MALACHY MCCOURT - FRIEND AND WARRIOR

I first encountered Malachy McCourt at a sparsely attended Irish-Americans for McGovern meeting in the fall of 1972. He was accompanied by Brian Heron, grandson of James Connolly; thus was I introduced to American politics.

The campaign was already a sinking ship, and we didn’t help when we released a statement in Senator McGovern’s name calling for a united Ireland.

But an introduction had been made, and soon thereafter Mr. McCourt requested the services of Turner & Kirwan of Wexford to play at an Irish rally in Sunnyside against the War in Vietnam.

Malachy’s theory was that protesting in Greenwich Village was superfluous - we had to shift our offensive to conservative Queens.

Turner and I were tasked with warming up the audience for Malachy’s big speech, so we began with the Woodstock anthem, Fixin’ To Die Rag, which we assumed would be a crowd favorite. A beer bottle whistling through the air and smashing upon the stage put paid to that notion.

Sizing up the situation, Malachy waltzed on stage and coolly advised, “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time for a strategic retreat.”

And so we sped back to The Bells of Hell to lick our wounds and plot new ways to resuscitate the radical heart of Irish-America.

Ah, the Bells, Malachy’s saloon on West 13^th Street in the Village! Was there ever a better watering hole? For an eclectic celebrity clientele, unbridled conservation and wild imaginings, I doubt it. There was only one rule – Thou shalt not bore thy neighbor – and this, Malachy enforced with his customary wit and good fellowship.

There’s no denying the man had flaws, particularly his perverse refusal to pay Con Edison for their services. This led to a lack of lighting and refrigeration on occasion, particularly one long hot summer when one had to request a candle to navigate one’s way to the bathrooms.

Was Malachy political? Very much so, but he was not ideological. He often cast in his lot with anarchists, radicals, socialists and the like, but his real drive was to get everyone a fair shake economically.

He did loathe war and the “patriots” who promoted it – and he found it no coincidence that the children of the rich rarely serve. It’s sometimes forgotten that his gadfly run for New York Governor in 2006 was primarily a protest against the War in Iraq.

He believed in free speech – to the utmost. His radio shows on WMCA, and with John McDonagh on WBAI, were uproarious for he had scant respect for sacred cows. His wit could be corrosive, but it was always aimed at people well able to defend themselves.

Ironically, he is sometimes associated with Paddywhackery  and stage Irishness, but Malachy abhorred such behavior. The guy didn’t even like jokes. His humor was original and often self-deprecating.

He was, in fact, a deeply serious person. He had been raised in a grim, class-conscious Ireland and had faced grinding poverty. The local Catholic theocracy, with its emphasis on faith rather than hope or charity, had little time for his kind. 

Malachy was made to feel deeply ashamed of being poor and this scarred him and many others of his generation. Is it any wonder, he had little time for organized religion.  “I’m an atheist, thank God” summed up his theological stance.

Reading was his salvation – it opened up worlds beyond the bigoted back lanes of Limerick; eventually he would find sanctuary in the Republic of New York and become an accomplished author, actor and social commentator.

But at his core, Malachy was a humanist. He cared about people and inequality. That’s why he had little time for conservatism. The world, as he saw it, was neither good nor fair enough to preserve. Change was the only hope.

He had a huge influence on many of us, and we merrily joined him in a host of battles. He didn’t expect to win but, oh my, how he savored each small triumph. That smile of his and the glint in his eye was our reward, and a treasure to behold.

He was what they call in Irish, togha fir, literally, “the choice of men.” He was a rock to those who gathered around him, pain had made him fearless.  

A legend long before his death, that legend will undoubtedly grow, but those who knew him will cherish the memory of a lovely man, humble and caring, beneath all the accolades.  

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY

On one day a year, they congregated outside St. Patrick's Cathedral off Prince Street in New York City and marched in celebration. To some of these "Famine Irish" and their American born children it was a religious occasion, but to most the gathering was an affirmation of their right, not only to survive, but to thrive in their adopted country. That's what I sense on St. Patrick's Day - an echo from a time when the Irish were despised outsiders. And that's why I go along with the raucous energy, the excitement and even the green beer, the plastic shamrocks and the ubiquitous leprechaun.

I didn't always feel that way. When I arrived from Ireland, these manifestations of Irish-America were at best embarrassing. Back home, our own celebrations were rigid and religious; we did sport actual sprigs of shamrock but there was no beer, green or otherwise, on this gloomy church holiday. The Parade up Fifth Avenue and the ensuing bacchanal seemed downright pagan by comparison.

 

I had other immigrant battles of my own ahead. Black 47 was formed to create music that would reflect the complexity of immigrant and contemporary Irish-American life, and to banish When Irish Eyes Are Smiling off to a well earned rest at the bottom of Galway Bay. This idea met with not a little resistance in the north Bronx and the south sides of Boston and Chicago; but when irate patrons would yell out in the middle of a reggae/reel "Why can't yez sing somethin' Irish?" I would return the compliment with, "I'm from Ireland, I wrote it! That makes it Irish!"

