Durrell never took well to formal education and failed his university entrance exam; still, he was a prodigious writer, turning his hand to fiction, poetry, travel and history. One wonders when he had the time, given the four wives, love of conversation, tipple, friendship, mythology and travel.

I first noted him on account of his long friendship with Henry Miller. Durrell himself discovered the then unknown Bard of Brooklyn on finding a copy of Miller’s epic, Tropic of Cancer, in a public lavatory.

Durrell’s own masterpiece is a series of books called The Alexandria Quartet. Justine, the first book, is in his own words a “modern love story,” though whether it’s about the mysterious Jewish woman in question or the Egyptian city is often hard to decipher.

If Joyce had his Molly and Dublin, then Durrell had his Justine and the even more turbulent Alexandria. 

Dare I mention the two writers in the same breath? Both books are dense, though throbbing with life, love in its many forms, intrigue and general skullduggery.

Occasionally the Quartet even surpasses Ulysses, for when you begin Balthazar, the second book, you’re forced to call into question the “facts” you took for granted in Justine. 

By the end of the fourth book, Clea, you begin to wonder if indeed all life is a pilgrimage through a universe of mirrors.

The Quartet provides an added bonus: through quotes and his role in city lore you’ll become familiar with the lonely, probing verses of Constantine Cavafy, “the Poet of Alexandria.”

“Two for the price of one,” Pete Hamill, another Durrell admirer, once suggested. Jacqueline Kennedy too was a well-known devotee of the Durrell/Cavafy association.

Durrell’s stock has fallen somewhat of late, then again, his prose, byzantine plot twists, and overweening love of language is hardly suited to our texting times.

Perhaps it was the nature of his most creative era: the autocratic 30’s, war-scarred 40’s, empire- shattering 50’s, that led him to tunnel so deeply into Alexandria’s world of decaying beauty?

Durrell spent his later years in France where he turned his hand to the Avignon Quintet, no less, delving into the history of that medieval city and its relationship to the esoteric Knights Templar organization.

And what of his poetry? Under the undoubted influence of Cavafy, it gleams with clarity and is often touching.

His travel books are unforgettable and leave their mark. I first read Sicilian Carousel in the late 70’s and only fulfilled a vow to visit the island recently. Durrell’s knowledge of this oft-conquered, exotic island can add so much to the enjoyment of The White Lotus in its Sicilian season. 

Whatever you do, read The Greek Islands, Durrell’s 1978 coffee-table tome. He brings the many islands he has visited, or dwelt in, to life. An avid swimmer, he is no literary snob who frowns on packed beaches, for he generously excavates gods, poets and distinctive humans who once frolicked where tourists now braise themselves in the sun.

So welcome, Lawrence Durrell. We can use an Irish writer capable of transporting us into the heart of love, loss, life and antiquity in these unfocused days of stress and hysterical social mediating.

UKRAINE VERSUS VLAD THE IMPALER

Stefan Lutak was Ukrainian. He owned the Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Mark’s Place. Despite its name it was a beer-and-shot joint I stumbled into by chance after settling in the East Village.

The clientele was Ukrainian and didn’t care for strangers. A disapproving silence would attend my entry but after a while they got used to me. I liked the anonymity of the place and the prices.

Stefan told me he had played pro soccer in West Germany. Everyone had a story in the East Village of the 1970’s and I didn’t delve deeper.

One thing there was no doubt about – the local Ukrainians didn’t like Russians. They didn’t care for any empire, including Britain’s, and would occasionally congratulate me over some bombing in Belfast.

Much later on I played some gigs in the USSR, shortly before it collapsed, and witnessed first-hand the iron fist of that empire, so I celebrated with Ukrainian friends when their country gained independence.

Like most Americans I doubly celebrated the Ukrainian people’s resistance to Emperor Putin’s invading army over the last years; though the sheer scale of slaughter is staggering – over a million Russians and 400,000 Ukrainians dead or wounded.

The question remains, why doesn’t President Donald Trump share the same view? 

Doesn’t the man from Queens realize that if Putin does manage to subjugate Ukraine, he’ll then set about destabilizing Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, and perhaps even Finland, in his zeal to restore the Grand Imperial Russian Empire.

Doesn’t he understand that Ukrainians have changed the very nature of modern warfare by their use of drones. He should, for when he rained down bombs and rockets on the Houthis in Yemen, he was soon forced to declare victory and skedaddle for fear of some US billion-dollar battleship getting blown out of the water by a Dollar General Houthi drone.

Leaving aside such treasured American values as freedom and democracy, think of the economics, Mr. Trump. There is so much to be learned from the Ukrainians and the Houthis that could lead to a slashing of American defense budgets. Advanced drone technology allied with AI will rule in the coming years no matter what you, or Hegseth and your other sycophants think.

