BOB MARLEY & THE CLASH - NEVER FORGET!

  

I rarely go to Rock ‘n’ Roll shows anymore. That’s a statement I never thought I’d make, my life was so caught up in the scene both as a fan and performer.

 

It’s hardly that I’m divorced from the music world, I still write songs and match them to self-conceived scenarios; this is often called musical theatre, but I see it more like bringing history and stories to life.

 

It’s more difficult than writing for a band, but I have more time now that I’m not careening around the roads of America. Truth is, when you’re not rushing from gig to gig, life inevitably slows down.

 

I had a dream the other night where I was back performing with Black 47. There I was on stage locked in that familiar, dizzy, dancing feeling, that teetering-on-the-edge moment before Rock ‘n’ Roll really sparks: when the band and crowd come together and you’re suddenly on the back of a wild stallion and there’s no getting off.

 

All well and good, except the dream didn’t end there. It was interrupted by a flashback to a scene in Vassar College, where I had to stop the show because I caught a glimpse of a young woman unconscious on the floor beneath the hooves of a trashing mosh pit.

 

In real life the adrenaline gets you through such moments, in dreams everything slows down - you get close-ups and freeze-frames colliding until you wake up shivering from the sheer menace of it all.

 

Enough about life from the stage. I was a fan too, and to be young, alive and living in New York City in the golden era of Rock ‘n’ Roll was a privilege beyond compare.

 

I often seek to recall the greatest shows I attended? But that’s the wrong perspective – the greatest moments were less to do with spectacle and more about becoming one with the performer.

 

That’s what happened to thousands of us when Bob Marley & The Wailers made their first appearance in New York City. 

 

Marley’s songs were rarely on the radio back then, but he was already huge in the UK, and back in the 1970’s there was a mystic pipeline between London and New York. Real fans had his Live (in London) album, so we had an idea of what was in store. But it was so much more.

 

A warm, humid summer night in Central Park, the air thick with ganja, Island accents everywhere, their dreadlocks and our liberated long hair shaking together in the gentle breeze the moment that mystic man hurtled on stage.

 

And oh yeah, could he move! He would lose himself in a song, and during long instrumental breaks he would dance like no one I had ever seen before. It was like he was deciphering the reggae beat through his body, as his swaying Gibson guitar became like a beautiful woman in his arms. You could watch him, or magically become one with his mystic meandering as he appeared to float inches above the stage.

 

Then when he admonished a past love to “no woman, no cry,” we thousands joined him as though we too were back with him “in a government yard in Trenchtown.”

 

Some years later The Clash frenetically equaled him in The Palladium on 14^th Street. Though still a young band they were coming into their own. Again, they hadn’t been heard much on radio, but anyone with musical antennae knew who they were. And we were all in attendance.

 

Joe Strummer was on fire. I had a seat in the balcony, but no one sat from the moment Saint Joe exploded on stage. I had seen many shows at the Palladium but I never felt the balcony tremble like it did that night. 

 

About an hour into this unholy communion I grew afraid the balcony would collapse under the concerted stamping and dancing. At one point, Strummer leaped for a lighting column and climbed seven or eight rungs before spiraling splay-legged back to the stage.

 

And after we hurried up Union Square to Max’s Kansas City I pushed my way to the bar, but Lou Reed was already there, drink in hand, smirking at the thirsty Clash fans.

 

That was New York, that was Rock ‘n’ Roll, and it was beyond believable to be a part of it.

JAMES CONNOLLY, JIM LARKIN, MIKE QUILL & ELIZABETH GURLEY FLYNN AT THE EDISON BALLROOM

 The Irish Echo Labor Awards is one of the best nights of the year. Not only does it give you an insight into the Labor movement in America, it offers a glimpse into the soul of the nation itself.

At the 2016 Awards I realized for the first time that Donald Trump would win the upcoming presidential election. This occurred when a union leader unequivocally stated that while leadership was sticking with Hillary Clinton, membership was largely pro-Trump.

 

His sentiment was echoed by an attendee who bellowed down the bar, “Yeah, where I’m from, everyone’s voting Trump.”

 

This year I don’t think I heard the president’s name mentioned at the Edison Ballroom, except for one sotto voce remark accompanied by an expletive.

 

No, the people of the hour were James Connolly, Big Jim Larkin, Mike Quill and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, all of whom were hailed both from the stage and the bar.

 

Workers’ rights were trumpeted, along with calls for unity against oligarchs (a word rarely uttered at previous Labor Awards).

 

There was a sense of urgency in the air and a conviction that unions, along with other institutions, were being worn down by the avalanche of money and power that has accrued to mega-corporations. It was time for a new beginning. And you could feel it throughout the ballroom. 

 

Friends from San Francisco, LA, Chicago, Buffalo, Boston, Cincinnati, New York and New Jersey came to support newly minted ambassadors and cheered lustily for their favorites.

 

My sole duty was to introduce John Gardiner, President/Business Manager of Ironworkers Local #1, Chicago. In his sterling acceptance speech John left no doubt that in order to look after the interests of his union brothers and sisters he had to be involved in the thick of local politics.

