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.