But then, do you ever think? Or is life one big TV reality show – to be trotted out in neat chunks of blowhard fantasy week after week?

You disrupt the world’s economic system by slapping ridiculously high tariffs on China without ever considering that Comrade Xi controls 90% of the global supply of rare earth elements that enable cars to run and arms to function. Duh!

Didn’t one of your cabinet minions point out that little fact? Nah, they were too busy telling you how wonderful you are.

So now it’s back to square one in the tariff-bluster negotiations, and the ever astute Xi Jinping has your number. Luckily, you got out of the casino business or he could have really taken you to the cleaners.

All this talk about bringing back manufacturing, coal mining or whatever to the US is just that – talk! What young person wants to work in a factory - or even an office - when they can sit at home in their parents’ basement coding on their laptops, or dreaming of becoming an influencer – or even president.

Of course, there are people who would gladly work in factories or fields. But there’s not much hope in recruiting the undocumented with masked ICE patrols prowling Home Depot   ready to ship them off to rest homes in El Salvador or Sudan.

Not even 6 months into round 2 of the Trump regime and already Gaza is rubble, the Marines are on the streets of Los Angeles, Tehran and Tel Aviv are burning, Trump Family Inc. is cleaning up, Brian Wilson is history, and God Only Knows what plans Bibi has in Iran for an ever compliant US of A.

Stefan Lutik is dead a long time. Just as well. I wouldn’t be able to explain to him how an American president feels more comfortable propping up Vlad Putin the Impaler than supporting the freedom loving people of Ukraine.

 

Time for another beer and a shot in the ongoing fantasy of making America great again.

SIN É - SHANE DOYLE!

I was on the Union Square subway platform when I heard the familiar notes cascading off in the distance. With the arrival or departure of a train they would choke into silence. But I knew those notes and the choice of chords that anchored them, and as I strolled closer I remembered hearing them for the first time in Sin É Café.

A young man was rehearsing on the makeshift stage, picking at what seemed like random chords on his guitar, worrying them into shape. He finally settled on a sequence that pleased him and began to sing, quietly, to himself.

I vaguely recognized the Leonard Cohen song that has since become an anthem. Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah is now a standard, and 35 years later the busker in the subway was copying it note for note; it sounded as ethereal as when I first heard Jeff work on it.

It says a lot for Sin É - and even more for Shane Doyle - that Jeff Buckley and so many other artists found their way inside Shane’s bare-bones emporium on St. Mark’s Place.

I’m not sure there was even a sign outside the premises when I first discovered it in 1989, but I did notice a mention in the window that “Tea & Irish Scones” were available inside. So, I took a look.

The proprietors, Shane and his angelically handsome partner, Karl Geary, gave me the once-over too. We got talking about scones and Ireland, the price of turnips and whatever else was au courant in those days. Conversation tended to flow like water in Sin É.

I was trying to cut back on drinking and began frequenting this then dry hole-in-the-wall. Soon thereafter I came upon Jeff Buckley working on Hallelujah. It turned out he was the son of Tim Buckley, legendary for his ethereal voice and heroin habit. Father and son met but once.

Jeff was hard to ignore for he was tall and drop-dead handsome. Proprietor Karl Geary was no less stunning. I guess that was the reason the clientele of Sin É often tended towards young lonesome ladies.

Karl eventually took to the stage himself and wrote some beautiful songs – he is now a well- regarded novelist.

I don’t think Shane Doyle ever thought much about his own looks but he had charm aplenty, though he could be diffident and would sometimes retreat behind the counter to brew coffee and, no doubt, gather his thoughts.

 

He was not one of those in-your-face proprietors but when he turned his full attention to you he was very charismatic. 

He rarely spoke about himself, though I gathered that he came from a working class Dublin background. He was very curious about the world around him, and in particular of the show-biz and entertainment life.

His real genius, though, was that he appreciated musicians of all sorts, and in particular anyone who had made any kind of breakthrough in the artistic world.

He did not ask for auditions or audition tapes, instead he encouraged aspiring artists to just get up on stage and give their best. Those who showed any promise were added to a roster of hundreds.

Those who didn’t were treated equally well - given a cup of tea and a genuine thank you. In Shane’s recent New York Times obituary the names of the famous who gathered there: Sinéad, Bono, et al were trumpeted, but in truth everyone was welcome.

Black 47 even played a benefit for the legal defense fund of our friend Sean Mackin and nearly blew down the walls of this small space. All fine with Shane. He always appreciated a full house.

He had a sharp brain, unerring instincts for hospitality and publicity, and learned quickly how to work the entertainment business. He recognized that the agent, manager, A&R person were vital to any artist, and he didn’t hesitate to pick up the phone and let his contacts know when an emerging talent was performing in his sitting room sized cantina.

Sin É didn’t last forever. Rents rose, the nabe gentrified, and Shane moved on, a restless Dub forever seeking his particular grail.

