ROCKABILLY REVIVAL AT THE VILLAGE PUB

 The Village Pub was a temple of tolerance that perched precariously near the top of Bainbridge Avenue. It was owned by John Flynn, who welcomed everyone, especially errant musicians who might lash a bit of life into a weekend evening.

Tolerant it might have been, but it was still one of the great slagging houses in The Bronx, no one was immune.

 

And so it came to pass that, after delivering an improvised late night set of Rock ‘n’ Roll classics, I made my way into the closet-sized men’s room and took my place in line. I was sporting my best East Village haircut, black shirt, skinny red tie, tight jeans, and high-soled suede shoes.

 

The gentleman utilizing the urinal carefully zipped up, turned slowly and took in my appearance. Well known as a slag-master, in a lacerating North-side Dublin accent he declared, “When all is said and done, Kirwan, you’re nothin’ more than a trumped-up Wexford teddyboy.”

 

There was only one way to answer a slag of such proportions. I thanked him profusely and offered to shake his unwashed hand, which he declined, as he squeezed out the bathroom door and faded away into the evening’s inebriation.

 

The Irish-Americans present demanded to know what he meant. But to two East Coast 1980’s immigrants there was no need for explanation.

 

Teddyboys were legendary in both Dublin and Wexford where the youth were exported by the boatload to build roads or cars in London, Liverpool, Dagenham or Birmingham. Jobs were few and far between in the land of de Valera. 

 

The East Coast, however, had it easier than the West. Dubs and Yellowbellies could come home for Christmas and a languorous summer fortnight. Whereas a move from the West usually led to permanent exile in The Bronx, or any of the many South Sides of the Irish diaspora.

 

Besides, the UK grooved to hardcore Rockabilly, while The Bronx danced to alternate sets of quick-steps and old-time waltzes; it was still shuffling to those beats at The Archway on Jerome Avenue  into the 90’s. 

 

John Flynn’s emporium would have likely followed suit, except there was no room to dance – hence, the occasional blast of Rockabilly or Reggae often surfaced in the final twilight set.

 

Teddyboys were all about Rockabilly - the more raucous the better. Their heroes were Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly, and two Irish-Americans, Eddie Cochran, and Bill Haley. 

 

Elvis was way too tame for them, as Cochran (who influenced Jimi Hendrix’s guitar style) sniggered, “Presley can’t even play his axe, where’s that at?”

 

The “genius” of the Teddyboys is that they didn’t just stop at the music, they adopted and then modified the James Dean look of the 1950’s; thus, tight pants became drainpipe trousers, Elvis’s Blue Suede shoes morphed into big-soled brothel creepers, brightly colored shirts waxed to fluorescent blues and greens.

 

Then they really put the Teddy in the boy! Remember, back in 1954, food and clothes were still being rationed in post-War Britain. Round about then, some Saville Row geniuses came up with the idea that the young conservative upper-classes would love to adopt Edwardian style long suit-jackets.

 

Young toffs were aghast at such stylistic deviations, so Saville Row “dumped” this innovative style in working class shops. Young workers could finally afford Saville Row threads. Thus young toughs became teddy (Edwardian) boys and preened around town in their new drapes.

 

Were they aggressive and prone to rumble? Sure they were, as are many teenagers in conservative societies with little social mobility.

 

Meanwhile, up in Liverpool, Long John & The Silver Beatles wore teddyboy attire and played Rockabilly; when they took their act to Hamburg they caused a sensation and returned home as The Beatles.

 

What goes around, comes around, both in fashion and music – for many years with Black 47  I wore green suede shoes, pink socks and played a Buddy Holly sunburst Stratocaster.

 

It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if some enterprising New York bar owner opened a Rockabilly saloon and hired a band to play Eddie, Buddy and Gene Vincent songs all night long.

 

Maybe it’s time to dust off my green suedes, buy a jar of Brylcreem, and tune up my old Strat.

Hey, that preceding sentence could pass as the first verse of a decent Rockabilly song! Time to resurrect The Archway and Flynn’s Village Pub – they’ve been silent way too long!

CAPTAIN KIDD AND CONNECTICUT ROCKERS

 

Living in the bustle of New York City you sometimes forget that there’s so much beautiful beachfront mere miles from your door.

 

I’ve often written about Jersey Shore boardwalk towns, and the miles of sparkling Long Island sand that stretch out to The Memory Motel in Montauk. Bruce Springsteen & Billy Joel have so ably captured that soulful real estate in their songs.

