There are a number of building blocks in any reasonably successful rock ‘n’ roll band. First of course, are the musicians themselves, followed closely by a loyal tech crew. Add a dogged and dedicated agent and you’re off to the races.
Some swear by a good manager, but if you haven’t learned how to manage yourself after a couple of years, then you haven’t been looking or listening – besides adding a manager’s 15% off the top to an agent’s 10%, means you’ll take very little home. Forget about hiring a PR person, just favor a united Ireland and oppose an American war and you’ll get all the publicity you need.
That being said, you’re going nowhere unless you have a loyal fanbase led by superfans. 10 years after Black 47 disbanded I can still summon up the faces in the first two rows in most American cities. Many still stay in touch.
But there’s another, somewhat more exalted breed, that really made a difference, I called them influencers, long before every Tom, Dick and Harry debased the title. I lost some of mine recently.
I first met Jack O’Leary when I was 18 and playing a pub in Wexford. I was singing “Donna, Donna,” a little-known ballad; no one was listening - except Jack. During a break he complimented my taste, and stated that “Donna, Donna” was an old Jewish folk song.
From that moment on we were linked. Jack seemed to know every song that had any bit of soul or history to it, and was determined to pass on his knowledge.
He worked on the Rosslare/Fishguard ferries, and on his time off attended most of my gigs.
I can still picture him roaming around pubs, resplendent in a well-cut grey suit, pint in hand, swaying to the music, and encouraging me to try new songs, especially my own.
He was an excellent singer of sea-chanteys and could have gained a PhD in the semi-mystical songs of the merchant-marine songwriter, Cyril Tawney.
He came to London when Black 47 opened for The Pogues at their remarkable Christmas show in 1990. There I introduced him to Joe Strummer. Backstage they talked non-stop, head to head at the bar. When Jack finally took a toilet break, Joe turned to me and said, “Where did you find him, guy knows more about music than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Like many other commercial sailors Jack had little time for religion, still I fancy I can see him, pint in hand, wheedling his way into heaven by entertaining St. Peter with a lusty version of Tawney’s “Five Foot Flirt.”
Joe himself died way too young; although he was recognized as the Prince of Punk, he had an inexhaustible knowledge of popular music. For about 6 months he came to every Black 47 gig in Paddy Reilly’s. It was a rare night we didn’t introduce a new song, and Joe took delight in mentioning its “obvious” influences. Even when I’d tell him none of us ever heard of such arcane writers, he’d say, “Makes no difference, man, music is universal and we’re all linked.” He always had a friendly suggestion for how we could make a song better. But just knowing Joe was listening made you better anyway.
He never mentioned The Clash but he often spoke about Thomas Moore’s Minstrel Boy, and how someday he hoped to improve on Paul Robeson’s magisterial interpretation; he eventually did in the soundtrack for Black Hawk Down.
David Johansen’s mother was a Cullen from Staten Island. I noticed him on the streets of the East Village not long after I arrived in the US. Handsome, rakish and convivial, he had been vocalist for The New York Dolls and became big daddy to many New York musicians. He used to drink in Tramps, Terry Dunne’s bar on 15thStreet. ‘Twas there he developed his alter-ego, Buster Poindexter.
He guested on the Black 47 track, Staten Island Baby. Talk about a pro, he made that song his own. As he left the studio, veteran producer/engineer Stewart Lerman murmured, “I learned more in the last 2 hours from Dave than I did in the past 20 years.”
I miss my influencers – they gave so much of themselves and asked for so little in return.