But I still treasure that moment I heard Jeff Buckley magically transform Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah into a worldwide anthem in a bare-bones room on St. Mark’s Place called Sin É. 

THE STOLEN KISS THAT NEVER FADES

 What a blast to move to New York from  Wexford town - the size, the bustle, and the sheer moxie of the city, but also the originality and diversity of the music!

You could see and hear something different every night, often brilliant, usually thought-provoking.

 

Pierce Turner and I went out every night. The streets were our oyster. All you needed was the price of a tallboy and a stoop to perch on. New York provided the rest.

With time, Irish accents, and the acquisition of some much-needed chutzpah, we learned how to bluff our way into shows from CBGB to Carnegie Hall.

CB’s was easy. Turner & Kirwan of Wexford was the first band to play there. Owner, Hilly Kristal, had seen us fill the back room of the Bells of Hell, and hired us to play opening night at his new emporium on the Bowery. 

If you played CBGB and drew people, you were inevitably invited to gig at Max’s Kansas City on Park Avenue South, and that opened up the Mudd Club on White Street and Hurrah uptown.

Max’s was my favorite. If you played the upstairs room, then you were welcome to attend any night, as long as there was room – and there always was, as people continually came and went in search of friends or excitement.

Remember, there were no cell phones or texts – doormen and bartenders let you know who was there, who had been, and where they were heading.

The nights were long, closing time stretched past 4am, and if you were still standing, then the inevitable fashionable or seedy after-hours beckoned.

There was no sitting at home, staring into a screen, hoping for clicks or likes, just hot happening streets - sweaty or freezing - in the nightlife capital of the world. 

 

Your repeated presence granted you membership of the scene, and nights you were gigging you too became an act worth checking out.

Should you get a review or a mention in the Voice, the Post (particularly Page 6), the Times, or a myriad of magazines, so much the better; but remember, the media was also on the prowl looking for interesting content. Get a spin or two on WNEW, WLIR or WFMU, and you were really happening. 

You just had to have stamina, a thirst for adventure, and some form of originality that made you stand out - for better or worse.

There were fun nights too, and without cell phones and websites it was a lot easier to pull off the occasional scam.

One night in the late ‘70’s, Turner and I were invited to the Palladium by music insider Neil Stocker to see The Boomtown Rats on their first NYC appearance. The show was great, Geldof was in top arrogant form, when Stocker suggested we crash their party at the very toney One Fifth Restaurant in the Village. He called ahead from a pay-phone to say that the Rats were on their way.

On our arrival sporting our best Dublin accents, Stocker introduced us to the manager of One Fifth who insisted we try his new creation of Rat/Champagne and Guinness.

Our guests soon began to file in and wave to us as we imbibed pints of this magical mix. 

Soon the room was throbbing with the usual hangers-on and first-night scavengers, none of whom apparently knew the Rats or what they looked like.

Well sated from the Champagne/Guinness concoction, we were about to beat a retreat when the manager corralled us and declared, “Time to meet your guests.”

And so we three stood behind a velvet rope and accepted busses, handshakes and congratulations. Suddenly Debbie Harry materialized. She leaned into me smiling, and murmured in “Heart of Glass” tones, “You were wonderful on stage tonight.”

Someone pushed her from behind and she melted into my arms. I leaned closer and we kissed magically and without haste. Then she was gone, another face in a first-night crowd.

By the time Geldof arrived we had greeted most of his guests, and managed to stay a step ahead of him all that long night. My last sighting was of him surrounded by his handlers outside Studio 54 arguing with the puzzled bouncers that “The Rats have NOT been here already, we just stepped out of that bloody limo!”

Ah well, just another of those analog nights – long before the dawn of clicks and likes. But, oh, that stolen kiss still feels magical!

FROM HERBERT HOOVER TO DONALD TRUMP - TARIFF MASTERS

The word on the street in Queens was, “Donny couldn’t organize a two car funeral.”

Anyone could be forgiven one bankruptcy, but six was stretching a point. The guy couldn’t even turn a buck on his casinos.

And now he’s gambling that universal tariffs will bring the world to its knees. He may well be right – but at what cost?

Herbert Hoover was the last president to play the great tariff game. He too was hoping to protect and encourage American industries, but instead he turned a recession into a raging depression.

President Trump had no recession to grapple with. Less than 4 months ago he was handed a first class economy by President Biden.

Now, I’m no ageist, but why have we elected the two oldest American presidents?

Mr. Biden’s family and advisers had for long obscured his age issues, before all was sadly revealed in the presidential debate.

This led to the reign of an even older President Trump whose cock-and-bull ideas are matched only by his megalomania.

Did you catch any of a recent televised cabinet meeting? It would have put Mussolini to shame.

There sat The Donald, head nodding in sated appreciation, while cabinet members took turns eulogizing his “awesome first-100 days.” 

