St. Patrick's Day

   On my first St. Patrick’s Day in New York, Turner & Kirwan of Wexford played four sets in the Pig & Whistle on 48^th Street before hopping the RR Train to Bay Ridge and knocking off another four sets in Tomorrow’s Lounge.

   Endurance and Southern Comfort were the name of the game. Hey, if that sweet sticky liquid gave Janis Joplin a boost, it might put the power of god in two hayseeds from Wexford!

   I played a number of St. Patrick’s Days on the road – once at some god-forsaken college in West Virginia where we were warned not to leave the grounds with long hair, as we would definitely not return with it – such was the hostility of the local rednecks.

   Another March 17^th we were prevailed upon to play ten sets in a New Hampshire establishment. To protest this injustice we threw a huge party afterwards in our lodgings. Next morning the owner returned unexpectedly to a scene out of a Paddy Fellini movie. It was not my happiest March 18^th.

   New York City is unequivocally the place to be on St. Patrick’s Day. There’s a wildness in the air. I trace it back to the “Famine Irish” who on that one day of the year defiantly stepped out from their urban hovels to the beat of: “we have survived, we have arrived!”

   Back in the 1970’s with a struggle against discrimination  going on in the North of Ireland one dug deep and summoned up the many rebel songs that were part of our DNA. 

   With his tightening of Section 31 of the Broadcasting Act in 1976, Dr. Conor Cruise O’Brien blockaded that rebel musical avenue on Irish radio and television, and Ireland lost a vital link to its heritage.

   When we formed Black 47 Chris Byrne and I set out to renew the link by writing our own contemporary rebel music with the help of Reggae, Hip-Hop, and Rock beats. Thus came James Connolly, Time To Go, Fire of Freedom and other songs that challenged the political status quo.

   Our mantra was to use the beats from the street but always keep the link – and the faith - with the past. 

   Saint Patrick’s Days were a riotous blur for twenty-five years with Black 47. We’d arrive back in the city from some late night gig, do an early morning TV show, then load in for Conan, Letterman or Fallon. With fatigue and adrenaline battling it out, I once forgot a line of James Connolly on national television. Few noticed but I died a hundred deaths.

   We insisted that our St. Patrick’s Night gigs be open to all ages – it was important that the youth be introduced to the old Irish political traditions. And, oh those nights were full of life, and the triumph and tragedy that attend it.

   When BB King’s called and asked me to put together a band for March 17^th, I hesitated; I’ve been enjoying playing solo since Black 47 disbanded, exploring the lyrical side of the band’s anthems. 

   But there was a need for a big midtown gig on St. Patrick’s night in this centenary year of 2016. 

Besides I had written a new song about Sean MacDiarmada, the spark plug of the Rising. 

   And so I reached out to some unique musician friends to form a band for the night. My old comrade, David Amram, who pioneered the Poetry/Jazz fusion with his friend Jack Kerouac, will even sit in.

   Chris Byrne will join us after his set with Lost Tribe of Donegal. John McDonagh from Radio Free Eireann will MC and present a piece from his successful Cabtivist show. My son, Rory K, a hip-hop artist will play – the next generation deserves its night also.

   But the link to the past will as ever be bone-deep. We’ll tackle some of the score of my musical, Hard Times, set in The Five Points in 1863 when the “Famine Irish” were beginning their ascent up the social and political ladder.

   The unruly spirits of Sean MacDiarmada, Stephen Foster, James Connolly, Michael Collins - and god knows who else - will collide on 42^nd Street this St. Patrick’s night.  See you at BB King’s!

The "Famine Irish"

   Emigration has never exactly been a walk on the beach. First of all there’s the long “should I stay or should I go” question; quite often a niggling career or love disappointment influences the final decision – sometimes rashly taken in a pub with too many pints aboard.

   Next comes the countdown that culminates in the bittersweet American wake and then the pain of farewell at Dublin or Shannon airports.

   Even in my day of leaving in the 1970’s there was a sudden severance of ties with loved ones, unless you were a regular letter writer – which most of us weren’t. Of course, separation still hurts nowadays even with email, Facebook, Skype, and any other manner of digital communication.