 

But what of Connecticut – its seaside towns have a magic all their own, aye and poet laureates too, though hardly as successful as Bruce or Billy.

 

I first became aware of the Connecticut music scene when recording in Paul Leka’s Bridgeport studio.

 

“Paul Who?” Says you. 

 

Leka, the son of Albanian immigrants, wrote and recorded two of the big summer hits of the 60’s, Nah Nah Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye and Green Tambourine.

 

Okay, so they’re not Sergeant Pepper or Satisfaction, but I heard Nah Nah Hey Hey on the radio this morning, and it’s de rigueur at many sporting events.

 

Paul looked a bit like Jim Morrison, had instinctive musical chops, and always seemed like he was keeper of a great secret.

 

When I inquired how he came up with Na Na Hey Hey, he winked at me before whispering conspiratorially, “Magic, man.”

 

Bridgeport was one tough town in the 1970’s, it wasn’t unusual to hear gunshots on its blighted streets after dark, but nothing fazed Paul, the only sounds he was interested in were those he created in his studio – or his head. 

 

Still, he was the one who introduced me to the convivial beach towns of Fairfield and Milford.

Both of these burgs have wonderful Irish centers, Fairfield Gaelic American Club and The Irish Heritage Society of Milford. Both are social centers that promote Irish theatre, music and dance; they also provide a home away from home for many.

 

Fairfield may be better known because of its storied Jesuit University, attracting over 5000 students from across the globe.

 

But Milford - with over 17 miles of coastline – has beaches to die for. As Leka once said to me, “It’s a wonder the Beach Boys didn’t come from round here – talk about sun, surf and sand!”

 

Paul never mentioned that Milford reeks of history. It was founded in 1639 by English Puritans so strict and theocratic, they made their Massachusetts brethren seem like fuzzy liberals.

 

Indeed, when the British regicides, responsible for the beheading of King Charles I, were forced to flee London, where did they go? You got it – downtown Milford CT.

 

So strict were these bible-thumpers, they had little thought of raising the rafters with hymns like Mr. Leka’s Na Na Hey Hey. Neither did they do much lolling around on Milford’s golden beaches knocking back Margaritas.

 

In 1699, Capt. Kidd left his mark on Milford. On the run from British authorities for pirating activities, he sailed quietly into Milford Harbor. 

 

There he visited a friend whose Puritan niece served them tumblers of rum. This winsome pilgrim lass wrote about Kidd’s visit in great dudgeon, stating that “he doth kiss me on the lips.”

 

I don’t doubt it, but Kidd was in Milford on serious business. Sensing the Brits were closing in, he buried his treasure on nearby Charles Island, supposedly beneath a large boulder called Hog Rock.

 

Not trusting his crew, he thereupon “thrice curseth” whomever dared to disturb his hidden loot.

The good Captain hoped to use this stash as ransom for his life. He sailed out of Milford soon thereafter, but was apprehended near Boston, taken to London, tried, sentenced, and executed in 1701.

 

Many have tried to find Kidd’s treasure, but to no avail. Others have attempted to launch businesses on accursed Charles Island, including a casino and a Dominican Friars Retreat, all have failed. To top it all, every so often, someone is swept away by incoming tides as they make their surreptitious journey out to this mysterious island.

 

Nowadays, it’s a bird sanctuary from May through September, with no visitors allowed in those bacchanalian months. My feeling, however, is that Paul Leka knew more than he was saying. 

So, come the Celtic feast of Samhain, I’ll be heading out to Charles Island with pick and shovel. I’ll dance The Walls of Limerick 3 times around Hog Rock intoning the magic words, Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye, and if I should awaken Capt. Kidd’s vengeful ghost, well it was nice knowing you. Whatever, keep on reading The Echo!

HEY GLEN - YOU LEFT THEM CHEERING IN YOUR WAKE

 

Glen Hansard was a friend, and a lovely man who loved to play, and lived for the moment he walked on stage.  He may have seemed casual but, from his earliest days on Grafton Street, he had a burning desire to create and succeed.

 

I interviewed him twice with Markéta Irglová for Celtic Crush/SiriusXM, the first time while in the early blush of love, and the second when they hadn’t seen each other for some time. In both cases, he was professional and caring.

