Monsignor Steve Duggan - The King of Second Avenue

They don’t make them like Steve Duggan anymore. The question is – did they ever?

The Monsignor was like many immigrants – neither here nor there. His heart was back in Ireland, while his soul was firmly entrenched on 2^nd Avenue.

He lived for the present with a hawk-eye on the future. He rarely dwelt on the past, except on long drives, when it would come pouring out in a darkly humorous torrent.

He was no saint, nor did he ever claim to be, like many of us he delighted in the company of rogues - the merrier, the better!

He never spoke about his education, but he could have been a great mathematician, for I never knew a man with such a command of the comings and goings of money.

An acclaimed right half forward for County Cavan, yet one of his rare regrets was that he could have been a star soccer player had the times been different. 

 

He had been a greyhound trainer, a bookmaker, and most importantly, he co-owned and successfully promoted dances in the Cavan Sports Center Ballroom.

While Country and Irish was the most popular dance music in the 1970’s Steve recognized the pent-up local demand for the harder-edged pop showbands.

 

He also promoted Horslips and other Celtic Rock groups out of Dublin, like Spud. Thus did he become friends and associates with Paul McGuinness who would go on to manage U2.

In the end though, rural Ireland was too repressive and unaccommodating for larger-than-life individuals, and Steve joined the exodus to New York in 1983. 

With Paddy Reilly and manager Jim Hand, Steve opened Paddy Reilly’s on the corner of 2^nd Avenue and 28^thStreet.

Their idea was to create an upscale lounge bar, but that concept gained little traction in the swinging 80’s. Eventually, the pub settled into a sedate neighborhood center for darts, and Reilly’s team was formidable. 

Steve continued to book Paddy Reilly around the US along with other acts managed by Jim Hand, one of Ireland’s great showbiz characters.

Contrary to popular lore, Steve did not book Black 47 at Reilly’s, his head bartender, Monaghan’s Dympna McDonald did after discovering us in The Bronx. We were causing an unfavorable stir up there back in early 1990, because of our insistence on playing originals and a refusal to accept that “the punter is always right” - seditious behavior at the time.

Reilly’s was just what we were looking for, an open space - as I once stated in an interview, “the place was doing so bad, even the cockroaches were leaving.”

From playing the various boroughs, we had amassed an audience of music aficionados, ne’er-do-wells, and Irish Republicans, who brought a very different vibe to Reilly’s.

Steve could read cash registers better than anyone and recognized that Chris Byrne and I had come up with a very different take on Irish music and weren’t shy about sharing it. The Monsignor’s genius was the realization that if this could work in Reilly’s, it could take off all across Irish America.

And thus, with a little help from Leno, Letterman, O’Brien, and EMI Records, Black 47 became a national phenomenon. Steve masterfully handled all the Irish pubs & festivals, while The Agency Group looked after the rock clubs and colleges.

Within months we had lines around Reilly’s block, and soon Joe Strummer, Matt Dillon, Danny Glover, Brooke Shields and a slew of celebrities arrived. 

In short order, Steve became King of Second Avenue with a beaming smile and a welcome for everyone. He booked great bands like Spéir Mór, Paddy A-Go-Go, Rogue’s March, Eileen Ivers, Joanie Madden & Séamus Egan, Tony DeMarco’s Seisiúin, and The Prodigals who still play Reilly’s on Friday nights.

Steve was an amazing booking agent. Should there be a problem all we had to do was dial his number, and the offending  promoter would blanch at the thought of verbal combat with this ferocious Cavan competitor. 

There were no deals - every cent had to be collected. As he once put it, “What owner gives you a bonus on a good night?”

Actually you did, Steve, occasionally.

Some weeks back we laughed at old times, despite Steve being sorely tried by the recent death of his son, David.

Good night, old friend. We changed the way Irish music is listened to in America, and from humble monsignor you went on to become King of Second Avenue.

LANKUM - A GREAT IRISH BAND!

There are bands, and then there are great bands. What makes a band great?

Well, obviously, the members, particularly if one, or all, have a vision. Drive, curried with a dash of defiance, doesn’t hurt either, because inevitably you’ll have to make light of the barbs of critics - official and otherwise.

Treasure your fans privately but beware of acknowledging each one on social media; while that may help with likes and clicks it’s time consuming, besides greatness demands a measure of distance and mystique. Ask Bob Dylan and Neil Young.

Where you come from is important. It would be hard to imagine The Beatles exploding out of Kiltimagh; on the other hand, Seán Ó’Riada hailed from rural County Limerick, far from the concrete fields of Liverpool.

U2 are a great Irish band and yet a friend once noted that they might as well have been from New Haven, there’s so little trace of Irish roots in their music.

What’s really important is that you sound unlike anyone else. There’s a Dublin band that fits that bill to the utmost; still, I wasn’t bowled over 10 years ago when I first heard Cold Old Fire by Lynched. 

The song was somewhat mournful, sung in an off-hand manner, and I wasn’t sure what it was about. The lone guitar accompaniment was understated, even unremarkable. I soon forgot all about it. Yet a strange melody had taken up residence somewhere in the alcoves of my addled brain. 

One Sunday morning I played Cold Old Fire on Celtic Crush/SiriusXM and instantly identified my persistent earworm. The second time I played the track I began receiving emails begging for mercy, as listeners couldn’t banish the tune either.

Intrigued, I located the lyrics and discovered that Cold Old Fire is about the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger. It’s an extraordinary original folk song with a distinctive point of view. 

 

Born to live and die in embers

Of a cold old fire nobody remembers

They hand the ashes back to me 

Down the button factory, we’re cattle at the stall…

 

Lynched, whose members were the brothers Ian and Darragh Lynch, Cormac MacDiarmada, and Radie Peat, soon after changed their name to Lankum.

Each member had decided not to emigrate in the exodus caused by the collapse of the Celtic Tiger. Instead they sang and played for pints at Trad sessions around Dublin in the deep recession years that followed.

Each had listened to a wide variety of music, and collectively they began to incorporate these earlier roots with the traditional songs that they performed at pubs like The Cobblestone in Smithfield.

To my ear their harmonies reflect their urban surroundings, sometimes harsh, even grating, but always very present and so probing.

But it’s their use of drones that sets them apart. A drone – often a bass to low-middle note – played on Hurdy-gurdy, Didgeridoo, Pipes, and Synthesizers - is common to many kinds of ethnic, and even modern art music, but there’s a majesty in the way Lankum employs the drone to highlight their haunting folk tales. 

Using up to 30 instruments, synths, and tape decks they often surprise themselves by the overtones they create onstage.

Listen to the sonic landscape the band lays down around Radie Peat’s stunning vocal on Go Dig My Grave. I don’t use the word “masterpiece” lightly but surrendering yourself to this 8:49 minute track is an experience akin to mixing two great bands of the 1970’s: Pentangle and Van Der Graf Generator, and then some.

Talk about sounding different than anyone else; from track to track, Lankum often sound different from themselves. Take Daffodil Mulligan written by Harry Donovan, and popularized by the legendary Jimmy O’Dea, Lankum’s version grabs you by the scruff of the neck and casts you back to a 1930’s Dublin variety hall. 

So there you have it, one could argue that Lankum conjures up the complexities of modern Ireland, or could it be they capture stray echoes from the country’s haunted past.

But as someone who has been humming Cold Old Fire since I began writing this column, I offer you two choices – inure yourself right now with some inconsequential pop confection or face the consequences of a trip through the heart of darkness that surrounds Lankum, a wonderfully unique band from Dublin.