The only irony is that most of these sycophants will receive their pink slips in the course of this administration. Loyalty flows but one way for the man from Queens.

Not one speaker had the courage - or common sense - to question Mr. Trump’s inane belief that tariffs can eventually replace income tax in funding the US Government.

But given that the Trump cabinet is stocked with doting sheep, are we lost?

Far from it, megalomania to the rescue! Mr. Trump does not believe in taking any blame for his actions. See how quickly he folded when stocks, bonds and the almighty dollar shuddered on “Liberation Day.” A 90-day postponement of excessive tariffs was hastily called, and now it looks as though the EU will be forgiven their tariff negotiation transgressions.

And so the farce will continue, two steps forward, one step back like a drunken bridegroom adrift on the dance floor.

We, however, will be left to pick up the pieces. The trust destroyed by our president’s embarrassing behavior to friends and neighbors will not return automatically. Global economic slowdowns leave all sorts of scars.

Meanwhile, Canadians are boycotting US goods and forsaking their annual winter sojourns in the Sun Belt. Europeans too are steering clear of us – including the Irish. Soho boutiques, once awash with fashionable Chinese are feeling the pinch, and who’d want to be a foreign student, now that the Ugly American has been unleashed and is on the prowl for any hint of college dissent?

Stephen Miller’s “flooding the zone” strategy - government by executive order, attack dogs unleashed at all manner of “radical liberal” threats - is working for now. 

But judges are challenging many of these directives, and a constitutional crisis is on the way. 

Eventually the Supreme Court will have to choose between loyalty to Trump or the constitution.

It seemed for a moment that colleges and white shoe law firms were buckling under the bullyboy pressure, but Harvard and more principled lawyers have drawn lines in the sand against a presidency that Donald Trump has transformed into a weapon of grievance and revenge.

Americans will soon have to decide if due process is a bedrock of our constitutional democracy or are we willing to sacrifice it at the whim of a convicted felon?

One figure should not be forgotten - the national debt of over $36 Trillion. Most of the Trump Tax Cuts of 2017 are now up for renewal. The president is also proposing new fiscal enhancements, including no tax on tips. 

Over 10 years these gifts could cost $4.5 Trillion, less a hoped for $1.5 Trillion in cuts to current expenditures. The balance could add $3 Trillion to the National Debt.

A frightening thought, especially if interest rates should rise to counter expected inflation. What happened to the legion of principled Republican deficit hawks? Did Donald clip their scolding wings?

But ultimately President Trump’s fate may depend on more prosaic figures, like the price of eggs, gas or the cost of a new car, as the 2026 midterms loom closer.

In the meantime, keep your tattoos covered. You too might qualify for an extended vacation down in the Trump Due Process Hostel in sunny El Salvador. 

LACE CURTAIN VERSUS SHANTY AT THE AMERICAN IRISH HISTORICAL SOCIETY

The divide between lace curtain and shanty had pretty much disappeared by the time I hit New York in the 1970’s. That being said, the clientele of the original Irish Pavilion on 57^th Street bore little resemblance to those of us who frequented the many Blarney Stones that dotted the city.

Free love, dime bags, and the general couldn’t-give-a-damn attitudes of the 1960’s had swept away many social barriers. Guys like me who dwelt in lowly tenements on the Lower East Side were welcomed to such temples of culture as the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick up on toney Fifth Avenue. But never once did I think of approaching the lace curtain fortress of the American Irish  Historical Society across the avenue from the Met.

There was an air of “keep your distance” about this gilded age mansion. I occasionally wondered about it, for I was interested in Irish-American history, but like most others I gave this forbidding, and seemingly forbidden, ivory tower a pass.

Then some years back Brian McCabe became Chairman of the AIHS Executive Council and Sophie Colgan assumed management of events. These two dynamic New Yorkers took over the day-to-day administration of the building and threw the doors wide open. It was a new beginning and many of us organized or took part in events. It was then I came to appreciate the beauty and stateliness of the mansion.

But I was never able to discover how many valuable original documents are contained within the hallowed walls of 991 Fifth Avenue, though I did hear rumors of a vast collection of rare books among the “10,000 or so” volumes in the building. The AIHS has never been known for its specificity.

Despite their trojan work Brian and Sophie were eventually dismissed and in 2021 the building was put on sale for $52 million along with a proposal to transfer the archives to Cooperstown. Perhaps room for Irish-America’s heritage had been found within the Baseball Hall of Fame?

A general uproar ensued, the sale price was reduced, and eventually the building was taken off the market.

In 2022 New York Attorney General, Letita James intervened, and in 2023 a “permanent” board of directors was appointed, along with a new executive director, Dr. Elizabeth Stack.

Hallelujah! I knew Elizabeth from her sterling work as Executive Director of the Irish American Heritage Museum in Albany. She had transformed that organization and was a popular cultural figure throughout the Capital Region.