 

We were both members of what might loosely be called Frank Murray’s mafia.  Frank, the powerful Dublin manager of The Pogues had an eye for talent, and had recently undertaken management of The Frames.  Some years previously, he had signed Black 47 to his nascent record company, and brought us over from New York to do some Pogues dates, including a riotous Brixton Academy Christmas show.  

 

I owed him one, and in his direct Dublin  manner Frank wasn’t shy about calling it in.  We were scheduled to do a sold out show at the 9:30 Club in DC. with already two opening acts aboard.  When Frank called late asking that The Frames be added to the bill, I explained the difficulty in getting a third band on.  Frank just said, “Do it, Larry,” and hung up.

 

I tried everything, but the promoter wouldn’t budge - he was paying for Black 47 and that was that.  I called Frank in London and got his answering machine.  I tried to explain as best I could.  The next day setting off for DC, when I hadn’t heard from Frank, I assumed that, though pissed off, he got the picture.

 

The place was jammed and the 9:30 Club professionally got the two opening acts on and off the stage mucho pronto  We were just about to go on when I saw Glen hurry through the stage door weighed down with guitar and amp.  My heart nearly stopped.  The Frames had driven down from NYC, got lost in DC traffic, as is often the case, but in their minds were on time, if barely.

 

What to do?  I couldn’t face Frank Murray, so I alerted our Front of House sound man, and told Glen to get onstage immediately, plug into our amps, play 3 quick songs and get off without saying anything.

 

Then I hid in the dressing room, cracked open a beer and prayed. True to word, Glen went on and The Frames were great. But suddenly, the door opened, the promoter was whistling when he entered, but then exclaimed open-mouthed, “I just saw you onstage, you were great.  What the fuck is going on?”

 

I tried to explain the Dublin mafia, The Frames, Frank Murray, et al, but it didn’t even make sense to me.  However, The Frames third song was coming to an end.  I caught their last minute onstage, then went out.  Glen gave me a big smile and an even bigger wink as the crowd cheered this unknown band with no name.

 

You pulled it off, Glen, just like you pulled off life.  From Grafton Street to DC, and so much further – you left  them cheering in your wake.

2026 CELTIC CRUSH TOP OF THE POPS 100

 

Every couple of years listeners vote for their Top 100 favorite songs on my Celtic Crush show on SiriusXM The Loft, Ch. 710.

While everyone who participates seems to enjoy the countdown, the results can be controversial, especially to those who didn’t vote. For me, though, this simple competition often shows trends in Celtic life and culture.

One non-listener questioned the sanity of voters in not choosing Fairytale of New York by The Pogues. The song’s absence from the Top 100, 2026 was surprising, given it had been voted #2 in the previous poll.

Change, apparently, is in the air as other previous chart-toppers like Loch Lomond by Runrig, Kilkelly by Moloney, Keane & O’Connell, North-West Passage by Stan Rogers also failed to make this year’s Top 100.

However, the number of new bands and artists making this year’s cut is both heartening and surprising. It’s as if listeners are demanding that they create their own musical heroes. That doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate The Pogues or Runrig, they just want to hear new voices they’ve been introduced to by Celtic Crush, including The Mary Wallopers, Lankum, Fontaines DC, Lisa O’Neill, Bog Bodies, The Rumjacks, Jinx Lennon, The Snake Charmer, The Scratch, The 2 Johnnies and many others.

The big winners were three very new bands, Chasing Abbey, with 3 Top 100 entries, Amble with #2 song Mary’s Pub, and this year’s overall #1, Kingfishr with Shot in the Dark.

Interestingly, many new entries are from “culchie” artists, meaning that, like me, they come from beyond Dublin’s pale.

The success of Amble, Kingfishr & Chasing Abbey suggests that there’s much less difference between urban and rural nowadays. Due to Ireland’s investment in education, every year many rural teenagers leave for university, leading to successive waves of Irish economic mobility, self-confidence, and little or no crushing debt.

The country has changed. Kingfishr’s Eddie Keough, hailing from rural Co. Wexford, sees no need to ape a Dublin 4 accent, much less a New York one.

And what about the brilliant Lisa O’Neill? She’s as recognizably Cavan as Steve Duggan; in her early songs she took inspiration from Cork born, traveler-balladeer, Margaret Barry.

