DRINKIN' IN AMERICA

 “It’s 6 o’clock and it’s time to rock, and me head is beatin’ like a drum

In the cold daylight, I feel like shite, and I can’t remember last night’s fun

Then the foreman says, ‘C’mon now, boys, stick your fingers down your throat and get to work’

 

And I wish to Christ, I’d stayed home last night, instead of drinking in America.”

 

“Drinking in America.” I bet that phrase summonses memories, the kind you never forget.

 

I thought I had put in some first-class imbibing before I moved to New York City. But that was akin to being a sprinter who’s suddenly tossed into a marathon.

 

4am closing time was a revelation. I remember thinking: Americans must do nothing but drink.

It was so different in Ireland. “Time, gentlemen, please!” would resound through pubs at 10:50pm in the winter and 11:20pm in the summer. Speed drinking would ensue, how many pints could you down before you were banished out the door by a frenetic barman?

 

Apart from the occasional tear, by American standards no one drank that much in Ireland, who had the money? To paraphrase Brendan Behan, “Getting stocious wasn’t a disgrace, it was an achievement.”   I mean, the pubs were actually closed on St. Patrick’s Day.

 

Women, as a rule, didn’t frequent pubs until the mid-1960’s, when lounges became fashionable. Up until then, working class ladies might squeeze into snugs, while their upper-class sisters sipped Babycham or the occasional cocktail in hotel bars.

 

Remember ballroom culture, up to 1000 women and men, many sporting pioneer pins, soberly throwing shapes. And what showband dared drink on stage with the parish priest presiding?

 

But right from the get-go, when the Irish came to America it was a whole different ball game.

During the Great Hunger years, many Irish immigrants settled in the downtown Five Points area. After some trepidation, they fit in well with free African-Americans who already ran dance halls; soon inter-racial bands were playing a mix of Irish jigs and African Juba music.

 

With little or no licensing laws, the shenanigans went on all night, and the Irish built their reputation as a drinking/dancing/romancing type of people who left the footprint of their saloons all over this country.

 

Part of the reason was economic. Immigrants and their large families rented small rooms in tenements. Most space was used for sleeping and eating, so there was need for a sitting room – often the nearest saloon or síbín. Not to mention that water was scarce and often contaminated. Beer was far safer.

 

Being a musician, I got to study “drinking in America” close up. The days of the Five Points were long gone by the 1970’s. In the Irish bars of The Bronx, say Durty Nelly’s on Kingsbridge, there was still a cultural connection to showbands and ballrooms, the men wore suits and ties on weekends, the ladies looked divine in their dresses; after 3 songs, you called out, “Your next dance please.”  And though the clientele was far from sober, a mannerly decorum was called for, and observed.

 

Oh man, did that change in the nihilistic 80’s with the huge influx of young immigrants from the jobless South and battle-torn North where the youth had already gone toe-to-toe with the British Army.

 

At the end of that decade I wrote the above quoted song, Livin’ in America, about young immigrant life around Bainbridge Avenue. Since many were illegal, there was a roaring cash culture and economy. 

 

I never witnessed such drinking – you had to tread carefully entering a darkened pub with your guitar and amp, for fear you’d trip over some client taking a post happy-hour nap to revivify himself before heading off to the Archway for a night’s dancing - and some serious imbibing.

 

That all changed when the Celtic Tiger began growling back home. Plenty of heavy drinkers still remained, but Bainbridge without bars became just another lonely avenue.

 

Though many pub owners would love a renaissance, it’s just a pipe dream. Young Irish don’t fancy the U.S. anymore - Australia, Canada and the EU are more welcoming and better reflect modern Irish values.

 

Besides, everyone wants to live longer, and affordability is all the rage. The good old days of “drinking in America” are receding in the mirror.

 

Ah well, I’m off to the bodega for a 6-pack. It’ll soon enough be “six o’clock and time to rock...”