   But imagine what it was like for those dislocated by An Gorta Mór back in the 1840’s. The problem is – most of us cannot put ourselves in the shoes of those desperate people. At best we identify with the hapless immigrant of “The Streets of New York.”

   But that song was set some generations later when the Irish had gained a foothold in the cities of the American East Coast. The Famine Irish arrived in teeming, deprived multitudes and were universally despised.

   Most of their money had been spent for berths on overcrowded coffin ships where they were expected to feed themselves over the long and brutal voyage. Many were already worn down by fever and disease not to mention endemic seasickness. 

   Those who passed the often stringent medical examination were instantly overwhelmed by the bustle of dockland Manhattan; they were easy targets for the “guides” and thieves who preyed on them. Pete Hamill once noted that the average rural Irish immigrant saw more people in the first hour in New York than in a lifetime in Ireland.

   To add to the sense of dislocation, many were native Gaelic speakers with only a smattering of English.

   How did they fit in – how did they even begin to find work in this alien environment? Daniel O’Connell had prepared them. His Repeal (of the Union) Association had recruited and organized them in every parish and townsland in Ireland. 

   The Famine Irish used these networks of contacts from home when they arrived in New York City. Thus we find Sligo and Galway houses in Lower Manhattan’s notorious Five Points slum. With neighbors and relatives close at hand there was the chance of finding “the shtart” (the first job) - even if it was only shoveling manure from the streets.

   Gaelic, unfortunately, was quickly abandoned in a drive to gain better employment; but O’Connell’s training proved invaluable as the Famine Irish learned to manipulate the political system and move up the social ladder, despite the sectarianism and discrimination they experienced from Nativist and Know-Nothing Americans.

   We tend to hear only of the success stories but let’s spare a thought for those who were psychologically unsuited to the extreme stress of this new urban life. Many cracked, retreating to the shebeens; others left for the Californian Gold Rush and never returned. 

   Let’s also remember the many Irish women who had to take to the streets to provide for themselves and their children. It’s an uncomfortable, even jarring, thought now but an economic fact of life for many at that time. 

   Speaking of Daniel O’Connell and the gift of ward organizing that he bequeathed Irish-Americans – it would behoove us to honor him this year by using our clout to influence the immigration policies of the two major political parties. 

   Irish immigration has been stymied since 1965 by the Hart-Celler Act. In a tight primary season and perhaps an even closer general election, we can exert pressure on candidates from both parties.  

   It’s way past time to open the door - even slightly - and allow a new generation of Irish to join us. The old neighborhoods could use them and Irish-America could profit from some youthful native Irish invigoration.

   With their free university education many young Irish immigrants would likely find work with high-tech companies.  Few would have to shovel manure like our brave and desperate Famine Irish who despite all odds eventually triumphed – no matter what the cost.

Miracle on Avenue B

           Miracles do happen - particularly on Avenue B. That’s where St. Brigid’s stands, just east of Tompkins Square Park.

            I have been involved in many the lost cause down the years but none, seemingly, as hopeless as the battle to restore and reopen the old “Famine church.”

            Our ranks were broad - Conservative and Marxist, Jansenist and Liberationist, Puerto Rican and Irish, among many others opposed the demolition of this treasured landmark.

            My own connection to St. Bridie’s was far from religious. Following nights spent carousing in The Kiwi, an after-hours establishment on 9^th Street, I often watched the sun rise from a park bench in Tomkins Square. 

            I noticed the Irish name and took a stroll in during early mass one morning, and to my amazement learned that the church had been built by survivors of An Gorta Mór.

            I did not become a parishioner but grew fond of the place and occasionally took refuge in a shady pew on blazing summer days. 

            When demolition seemed likely back in 2006, along with other members of the Irish American Writers & Artists I assisted in running some benefits. To be honest I felt we needed a miracle, for I come from a clerical family and know that victories are scarce when you oppose the judgment of prelates and princes.