Look out! There’s a renaissance in Irish music, just as there was a Scottish one a generation ago with such artists as Runrig, The Peatbog Faeries, and Simple Minds; while new bands like Beluga Lagoon, Mánran & Skipinnish have picked up the Scottish musical mantle.

So, next time you want to seem cool to your kids or grandkids, ask them what they think of #5, Boygenius & Ye Vagabond’s haunting collaboration on The Parting Glass, or why does Seán Ó’Ríada’s remarkable Aisling Gheal continue to grace the Top Ten 60 years after he recorded it?

Read on for more ice-cool, cultural ammunition - courtesy of the Celtic Crushers!

 

100	Carolina Rua	The Chieftains & Imelda May
99	Íorónta	Chasing Abbey
98	This is the Life	High Stool Prophets
97	Cold Old Fire	Lankum
96	Dirty Old Town	The Pogues
95	Lonely Island	Amble
94	Ordinary Day	Great Big Sea
93	Streets of London	Ralph McTell
92	The Band Played Waltzing Matilda	Tommy Makem & Liam Clancy
91	Whiskey in the Jar	Metallica
90	An Irish Goodbye	Willie Nile
89	An Poc Ar Buile	The Rumjacks
88	Fields of Athenry	The Dropkick Murphy's
87	Shine on You Crazy Diamond	Christy Moore
86	Carrickfergus	Van Morrison & The Chieftains
85	Downpressor Man	Sinéad O'Connor
84	Oro Sé Do Beatha ‘Bhaile	Sinéad O'Connor
83	Over the Rainbow	Eva Cassidy
82	Summer in Dublin	Bagatelle
81	The Green and Red of Mayo	The Saw Doctors
80	The Homes of Donegal	Paul Brady
79	Cod Liver Oil and the Orange Juice	The Mary Wallopers
78	Madam George	Van Morrison
77	Starburster	Fontaines DC
76	The Season's Upon Us	The Dropkick Murphy's
75	Oran	Runrig
74	The Parting Glass	The High Kings
73	The Wind Doesn't Blow this Far Right	Lisa O'Neil
72	Isla	Beluga Lagoon
71	Toward the Harvest	Bog Bodies
70	Yeah, Yeah, Yeah…	The Pogues
69	Young People	Lankum
68	Jackaroo	Jerry Garcia & David Grisman
67	Carrying A Torch	Van Morrison
66	Come Down from the Mountain Katie Daly	Dessie O'Halloran
65	Goodnight World	Lisa O'Neil
64	In These Shoes	Kristy MacColl
63	Old Lady	Sinéad O'Connor
62	Proud to be a Nobody from Co. Louth	Jinx Lennon
61	The Cruel Sister	Old Blind Dogs
60	Whiskey in the Jar	Thin Lizzy
59	Wintergreen	The East Pointers
58	Waltzing Matilda	Liam Clancy
57	You and I	Skerryvore
56	Back Home in Derry	Christy Moore
55	You and I in the One Bed Lie	Cathie Ryan
54	Blue is the Eye	Ye Vagabonds
53	Red Cortina	The Saw Doctors
52	The Patriot Game	Liam Clancy
51	Funky Ceili	Black 47
50	Building Up and Tearing England Down	The Mary Wallopers
49	El Aqua de la Vida	Salsa Celtica
48	The Island	Paul Brady
47	The Storm	Moving Hearts
46	Shipping Up to Boston	The Dropkick Murphy's
45	Into the Mystic	Van Morrison
44	Uncle Jim	Black 47
43	Zombie	The Snake Charmer
42	Galway to Graceland	Richard Thompson
41	London Town	Kevin Burke and John Brennan
40	Ar Ais Arís	Seanchaí & The Unity Squad
39	Haunted	The Pogues
38	Soldier	Francis Dunnery
37	Margo & Barry	Beluga Lagoon
36	Dublin to Wicklow	Dylan Walshe
35	Life's Like That, Isn't It?	Larry Kirwan
34	Streets of Edinburgh	The Proclaimers
33	Galway Girl	Steve Earle
32	Alive	Skipinnish
31	I Useta Lover	The Saw Doctors
30	The Big Fellah	Black 47
29	Old Note	Lisa O'Neil
28	Learning to Dance (Lanigan's Ball)	Chasing Abbey
27	Neidín	Tommy O'Sullivan
26	Killeagh	Kingfishr
25	Who'll Stand with  Us	The Dropkick Murphy's
24	Open Letter to You	Tuatha Dea
23	Arís is Arís	Chasing Abbey
22	Fields of Gold	Eva Cassidy
21	Cello Song	Fontaines DC
20	When a Good Man Cries	CMAT
19	The Foggy Dew	Sinéad O'Connor and the Chieftains
18	Streets of Minneapolis	Bruce Springsteen
17	Autumn Song	The Manic Street Preachers
16	Mr. Rock & Roll	Amy McDonald
15	First Light of Day	Paddy A Go Go
14	James Connolly	Black 47
13	Caledonia	Dougie Maclean
12	Óran Na Cloiche	Mánran
11	Mayo Moon	Bible Code Sunday
10	Stardust	Shay Healy
9	Sleep Tight in NYC	The Screaming Orphans
8	A Rainy Night in Soho	The Pogues
7	Another Round	The Scratch
6	Aisling Gheal	Seán Ó'Riada
5	The Parting Glass	Boy Genius & Ye Vagabonds
4	The GAA, the Ska and the Ra	The 2 Johnnie's
3	The Whole of the Moon	The Waterboys
2	Mary's Pub	Amble
1	Shot in the Dark	Kingfishr