The AIHS appeared to be in safe hands and Elizabeth set to her task of reopening 991 Fifth Avenue with her customary transparency and vivacity. The Irish Rep resumed their wonderful immersive Yuletide production of James Joyce’s The Dead, many readings, lectures and exhibitions were held, and though cash flow – the bane of most non-profit establishments – was a problem, there was a general air of optimism about the future of the AIHS. What could go wrong?

Oh, something as simple as another dismissal notice, this time of Dr. Stack, along with the resignation of a sizeable portion of the “permanent” board. Then, to add a little farce - a Dickensian changing of locks. Talk about Bleak House!

So where do we stand? As ever with the opaque AIHS, who knows? There is talk of a lawsuit over an unpaid $3 million loan, and the necessity of selling the building so that the organization might be salvaged.

To my mind that would go against the spirit of Irish-America. With hard work, miracles can happen. Remember back in 2008 the rescue of St. Brigid’s Church on Avenue B from the wrecking ball?  That too seemed impossible until a sainted anonymous donor provided $20 million. 

Regardless, the road to recovery should begin with the immediate reinstatement of Dr. Stack. All who have met her – except, apparently, some “permanent” board members – have been impressed by her hard work, and devotion to the organization and the building. 

But if, in the end, the mansion must be sold, then so be it. Another building can be leased, or even bought, in a less pricey area of the city where the digitized archives, library, paintings and other treasures can be opened to the public.

Perhaps then the AIHS can finally fulfill its original mission, “to place permanently on record the story of the Irish in America” - be they shanty or lace curtain.

CELTIC CRUSH 20TH ANNIVERSARY ON SIRIUSXM RADIO

About twenty years ago, I happened to be in the right place at the right time. I was visiting the Sirius Satellite Radio headquarters for an interview with Meg Griffin, head of the Disorder Channel. I was promoting a memoir, Green Suede Shoes, and the release of an associated Black 47 CD, Elvis Murphy’s Green Suede Shoes.

Meg and I were friends from the downtown Punk days, and after the interview we were laughing and bantering in the corridor of the 36^th Floor as a top executive, Steve Blatter, strode by. 

We exchanged a few words and, noticing my accent, Steve called Meg to one side; she soon returned inquiring, “Would you be interested in hosting a weekly Celtic show?”

I’d always loved radio and I had done countless interviews with Black 47 - it seemed like a gig made in heaven.

Meg mentioned that the Sirius Celtic collection was pretty scant, so a couple of days later I showed up with a backpack full of CDs and a list of songs for a 3-hour show. I decided to adapt the old  WNEW-FM system: play 3 songs and then talk about whatever came to mind. 

I called the show Celtic Crush, as I would be mixing songs and styles from across the Celtic world, while hopefully adding a seasoning of the radio romance that had swept me away as a boy.

Meg taught me how to use the controls, and gave me hints on how to balance a show, like “keep to the point,” but let inspiration guide me.

I had been influenced by many hosts from the golden days of FM radio, but three in particular: Vin Scelsa, Alison Steele and Meg herself. All three were masters of improv.

Black 47 was an improv band – we never did the same set twice, we just lived in the moment and trusted in the ongoing dynamic between band and audience. 20 years later I still use that sixth sense of communication to propel each Celtic Crush show.

I begin each show with a 5-minute intro that usually sets the tone of the show. I rarely play a song from the previous week, and I always add new songs, so that the show is always fresh to me, and hopefully to the audience.

Celtic Crush is about songs, not artists, and I encourage musicians submitting material to be daring with their choices. Because I’ve been on the road for most of my life, I tend to know or have first-hand knowledge of many artists. But I don’t deal in gossip, only their musical history as I understand it.

The idea is to find and nurture “future classics.” These can be recordings from as far back as 100 years. In last year’s listener’s Top 100 poll, Sean Ó’Riada’s mystical live version of Aisling Gheal from 1971 was voted #3, and Celtic Crush has been the first in the US to play such current popular favorites as Lankum, Kneecap, Fontaines DC, Jiggy, The Mary Wallopers, and so many more.

Instead of just looking back to the original 8 Celtic nations I’m as interested in the diaspora from each and how new lands have influenced immigrant music. 

As for my commentaries I delve into history, politics, literature, theatre and memory. One of the touchstones of being a SiriusXM host is that your show may be heard in any part of the US or Canada, so you must speak to audiences way beyond your own locality.

I have my own political views and they include being a small “r” and “d” republican and democrat, so I speak my mind in these troublesome authoritarian times, while trying not to do so in an abrasive manner. 

The last message each week is to encourage listeners to reach out to one person in his/her circle and help put a dent in the epidemic of loneliness that afflicts modern life.