            Then lo and behold, when we activists were on our last legs in 2008, an anonymous donor gave $20 million with the express wish that St. Brigid’s be restored and returned to the community.

            The church reopened on Jan. 29, 2013 and some weeks ago I found myself passing my old-after hours Tomkins Square park bench on my way to a much delayed celebration.

            There was another reason I hadn’t been back in the old neighborhood for some time and it weighed on my mind as I entered the church basement. But I was soon overwhelmed by the warmth and friendship of comrades and parishioners.

            Peter Quinn was there; he had been president of IAWA when we ran our benefits. Ed Torres, the dynamic leader of the parishioners, was as ever gracious and inspiring. I sat with his lovely wife, Dolly, as she showed me the pictures of her grandchildren and, not for the first time, was made to feel like a member of her extended family.

            My colleague at The Echo, Peter McDermott, was in attendance, his finger as ever on the pulse of Irish New York?  I sat with my old musical friends, Joe Hurley and Kirk Kelly while we demolished pulled pork, barbecued chicken, corn beef and cabbage and talked of old times playing The Pyramid, 8BC, and other iconic neighborhood clubs.

            Joe was still shattered over the death of David Bowie. As we traded stories about our encounters with this mutual hero, I remembered why I’d stayed away for so long but chose not to mention it.

After all, we were at a celebration and the talk of Mr. Bowie had put us both in a melancholic mood. To add fat to the fire, Brian Monaghan’s relatives were in attendance and the talk had turned to this sorely missed entertainer.

            Eventually it was time to go and I left with many a hug and fond word. I thought of cutting back across the park but instead I headed down Avenue B and around the corner to my old apartment building on 3^rd Street.

            Once more I stood on the pavement that had been stained with blood on that August morning 20 years ago. Black 47 had played the Dublin Ohio Irish Festival the pervious night and I’d caught the first plane back.

            Johnny Byrne, soundman and recording engineer, the best friend of so many Irish musicians, had fallen off the fire escape. I gazed up at my old windows - one was shuttered, while a large air-conditioner blocked the other. The current residents would never pull a mattress onto the fire escape on a hot night.

            The old sadness resurfaced but it was no match for the warmth I had felt at St. Brigid’s party. Then it struck me that it was time to let the past go – that miracles do indeed happen, especially on Avenue B.

Music and Society

            It’s interesting how music and the manner in which it is presented is so closely related to the politics and social mores of the times.

            Take a look at Ireland in the 1950’s through the late 1960’s. Showbands dominated popular culture and large halls sprung up all over the country to accommodate dancing. People flocked in their thousands to these venues and danced the nights away, always three fast songs in a set followed by three slow smooches.

            Up on stage showbands – all boasting roughly the same instrumentation: three horns, a rhythm section and a lead singer - played songs from Radio Luxembourg’s Top Twenty along with country staples from the likes of Jim Reeves and Johnny Cash.

            Should the venue be a parish hall then the local priest trained an eagle eye on his parishioners thereby monitoring their conduct. Everything was controlled and conservative, and it seemed as though this state of affairs would last forever.

            But by the mid-60’s times were indeed a’changing. With longstanding Taoiseach, Éamon deValera, kicked upstairs into the presidency, the economic reforms initiated by Seán Lemass, his successor, began to bear fruit. With more jobs available emigrants returned from the UK bringing with them new ideas - one being that alcohol should be available with entertainment.

            This innovation coincided with the 50^th anniversary of the 1916 Rising and a renewed sense of national identity. Traditional folk groups like The Dubliners became popular and large new lounges were constructed wherein they might entertain their followers. Women were welcomed into pubs for the first time and abandoned their Babychams for vodka, gin, and the Lord save us, pints of porter and lager.

            With more money flowing social mores adapted. Suits and ties were relegated to the wardrobe, and anyone who could strum a guitar or possessed half a voice joined the Ballad Boom. Luke Kelly and his socialist anthems replaced Dickie Rock and his Top Twenty imitations, dancehalls were abandoned, showbands faded away, and the parish priest retreated to his Sunday morning pulpit.