JAMES CONNOLLY & THE WEXFORD LOCKOUT OF 1911

 

Towns change. We leave them one way, and find them so different when we return.

 

Wexford is a case in point. So many people now live on its outskirts, you could almost call them suburban. The accent sounds closer to South Dublin than the medieval street patois of my youth.

 

Wexford itself more resembles a pleasant European town than the Breughel-like teeming burgh I emerged from.

 

But if Wexford in the 2020’s is different than its 1960’s version, what about Wexford in 1911? That was the year the owners of the three iron foundries closed their gates to  employees who wished to join a union.

 

Perched strategically on Ireland’s South-East corner, Wexford had for long been a thriving international seaport. My great-grandfather, master of a sailing vessel, regularly undertook voyages carrying goods to Odessa in the Russian Empire.

 

Sailors tended to live in the south side of town in an area called The Faythe. There too lived foundry workers employed by Pierce & Sons and The Star Iron Works. Though the town’s population was then over 11,000, close to 1000 were employed by those two firms and Selskar Ironworks on the north side.

 

There’s barely a trace of this industrial base now, though even in my time, burly muscled men still strode to and from the south side foundries.

 

There’s no sign either of ships or vessels, though some sturdy looking trawlers still moor within view of Commodore John Barry’s statue, the local lad who went on to become “Father of the American Navy.”

 

In 1911 however, Wexford was a major manufacturing and export center. It was close to the heart of political affairs too, as another local lad, John Redmond, led the Home Rule Party in the British Parliament.

 

But things were changing. Though the employers did well financially, and the clerical staff enjoyed a decent standard of living, the same could not be said for the regular foundry employees who put in 60-hour workweeks in hazardous conditions for a pittance that could barely maintain their large families.

 

In 1910 the new militant Irish Transport & General Workers Union (ITGWU) came to town. Led by Big Jim Larkin, and James Connolly who had recently returned from the US after some years of organizing for the Industrial Workers of the World (The Wobblies).

 

The dockworkers were first to join, but soon the foundry workers began signing up. This was met with some alarm by the local political, business, and church leaders, none of whom cared for this new proletarian power base barging its way into Wexford’s class-conscious stratosphere.

 

My maternal grandfather, an ardent Irish republican and small businessman, was of the opinion that James Connolly was “nothing but a little Scottish troublemaker.” He wasn’t the only one with such views for the foundry bosses let it be known in no uncertain terms that union members would not sweat on their floors.

 

By September 1911, 700 workers were locked out and soon thereafter scabs from as far away as Belfast and Britain were hired to fill the union members’ jobs. This led to great disquiet in the back lanes of Wexford.

 

Over 150 extra RIC men were drafted in to protect the scabs from the fists, pegged stones and insults of the townspeople, and in one baton charge Michael O’Leary, an innocent bystander, was clubbed to death.

 

The lockout dragged on through the bitter winter; the families of the locked out workers suffered great deprivation. In the end the scabs saw the light, or had it beaten out of them, and began to withdraw from the town.

 

With dwindling profits the employers showed signs of relenting but still refused to accept the ITGWU. Connolly, who had battled American oligarchs, proposed a compromise - Wexford workers would form their own union. The employers grasped at this semantic straw and the workers returned to their jobs in February 2012.