After 20 years, Celtic Crush is still a joy to host and produce, and no matter what mood I’m in before I record, I invariably feel uplifted after. What more can one ask for? Ah yes, the ongoing magic of radio!

 

SiriusXM is the largest audio entertainment company in North America and has approximately 34 million subscribers in the US and Canada. It is subscription based and is available through satellite or online. It offers over 200 channels, including commercial-free music, sports, news, talk, and entertainment. To sign up for SiriusXM, or for a free trial option, visit www.siriusxm.com or call1-866-635-2349.

DAVID JOHANSEN, JACK O'LEARY, JOE STRUMMER & ALL MY INFLUENCERS!

 There are a number of building blocks in any reasonably successful rock ‘n’ roll band. First of course, are the musicians themselves, followed closely by a loyal tech crew. Add a dogged and dedicated agent and you’re off to the races.

Some swear by a good manager, but if you haven’t learned how to manage yourself after a couple of years, then you haven’t been looking or listening – besides adding a manager’s 15% off the top to an agent’s 10%, means you’ll take very little home. Forget about hiring a PR person, just favor a united Ireland and oppose an American war and you’ll get all the publicity you need.

That being said, you’re going nowhere unless you have a loyal fanbase led by superfans. 10 years after Black 47 disbanded I can still summon up the faces in the first two rows in most American cities. Many still stay in touch.

But there’s another, somewhat more exalted breed, that really made a difference, I called them influencers, long before every Tom, Dick and Harry debased the title. I lost some of mine recently.

I first met Jack O’Leary when I was 18 and playing a pub in Wexford. I was singing “Donna, Donna,” a little-known ballad; no one was listening - except Jack. During a break he complimented my taste, and stated that “Donna, Donna” was an old Jewish folk song. 

From that moment on we were linked. Jack seemed to know every song that had any bit of soul or history to it, and was determined to pass on his knowledge.

He worked on the Rosslare/Fishguard ferries, and on his time off attended most of my gigs.

I can still picture him roaming around pubs, resplendent in a well-cut grey suit, pint in hand, swaying to the music, and encouraging me to try new songs, especially my own.

He was an excellent singer of sea-chanteys and could have gained a PhD in the semi-mystical songs of the merchant-marine songwriter, Cyril Tawney.

He came to London when Black 47 opened for The Pogues at their remarkable Christmas show in 1990. There I introduced him to Joe Strummer. Backstage they talked non-stop, head to head at the bar. When Jack finally took a toilet break, Joe turned to me and said, “Where did you find him, guy knows more about music than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Like many other commercial sailors Jack had little time for religion, still I fancy I can see him, pint in hand, wheedling his way into heaven by entertaining St. Peter with a lusty version of Tawney’s “Five Foot Flirt.”

Joe himself died way too young; although he was recognized as the Prince of Punk, he had an inexhaustible knowledge of popular music. For about 6 months he came to every Black 47 gig in Paddy Reilly’s. It was a rare night we didn’t introduce a new song, and Joe took delight in mentioning its “obvious” influences. Even when I’d tell him none of us ever heard of such arcane writers, he’d say, “Makes no difference, man, music is universal and we’re all linked.” He always had a friendly suggestion for how we could make a song better. But just knowing Joe was listening made you better anyway. 

He never mentioned The Clash but he often spoke about Thomas Moore’s Minstrel Boy, and how someday he hoped to improve on Paul Robeson’s magisterial interpretation; he eventually did in the soundtrack for Black Hawk Down.

David Johansen’s mother was a Cullen from Staten Island. I noticed him on the streets of the East Village not long after I arrived in the US. Handsome, rakish and convivial, he had been vocalist for The New York Dolls and became big daddy to many New York musicians. He used to drink in Tramps, Terry Dunne’s bar on 15^thStreet. ‘Twas there he developed his alter-ego, Buster Poindexter. 

He guested on the Black 47 track, Staten Island Baby. Talk about a pro, he made that song his own. As he left the studio, veteran producer/engineer Stewart Lerman murmured, “I learned more in the last 2 hours from Dave than I did in the past 20 years.”

I miss my influencers – they gave so much of themselves and asked for so little in return.

ROCKIN' THE BRONX - A NOVEL & ODE TO BAINBRIDGE AVENUE

 The scene in the Irish Bronx between the 1970’s and the 1990’s was so wild and in-your-face, I figured it would last forever. It never occurred to me that by the end of the century all the temples of intemperance where I used to play would have morphed into nail salons and bodegas.

 

This Irish Bronx stretched from The Concourse up to Yonkers, and from the Hudson River to God knows where. But it definitely contained Kingsbridge and Fordham Roads, and the immortal Braindamage (Bainbridge) Avenue, circa 204^th Street. Only God again knows how many bars thrived on those rugged boulevards, for they changed names and owners with dizzying frequency.