            Meanwhile up North a generation of young Catholics who had benefited from the British free university system began to question their role as second-class citizens.

This led to the formation of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, and in response the spiked fist of Unionism, unprepared to cede ground or equality, struck back. Armed revolt soon followed and led to the splintering of an entrenched sectarian system.

Music echoed and reflected the political sound and fury as Rory Gallagher, Horslips and Thin Lizzy came storming into prominence. All three bands contained Northern and Southern members and each outfit, to its credit, insisted on playing Belfast through the worst of the Troubles.

Though this era was marred by horrific violence it was a golden age for Irish music. Even traditional music was affected with The Bothy Band stretching boundaries by creating impassioned and adventurous ensemble pieces that still sound fresh to the ear.

The arts and creativity in general seem to flourish in unsettled and even violent times. Let’s take a quick detour to New York City. Was there ever a more creative scene than the Lower East Side - and particularly CBGB - in the late 1970’s while the area was dangerous and anarchistic? 

One could even cite the music scene in Paddy Reilly’s during the recession of the early 1990’s when a host of new bands emerged from the collision of Celtic music and urban rhythms.

And what of U2? Well, ever since I first saw Bono performing to a paltry crowd in The Ritz circa 1980 I felt he epitomized the new Ireland that was finally shedding its dowdy uniform of inferiority. 

The band’s music was not as yet innovative or particularly original, but a Rock & Roll Irish Napoleon strode that stage, and I had little doubt but that U2 would one day conquer the world of popular music.

Ireland’s inferiority complex is a thing of the past; the crassness and consumerism of the Celtic Tiger gave it the final boot. Irish arts are in the ascendancy. Let’s hope it doesn’t take another recession and further mass emigration to keep the scene flourishing.

A Strange But Fascinating Race

           What a strange but fascinating race for the Republican presidential nomination this year.

            Whatever one thinks of Donald Trump’s candidacy there is little doubt but that he has turned this contest on its ear. Six months ago the cognoscenti were certain that he would have faded by now, and yet here he is as bold as brass and still the straw that’s stirring the drink, as Reggie Jackson might have put it.

            He may be the post-reality show candidate but he certainly reflects our times. Fascinated by power, riches, and celebrity, many are thrilled that he talks back to “the man;” especially when politically incorrect.

            Although he repels others with his outrageous statements he has obviously tapped into a national vein of discontent, particularly in the ranks of the Republican Party.

            I often wonder if he is for real or, like a gifted carnival barker, does he merely sense which way the wind is blowing? We’ll begin to find out on the night of Feb. 1^st at the Iowa caucuses.

            Will Mr. Trump’s disaffected legions show their muscle and turn out? It’s one thing to pick up a phone and lambast some faceless pollster. Quite another to brave the Iowan winter on a freezing Monday night, stand before your neighbors,and declare your contrarian views.

            Much will depend on the weather. Should Mr. Trump’s troops confound the skeptics by caucusing en masse in sub-zero temperatures then he will have proved that he’s not just a curiosity candidate but a Huey Long who has correctly taken the pulse of America.

            He doesn’t even have to win Iowa just not lose in an embarrassing manner; victory will more than likely go to Senator Ted Cruz. No, the Kardashian candidate just has to demonstrate that celebrity and obnoxiousness can transfer into votes. For if a somewhat socially liberal New York Republican can insult a war hero like John McCain and still poll well in evangelical Iowa, there’s no limit to how he can do in the rest of the country.

            And what of Mr. Cruz? Despised by his senate colleagues he has gauged correctly that this lack of affection does him little harm nationally where DC power players have never been so unpopular. Oddly enough it’s rarely ever been harder to unseat a sitting member of congress – go figure. 

            Well, Senator Cruz has figured it out. God, money, and boundless ambition allied with a terrific work ethic will get you far in contemporary politics. Add the fact that he’s a great debater - although he does succumb to the occasional slip. Pledging to “carpet bomb” areas of Syria and Iraq so thoroughly that he’ll discover if “sand can glow in the dark” will hardly endear him to humanitarians around the world, let alone the citizens of those much blitzed countries.