 

Oh, that we had more “troublemaking” compromisers, the like of James Connolly, in our contemporary world of fearless social media warriors.

 

If you ever visit Wexford, take a walk down the narrow Main Street and up to The Faythe. The natives may look blandly modern, but look behind their eyes and you’ll catch a glimpse of the men of iron and their courageous women who held firm for their right to organize during the great Lockout of 1911.

SEND 'EM HOME SWEATIN' - IRISH SHOWBANDS

 

“Send ‘em Home Sweatin’!” was the battle cry of Irish showbands during their rambunctious dancehall reign back in the 1960’s.

 Or, as Ben Dolan of The Drifters waxed poetic one night backstage in Wexford’s Parish Hall, “As long as the floor is black, you and me are on the pig’s back.”

 

Meaning, if you couldn’t see the floorboards from the stage, it meant the hall was packed like sardines with paying dancers.

 

“Paying” being the operative word. Showband musicians made a living, and if you managed to finagle a gig you played with real musicians 4 hours a night, on hit songs in every key imaginable.

 

Such “artistes” would be beyond disdainful of your skinny inexperienced ass, but you couldn’t help but pick up some musical chops while in their exalted company.

 

You also got to wear bizarrely-colored jackets, the thought of which makes me blush even now.  These were owned by the band, the first one I wore was about 5 sizes too big with all its buttons missing; ever the improviser, band leader Johnny Reck looped a yard of agricultural binding twine around my waist to hold the offending jacket together.

 

We were rock bottom bad and employed a number of names, including The Palladium and The Liars. Yet, we played often and for decent money, as Mr. Reck had enrolled us in the Irish Musicians Union, thus forcing all national acts to hire us as support in the union-run halls of County Wexford.

 

That’s how Pierce Turner and I get our start in the paid entertainment business. Pierce went on to some fame, but little fortune, as a member of the Arrows Showband, and was paid the princely sum of 25 pounds per week for 6 nights slogging all over Ireland; while I defected to the less glamorous “singing pubs,” where one could drink free and still get paid a couple of quid a night.

 

But I never regretted my showband days where the craic, as they say, was mighty. Showband heads (members) were first-class comedians. Every disaster suffered became an epic laugh-a-ton that can still bring tears to my eyes.

 

You can get a glimpse of those times when reading Rebecca Miller’s magisterial “Are You Dancing?: Showbands, Popular Music, and Memory in Modern Ireland.” 

 

Though she was never part of the scene, this astute Irish Trad head/academic used a keen eye and scrupulous research to get to the very soul of the showband era. The pictures alone are worth the price of the book.

 

Imagine being a callow 18 year old playing to packed halls before The mighty Miami or Joe Dolan & The Drifters, and meeting the likes of Brendan Bowyer and Dickie Rock. Legendary names, now rarely mentioned, but superstars back in the sexy 60’s.

 

There are some naysayers in Rebecca’s book, including Bono and Geldoff, ashamed of the corniness and lack of originality. But remember, both Rory Gallagher and Van Morrison served their time in showbands, and any of us who toiled in bands containing brass sections had to learn to play in every key - not just the standard A, E, G, C & D beloved of guitarists. 

 

On a personal note, when I came to play with Black 47’s sterling sax, trombone, and pipes players, I had some sense of how to harness such soulful instruments.

 

The showband ethic was still strong in The Bronx when Turner & Kirwan of Wexford arrived. We were greeted by Dermot Henry, Paddy Higgins, Colm Graham, Dermie Mac, Tommy Mulvihill,  Gerry Finlay, and Joe Nellany, all great heads who could turn the floor black with the first notes of a dance tune. 

 

One note, however - from our years of jamming on long synthesized pieces in Greenwich Village clubs, we had forgotten the magic words that resounded after 3 songs in every ballroom.

 

It was in Durty Nelly’s on Kingsbridge we were brought back to earth by owner Phil Delaney from Carrick-on-Suir. I opened my stoned eyes one night to behold the normally unflappable Mr. Delaney storming through the audience as he roared at me, “Did yez never hear about ‘Your Next feckin’ Dance’, Please?’ The women are sick of the same fellahs hanging out of them for 30 minutes straight, and there’s not a sinner in the house drinking!”

 

Ah yes, those glorious dancing days in Da Bronx!  Phil was dead right, but at least we sent ‘em home sweatin’!

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...”