 

With time and familiarity, Irish-America came to accept and even treasure Black 47, probably more for our insistence that each generation bears responsibility for solving the political problems in the North of Ireland, than for recasting Danny Boy as a formidable gay construction worker. I, in turn, learned to appreciate the traditions of the community I had joined along with the reasons for the ritualized celebration of our patron saint. And now on St. Patrick's Day, no matter what stage I'm on, mixed in with the swirl of guitars, fiddles, horns, pipes and drums, I hear an old, but jarring, memory of a people rejoicing as they rose up from their knees.

 

Our battles, for the most part, have been won; Anti-Irish sentiment, not to mention Anti-Catholicism, is a thing of the past. But a new breed of uninformed nativism threatens our Republic.  Such views are on the wrong side of hope and history, for we are an inclusive nation - that's what makes us great. We close the gates and pull up the ladders behind us at our own economic and spiritual peril. And we must always honor the memory of those who paved the way for us.

 

Part of that responsibility is that we never forget the new immigrants from other lands. Many, like our forebears, are fleeing tyranny and are striving to feed and educate their families. It would be the ultimate irony if an Irish-American were to look down upon the least of them; for, in my mind anyway, there is no place in the Irish soul for racism, sectarianism, homophobia or even dumb old Archie Bunker type xenophobia.

 

I once heard Pete Hamill ask: "What does the Pakistani taxi driver say to his children when he gets home after 12 hours behind the wheel?" I can't answer for certain, but I'll bet he echoes many of the sentiments of those "Famine Irish" who gathered outside St. Patrick's Cathedral so many immigrant tears and years ago.

ALL THE RAGE - THE INFORMER

 One of the joys – and occasional banes – of writing a regular column is that it engages you with your readers. A recent column beginning with Frank McCourt’s advice to would-be writers caught the eye of many.

In it I described a method I personally employ to get a writing project started. One piece of advice I neglected - never write about something you’re not totally invested in, for you will spend a long time in its company.

 

It took over ten years to get Hard Times/Paradise Square from the Cell Theatre on 23^rd Street to Broadway’s Ethel Barrymore Theatre on 47^th.

 

The pandemic interfered, of course, but during that year of “silence, exile, and cunning”, I conceived two other projects, which means I’ve already put years of work into both.

 

However, in this merry month of March, each will have a showing when I, and an audience, will be able to judge their progress.

 

I had always wanted to write a 2-person musical – the better to really delve into the characters, for as was stated in the McCourt column, “from character comes story.” 

 

I had a vague idea of the plot which would center on a romantically involved couple who break up and are thrown together years later. Can they overcome time and change, and rediscover love?

 

As I began to take notes soon after the lockdown in March 2020, I still had no idea of the setting, but on that first day the face of an old friend surfaced - Ric Ocasek of The Cars. 

 

He had died some months earlier, alone in his mansion near Gramercy Park. We had co-produced Black 47’s album, Fire of Freedom, and became close during long talks about bands, the Punk/New Wave scene, and the nearby East Village.

 

While remembering Ric, my own life in the 70’s and 80’s NYC music scene came back in a rush. And suddenly, I had my setting – my old apartment on seedy  East 3^rd Street, overlooking a pristine urban garden.

 

It was then easy to place the two characters in a New Wave band of that era, to pinpoint the turbulence that both cast them apart and eventually reunite them 20 years later.

 

I had lived that life, and almost instantly shards of songs came to mind, about what it was like to be a rock musician - not in the usual dumbed down, treacly Hollywood or MTV portrayal - but in the real life drama of trying to “make it” on the drug-infested streets of the Lower East Side.

 

It’s called All The Rage and will receive a staged performance reading on March 12^th in the 28^th Street Theatre, NYC.

 

Some months into the pandemic, Bobby Moresco, the Academy Award  winning writer of the movie Crash, got in touch, wondering if I was familiar with Liam O’Flaherty’s  novel, The Informer.

 

Was I what? I’d seen John Ford’s movie 3 times while still a boy back in Wexford. Bobby wondered if I’d be interested in writing a stage version.

 

I re-read O’Flaherty’s dark novel in a feverish weekend. I had a long-standing ambition to write a drama about the Irish Civil War, and wondered if Gypo Nolan’s betrayal could be re-oriented in that direction.

 

As it turned out, it took a re-imagining to adapt the story without creating an anodyne period piece. For, to keep the spirit of O’Flaherty’s book relevant, you can’t ignore the 50 years of more recent Troubles.

 

But I also had another ambition – to gather together a cast of New York’s finest Irish-born actors and harness their distinctive voices and talents to bring a new, large ensemble piece to life.

 

We did that in 20 minute increments by Zoom, all through the pandemic, courtesy of Bobby Moresco’s weekly online Actors Gym. And what a cast and director we had!

 

We’ll see the results on March 23^rd when The Informer will receive a staged reading at the opening of the 1st Irish Festival at the American Irish Historical Society courtesy of new president, Elizabeth Stack, and Michael Mellamphy of Origin Theatre Company.

 

It will take even more time to get first class productions of these projects on the boards. That’s the nature of the game, just make sure when you begin your project your story is worth living with.

 

Tickets for All The Rage, March 12, 28^th Street Theatre, 15 W. 28^th St. NYC  bit.ly/ATR-TIX

 

Tickets for The Informer, March 23, at AIHS, 991 5^th Ave. NYC  www.origintheatre.org