 

The most poignant moments at every Labor night are the farewells to recently deceased comrades, the like of Terrence “Terry” Fitzmaurice, Business Manager/Secretary-Treasurer of Painters District Council 14, Chicago.

 

When Terry was saluted from the stage you could appreciate the full arc of this valued union member’s life, from being hired as a painter at O’Hare Airport to serving as a trustee for the Chicago Building Trades. You got to share with his loving family what the union meant to them, how membership provided stability and support through good times and bad.

 

You also learned just how foundational the Irish were to the cause of trade unionism in the US. It wasn’t just the contributions of secular saints like Connolly, Larkin, Quill and Flynn – but during each ambassador’s acceptance speech, you heard of a grandfather or father arriving on these shores, and getting his first leg-up from poverty and aloneness by joining a union. 

 

Each middle-class person receiving an award could trace their piece of the American Dream back to a striving immigrant who had the good fortune to join a union. 

 

Perhaps the defining aspect of this year’s awards was the presence of so many women. Marie Drumm, formerly of the Biden White House, now a media coordinator for the Teamsters, 

displayed her sharp communication skills on stage, while Cyndie Williams talked movingly about her love for both her carpentry profession and all things Ireland.

 

Speaking of which, Ethel Buckley flew in from the old country. This dynamic Deputy General Secretary of SIPTU (a union whose roots go back to the hardscrabble days of Larkin and Connolly) gave a riveting speech about the history and politics of Irish trade unionism, and the necessity of US and Irish union solidarity.

 

My favorite table was that supporting Michelle Healy who worked her way up from a bagger at a Stop & Shop in Quincy MA to currently running a national pensions and procurement reform campaign. Cheered on by Mary Kay Henry and other radical women friends, you could feel the rebel-girl spirit of Elizabeth Gurley Flynn in their midst.

 

Irish Echo publisher Máirtín Ó’Muilleoir deserves our heartfelt thanks for bringing us all together on such a remarkable night. Does anyone know more Irish-Americans, or hold them in such esteem as this Belfast force of nature? 

 

Congratulations also to the evening’s MC, Editor Ray O’Hanlon, and his tireless Irish Echo staff. I hope we’ll all reunite at the 2027 Labor Ambassador Awards.

 

Long live the Irish Echo as it shines a spotlight on trade unionism, arguably the most vital institution in our rapidly changing society.

JOHN McDONAGH TAXIMAN, RADIO FREE EIREANN - HE'S ONLY JUST BEGUN

 Soon after I arrived in New York City I became a subway person. The price, speed, and anonymity suited me; and this was the wild and wooly 70’s when things were somewhat dicey below ground.

But even then I realized that if you wanted to see the city and be squired around by someone who knew the joint, then the taxi was your man. 

 

I admired taxi-drivers, for despite the fact that I dwelt in the existential junky kingdom of Alphabet City, I never had the courage to drive a yellow cab. And believe me, there were times I sorely needed the money. 

 

Being an itinerant musician wasn’t the safest of gigs either, still you were grounded inside some pub or club for 5 hours a night, not swanning around an urban jungle like a real-life De Niro.

 

I’ve had taxi-driver friends who went on to success in other fields, one of whom almost killed a tipsy Ted Kennedy when taking too sharp a turn in his dilapidated checker with a loose door. Heck, I even knew Harry Chapin who wrote the Taxi anthem.

 

But John McDonagh trumps them all. Just talking to John is like taking a spin up and down the FDR some icy pre-dawn, January morning - you’re never quite sure where you’re going to end up.

 

John says we first met at WBAI-FM when I waltzed in with a 45 of Avenue B is the Place to Be, a single by the punk/new wave band Major Thinkers.

 

So what was a cabbie doing fronting a show on prestigious Pacifica Radio? That’s the thing about John, everything comes from an unlikely angle; with regard to the WBAI show – mix in sheep, Donegal, and emigration, and it all came to a head in the terrible year of 1981.

 

John from Queens was spending the summer on his uncle’s sheep farm in the wilds of Donegal when the Hunger Strike was in progress. After attending 3 wakes and funerals, he decided to do something about it.

 

Chucking the Donegal shepherd gig, he returned home and joined a demonstration outside the United Nations; never one to button his lip, he waxed eloquently on what he had seen. Whereupon, WBAI offered him a radio show to spread his Republican gospel.

 

Enter one of the great Irish-American political characters, Brian Mór Ó’Baoighill, aka Bernie O’Boyle, a fabulous artist who earned his crust designing major-label album covers and doing bar security.

 

Brian Mór came aboard as co-host of Behind the Green Curtain. The name came straight from the lips of Father Pat Moloney - talk about characters – this particular padre had just been released from behind the green curtain of Portlaoise Prison.

 

The show is still running every Sunday and has had a battalion of co-hosts, including the incredible Malachy McCourt, and the ineffable Sandy Boyer.

 

You could say that Radio Free Eireann (current name) is the little show that could – and did! At times, the hosts seemed to be at war with just about everyone. Why? Because they called it like they saw it.