 

I began my Bronx career with Turner & Kirwan of Wexford in the mid-70’s at Durty Nelly’s on Kingsbridge Road. We had been making a name for ourselves down in Greenwich Village and were approached by a rogue with a twinkle in his eye from Carrick-on-Suir. Phil Delaney booked us for Nelly’s and we found our way to Kingsbridge one Indian summer’s evening.

 

The place was jammed, everyone awaiting these “Village Superstars” as we were billed. After a few tokes out in the van for inspiration, we took to the stage and blasted into our psychedelic 20-minute version of The Foggy Dew; we had them Paddies rocking for about 90 minutes until I noticed Phil waving at us like a baseball umpire. 

 

“Will yez, for Jaysus sake, take a break,” he screamed. “We’ve barely sold a drink since yez started playing!” Thus, did we learn that flogging booze trumped all artistic pretensions on Kingsbridge.

 

Back then, the scene was still run by those who had emigrated in the 1950’s. They preferred the showband 3 slow/3 fast dance sets; jiving was still the rage, ladies in dresses, gentlemen in suits, all of whom discreetly disguised their level of inebriation. 

 

As the 80’s rolled in, however, and economic depression deepened in Ireland, a new breed arrived – mostly undocumented who worked long hours for cash on Manhattan building sites; they were joined by many from the North who had gone toe to toe with the British Army. 

 

The tastes of these “New Irish” had broadened to the Punk of The Undertones and the Trad of Planxty. Most of them drank like fish and in the words of a local wag seemed “neither here nor there.” Always looking back at Ireland, but in no hurry to return. I knew what they were going through for I had decided I was never going home permanently again.

 

In my four-hour stints onstage, I had much time to observe the new arrivals, and one night in The Village Pub I had an epiphany: they were enacting a story that no one else had yet dealt with in any literary form. This was around the beginning of the 80’s. Pierce Turner and I had formed a new wave band, Major Thinkers, and were doing well downtown, but money being tight, we’d moonlight up in The Bronx. 

 

The drinking was beyond ferocious and the signs of burnout were all around. I had little doubt I was on the same road to ruin. Why had I come to New York in the first place? To “make it?” That was happening - Major Thinkers were about to sign with Epic Records, tour with Cyndi Lauper and UB40; still, I was uneasy about my life’s direction. I began writing plays and was fumbling around for subject matter.

 

Onstage in The Bronx I wondered about the stories of the young immigrants. I began to question them between sets, and in the long, liquid post-gig hours before I’d head home to the East Village. 

 

Most of my interviewees had left Ireland because in the words of The Sex Pistols there was “no future”. Others had quit from boredom or broken hearts, while those from the North were tired of being second-class citizens in their own occupied country. 

 

Were they happy in The Bronx? Well, they had everything they needed, pockets full of cash, bars where they were welcome, diners with good food, county matches at Gaelic Park on Sundays, the occasional Christy Moore concert, even sex with like-minded others freed from the conventions of home. 

 

Life was full, but there was an emptiness too: they didn’t trust their closest neighbors, the Puerto Ricans and Irish-Americans, and few took advantage of New York’s many opportunities. Why bother? They had their own private universe in The Bronx.

 

The years passed. Major Thinkers got dropped by Epic Records, and Pierce and I parted amicably. I leaped off the merry-go-round of “making it” and became a full-time playwright. I still needed to make money, so I often returned to The Bronx to pick up a gig or two. Everyone had gotten a little older, but I still listened to their stories during breaks. 

 

I was learning my theatre craft, writing, directing, and producing my own plays and musicals. And then one night Chris Byrne and I formed Black 47, and before I knew it I was back full-time on Braindamage Avenue. Our music was not only political but we intended to become a fully original band ASAP. We had need of songs, especially those relevant to our immigrant audience.

 

I drew from the stories I had been told during breaks; the songs were mostly character-driven and told a story. Among them were “Funky Ceili,” “Banks of The Hudson,” “Fanatic Heart”, and “Rockin’ The Bronx.” 

 

One was called, “Sleep Tight in New York City,” it told the story of Sean Kelly who had left rural Ireland to find his girlfriend, Mary Devine, in The Bronx. She hadn’t written and he feared the worst. When he does find her he discovers her problem, and has to change his own life and expectations. He must also accept Danny McClory, a gay construction worker with an IRA past, and rambunctious Kate from County Mayo, the heroine of Black 47’s “Livin’ in America.” 

 

Rockin’ The Bronx was done with some success as a play, but in order to capture the complexities of New York I adapted it to a novel. Some readers may recognize themselves or others in the characters. 

 

One person I barely changed was Brian Mór, the artist and political activist, he’s easily identified as Benny, the bouncer at the traditional bar, The Gallowglass (The Bunratty). Why? Because Brian looked after me in real life, much the way he looks out for bull-headed Sean Kelly in the book; then again, it took me years to realize that I had often based Sean on my own shortcomings.