            Make no mistake, though, this man has a distinct chance to go the whole way. We should be elated; after all, leaving aside Gov. Martin O’Malley, Senator Cruz would appear to be our most Irish-American candidate.

            And what of Senator Rubio? A couple of months ago his star seemed on the rise. He’s obviously a man in a hurry, unwilling to wait his turn and back his mentor and once close friend, Governor Jeb Bush. 

But is it just me or is there something insubstantial about the man, he brings to mind Madonna for some reason. Everything seems on the surface with him, especially as he pivots rightward to keep within an ass’s roar of Mr. Trump and Senator Cruz. 

            I will say that for sheer drama the Republican race leaves the Democratic one in the dust, although a win for Senator Sanders in Iowa would put the cat amongst the proverbial pigeons. Still, I feel certain that the surprises are far from over on the Republican side – never count out a Bush or a New Jersey governor. 

Eventually, however, the Republican establishment will settle on a candidate who will challenge the two brash outsiders, Trump and Cruz. Then what? 

With the South and evangelicals behind him, Senator Cruz could be the premier Irish-American candidate in 2016. The Lord save us, I suppose there’s an outside chance that we’ll find out if sand indeed can glow in the dark.

Van Morrison - The Mystic From The East

            Some fans call him “the Mystic from the East.” I’m talking Belfast, by the way – not some Himalayan Shangri-La.

Recently turned 70, Van Morrison is wary of such accolades and yet many feel that he is one of the great artists of the last hundred years.

            With James Brown and Bob Marley gone to the great soul house in the sky, Bob Dylan would appear to be Morrison’s only living musical peer.

            Both handily pass the “great artist qualifying tests” of singularity of vision and a voluminous body of groundbreaking successful work; in fact they share so many traits, obsessions, and dislikes as to make them seem like cosmic twins. But what really unites them is a fierce and unrelenting drive to create.

            Cosmically related or not, they have shared tours and stages frequently over the last fifty years and seem at the least to have a grudging admiration for each other.

            Both have little use for the press or publicity. While Dylan remains enigmatically aloof, the Belfast mystic has made it clear that he considers explanations about his art entirely superfluous, and that he despises the trappings and business of music.

            Some of this antipathy may date back to his teenage years when he was shamelessly ripped off by record and music publishing companies. Rumor has it that Bert Berns, legendary head of Bang Records and producer of much of Morrison’s early work, dropped dead after one of their rancorous phone calls.

            Dylan and Morrison share a deep personal connection to their music with little thought to commercial success. They have scant interest in contemporary social media and, indeed, at recent concerts I attended neither seemed to acknowledge the presence of the audience, much less tailor their set-lists to suit its tastes.

            Both come from fundamentalist backgrounds. Dylan’s family in Hibbing, Minnesota clung to its immigrant Jewish roots while Van’s mother was a seeker of divine inspiration in evangelical East Belfast.

            Infused with spirituality each man’s songs long for truth and ultimate peace. Luckily for us they rarely find either, and thus go on recording and performing. Dylan, in particular, is still out there on his endless tour, crisscrossing the country, delighting in visiting smaller markets where he loves to play minor league baseball parks.

            It was while on a visit to East Belfast, however, that I found the deepest link between them: their work is firmly rooted in place and time.

Dylan’s songs range all across the US on an eternal Highway 61 with mentions of Memphis, Nashville, New Orleans, and New York City among others.

            Van is much more firmly rooted in his hometown, in particular, the area around his parents’ house that he celebrated in one of his great tone poems.

            “On Hyndford Stree where you could feel the silence…

            As the wireless played Radio Luxembourg

            And the voices whispered across Beechie River…”

            Violet and George Morrison raised their only child in one of the old red-bricked terraced houses built for Belfast’s shipyard workers.

            Close by you can still see The Hollow referenced in his pop classic, Brown Eyed Girl, and the towering electric pylon that he mentions in various songs and introductions.