 

That all stems from the taxi driver vibe. John took up the wheel in 1977 after serving three years in the US Army. Bet you didn’t know he was a vet, especially since two retired FDNY guys used to call in and yell at him, “Go back to Cuba!” Ah well, Cuba, Nicaragua, Donegal, Queens, wherever it’s hot, that’s where John’s at.

 

He doesn’t drive pro anymore, but he keeps the cabbie vibe alive with his one-man-show Off the Meter, On the Record that proved a knockout at the Irish Rep and beyond.

 

And on the second Thursday of every month, he and other yellow chariot drivers tell cabbie stories at the Republican paradise of O’Malley’s on 27^th Street, in the aptly named Malachy McCourt Storytelling room. Be there or be square!

 

But that’s only the half the story, Mr. McDonagh is currently featured in the hit YouTube TV series Keep The Meter Running, hosted by that rambunctious man about town Kareem Rahma, best known for his popular Subway Takes on which John has also appeared.

 

That’s the thing about taxi drivers – they keep New York, and every other city, moving. So, the next time you ride a cab, instead of nodding off to some dumb corporate ad, talk to your driver. They all have an immigrant story, and like John, they’re going places you and I never will.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olL1pjZ4WP4&t=1939s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiOzOk-HZcY&t=1466s

KINGS & GERIATRICS - TIME FOR A CHANGE

So the big S-word is making its unruly rounds again. The big C word – Communism - is now so retro only our president uses it.

 

But Socialism is back with a bang, though under a new brand, Democratic Socialism! Doesn’t the very sound of it send you scurrying under your bed at the thought of voting in the November midterms? 

 

Having openly fraternized with hundreds of socialists over the years, I can testify that the vast majority are sterling citizens who merely harbor a desire to make rawboned capitalism fairer and more representative.

 

So, what’s different about these new democratic socialists? Well, for one thing they’re young, and feel they’re getting screwed by the cost of housing, healthcare and college.

 

They believe that the billionaire class rules the country, and they feel little security in their jobs. From the moment they claw their way to an unpaid internship, they know they’re merely tolerated by the captains of industry and finance who will lay them off at the drop of a hat to keep investors and stock-holders happy.

 

Many work the same hours as Gilded Age laborers, except that the latter had unions fighting for them; if current tech workers tried to unionize they’d be fired and labeled – you guessed it - democratic socialists.

 

Meanwhile, the vast majority of S&P companies continue to deliver strong profits, and financial markets are booming – a good thing, if you’ve got a piece of the action. 

 

But recent college grads have no stake yet – except large-size debt that requires annual payments.

 

Nor, for the most part, do they have anyone near their own age representing them. In the 2024 presidential election, an elderly megalomaniacal Republican was duking it out with an even older, egotistical Democrat, until the latter gentleman fled the field after suffering a senior moment in their first debate.

 

Dude, can you imagine the rolled eyes in the techie bars of Bushwick, Hyde Park and Silicon Valley?

 

What do democratic socialists want anyway? Depends on who you’re talking to, but a major ask is a Medicare For All health system.

 

As anyone lucky enough to be on Medicare will swear, it’s generally a good system, not unlike the Nordic social democratic healthcare model. However, Medicare For All would be hugely expensive and call for a complete reorganization of taxes, including a hefty surtax on billionaires and large successful companies – forget about that!

 

But look at it another way, out of the 38 OECD countries, the US pays at least double per capita every other country for healthcare; yet, we rate almost bottom of the barrel in life expectancy. That’s right – we pay more and live less! Can we afford not to introduce Medicare For All?

 

Another democratic socialist ask is to root out corruption in government. These young blades do not share our fatigued, and often admiring, tolerance of President Trump’s growth in wealth over the course of his current administration. 

 

Democratic socialists also favor banning corporate and wealthy private donor contributions to political campaigns; OMG, they’d even prefer a return to the post-Watergate campaign reforms – how naive!

 

What about the occasional DSA candidate who supported “Defund the police” during the social unrest of 2020? Well, anyone who did speak so irrationally back then should do a Mamdani, hastily take back what was said, and like our pragmatic democratic socialist mayor go to a precinct and apologize.

 

As for “Dissolve the Senate!” As compliant as the senate is under the primary-threatening control of President Trump, with a gain of 4 or 5 Democratic seats, sparks would fly once again in that sleepy abode for aging yes-men.

 

So, forget about the S-word, the Democratic Party, for all its faults, has traditionally had a healthy left, right and center! 

 

To more serious matters. Over the last 10 years of geriatric rule our national debt has doubled to $40 trillion. While profligate spending is merrily bipartisan, the tax cuts and  foreign wars of the current regime continue to add to the red-ink flood.

 

Yet, we must allow our youth to dream; and make no mistake, the November midterms will initiate a battle between young and old, old and new that will continue through 2028.

 

Dare I predict? Senator Jon Ossoff will be the next Democratic presidential nominee, a relatively young man far removed from democratic socialism, but one who could inspire all Americans. We’ve had enough kings and geriatrics, the US needs a youthful change.

 

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.