 

Rockin’ The Bronx captures The Bronx in all its unvarnished glory around the time of the deaths of John Lennon and Bobby Sands. It was something that I’d set out to do on that night of Epiphany in the Village Pub. Fordham University Press recognized the value of the story, and now we finally have a written account of what we were up to in those wild years. 

 

Rockin’ The Bronx went on sale last week. For those who were there it will bring back memories, for those who weren’t, it’s full of laughs, loss, dreams, drink, politics, music and, most importantly, hope.

 

At the book’s end, Sean comes to the conclusion: “The Bronx had been far from easy on me. It had pruned and tempered my expectations. I arrived a boy and was leaving a man, a little scarred perhaps, but a great deal wiser; yet I had no doubt that my years spent on its bristling streets would stand to me down all the days to come.”

 

Rockin’ The Bronx can be ordered at all stores and at Amazon and all digital outlets.
https://www.fordhampress.com/ is offering a discount of 25% off, plus free shipping (paperback and eBook). Use code ROCKIN25-FI   Autographed copies of the book can be purchased at SHOP at www.black47.com

CONGESTION PRICING ON CANAL

Canal Street in Lower Manhattan runs just over a mile from East Broadway to West Street. It’s big, broad and bustling and many the famous person from Alexander Hamilton to Lou Reed has walked the wild side on its well-worn cobblestones and concrete. 

 

Until recently, it was one of the most dangerous streets in New York though neither the Post nor Fox thought it worthwhile to mention. 

 

Canal Street put the shivers in you because from the Manhattan Bridge to the Holland Tunnel it was jammed to the gills with cars and trucks. You took your life in your hands crossing that street of dreams.

 

With only the occasional cop in attendance, drivers used traffic lights as suggestions rather than hard and fast rules. Pedestrians were treated as mere extras in the movies of these mostly out-of-city drivers. 

 

Meanwhile, mired in its automobile adoration, New York City authorities still only allow the barest of time for pedestrians to make it across the street. You get a couple of seconds of a white “walk” light before a countdown of “run for your life” in flashing red. I once saw a hobbling elderly gentleman hoist his crutches over his shoulders and race betwixt and between honking cars to the unguaranteed safety of the opposite curb.

 

All changed, utterly changed since we unworthy sprinters were granted congestion pricing. Traffic is suddenly silent and gently flowing like the Hudson River. 

 

Time to celebrate, you might ask? Hardly for King Donald down in DC has decreed that he prefers the choked streets, poisonous fumes, the honking, and the occasional life and limb sacrificed to the great god, Automobile.

 

Unlike Alexander and Lou this former denizen of Queens likely never spent much time on wild and wooly Canal Street; what need hath he for the brittle Manhattan Bridge or the jam-packed Holland Tunnel in whatever gigantic SUV he’s been towed around in? 

 

The vast majority of us who live in Manhattan wouldn’t be caught dead owning a car. Where are you going to park it? Instead, we take the subways – or walk – and now, hallelujah, the aforementioned subways will be financed by those who insist on driving in below 60^th Street.

 

You don’t like subways? I assure you they’re much safer than the congested streets. I know, they smell occasionally and there’s always a chance you’ll share a car or platform with a disturbed person.

 

But then, how much crazier is someone who texts while driving? I know you’d never do that, but many do. In fact, in the bad old pre-congestion pricing days, one of the essentials crossing Canal was to gain eye contact with furious drivers trapped by red lights, but already revving up for their next 3 miler per hour dash. 

 

Gaining the attention of these Formula One wannabes was never as easy as it sounds, for many heads were locked downwards in mid-text forcing you to roar your loudest New York “YOH!” 

 

One thing I never would have predicted with congestion pricing is that Canal Street foot traffic would increase, leading to more crowded stores and happier merchants. 

 

Tucked in between expensive Soho and Tribeca, Canal was always a haven for bargain hunters. From Chinese jewelry to Lebanese suitcases, Italian cannoli, to the finest of sub-Saharan counterfeit Chanel, Prada and Gucci, we have it all – and you can bargain in up to 40 languages.

 

On the south-east corner of Church and Canal, known locally as Senegal Alley you can experience the finest beat-driven devotional music by Youssou N’Dour and Salif Keita, and you now can hear it all without the ongoing accompaniment of honking horns.

 

How pleasing to finally stroll in the footsteps of Hamilton and Reed through streets originally designed for horse and carriage.

 

I can only think of one comparable New York City edict that made a real difference to the lives of its citizens – the ban on smoking in bars and restaurants. 

 

So be aware Mayor Adams, Mr. Cuomo and others seeking the mayoralty, there are many of us who won’t even consider voting for you without your guarantee of support for congestion pricing.

Now if we could only make the same threat to “Yer man from Queens” in the White House. But he knows New York City would never vote for him anyway.