            It’s but a short walk from Hyndford Street to Cyprus Avenue – the names of both roads are employed as titles of Morrison classics - and yet there’s a wide sociological gulf in between. Van bridges it with his bluesy, moody treatments of both songs but you’re never less than aware of the class divide between his red-bricked working class street and the leafy avenue he was drawn to.

            That’s the genius of the Belfast mystic. In a couple of songs he can summon up his hometown to the outsider – its dour impenetrability as well as its worldly sophistication.

            Like James Joyce, Van had to go away to find home. Now that there’s relative peace in Belfast we can all visit the mystical claustrophobic “East” that spawned this great artist. We can also measure the reality against the images that we have constructed from his melodies and lyrics.

            Hallelujah that both Van Morrison and Bob Dylan, his American twin, are still out there yearning, learning, and supplying us with songs of innocence, passion, and truth.

Wexford's Magical Main Street

            Wexford’s Main Street always looked majestic to me back then. Sure, I knew O’Connell Street left it in the ha’penny place but how often did I get to Dublin?

            The Main Street was particularly magical around Christmas when the shopkeepers strung lights like jungle vines across its narrow expanse.

            Everyone walked the town on those December evenings before television cast its spell over the country; in fact, you could say the Main Street was our interactive television. You were there to see and be seen.

You meandered from Selskar Abbey at one end up to the Capitol Cinema at the other, and back ad infinitum, stopping only to yell at friends or whistle at the convent girls.

            On weekend afternoons the country people would arrive in town. They had a different routine. The women would attend to their shopping while their menfolk waited for them in the few pubs where culchies were welcome. Everyone knew their place in Wexford and townies ruled their medieval streets with an iron fist.

            I was a rarity and mixed easily with both sides, for though I lived in the town my grandfather farmed a hundred of the finest acres a mile or so out.

            My father and grandfather were alike in many ways – independent men who didn’t take well to receiving orders. My grandfather, being well off, didn’t need to heed anyone; my father, being the eldest son, did.

            They rarely argued, in fact they didn’t speak much, until everything would come to a head. Then my father would storm out and return to his other more remunerative life as a merchant marine. With my grandfather getting on in years, however, there was always a need for my father to return, and being the loyal eldest son he’d put bygones behind him.

            My father was far from blameless for this state of affairs for he could never bring himself to ask for whatever money was his due. Pride, indeed, can cause all manner of heartbreak.

            I can still summon up the memory of that bicycle in Alfie Cadogan’s shop window. It was a lovely bright blue color and had cutting edge gears. I had tracked it patiently through the autumn and it was still there in mid December.

            I took a shot and requested it as a Christmas present though I knew it was far too expensive. We used to write letters to Santa Claus back then although I was having doubts about this old guy’s ability to negotiate the slated, sloping rooftops of Wexford town.

            I noticed the occasional anxious look on my father’s face as Christmas approached. He had been home for over a year and the tension between him and my grandfather was mounting by the day. I prayed there would be no explosion until after the holidays.

            My father seemed preoccupied that Christmas Eve when we walked downtown. However, he did stop outside Alfie Cadogan’s window and cast a wary glance at the brand new bicycle and its exorbitant price.

            “Is that it?” He inquired before throwing back his shoulders and entering the shop. Then began the haggling which was excruciatingly embarrassing to me; so much so that my father became impatient with my fidgeting and told me to go on about my business, and that he’d see me on the town later.

            He went to the pub instead and I slunk home to bed with all hope lost. On Christmas morning I tiptoed down the stairs dejected, but to my astonishment the beautiful blue bicycle stood gleaming beside the Christmas tree.

            I knew how scarce money was, but at that age you don’t ask questions. Years later my mother let slip that my father ate his pride, phoned my grandfather and demanded his monetary due.

            I don’t know if that was the cause but it all came to a head between them a couple of weeks later when my father stormed out and signed on a Blue Star vessel heading for South America.

They’re all long gone now but it’s a rare December I don’t think of that beautiful blue bicycle, my father and grandfather, and Christmas Eve on Wexford’s magical Main Street.