Are we crazy? After the disasters in Iraq and Afghanistan to even entertain the idea of any form of intervention in Syria is an exercise in scaling moonbeams. Yet that’s what those doughty warriors, Senators McCain and Lindsey, are proposing. The toppling of democracy in Egypt only emphasizes the instability of this part of the world and how important it is to cease meddling in Middle Eastern affairs.
Of course part of this rush to conflict is to make President Obama pay for his ill-considered “red line” threat over the use of chemical weapons by the Syrian regime. As if the estimated 90,000 already slaughtered in this civil war weigh nothing in relation to the 150 or so poisoned with Sarin and other types of nerve gas.
It’s time to bite the political bullet, Senators; no matter how much it sticks in the craw, Barack Obama has won two presidential elections and because of his achievements in ending a couple of wars, stewarding the country through a financial meltdown, and extending affordable health care availability, his face will probably end up on some coin or bank note.
Still, not to worry, Hillary Clinton will be a lot easier to deal with in three years – and meanwhile both of you will have major moments in the sun if you can persuade your recalcitrant Republican House colleagues to pass a sensible immigration bill. In the meantime, later for military involvement in any more Muslim countries – this generation has enough wounded warriors, thank you.
You think Iraq was a quagmire? It’s got nothing on Syria. The Crusaders came barreling down this biblical highway on their way to Jerusalem and the natives, understandably, have had a thing about infidels meddling in their internal affairs ever since.
By all means send humanitarian aid and plenty of it, not only are up to 2 million people homeless and hungry, a great deal of the infrastructure of the country has been destroyed. But forget about introducing no-fly zones, taking out the Syrian Air Force or neutralizing Assad’s supply of chemical weapons.
It’s hard to imagine how this conflict can ever be resolved. A small sect of Alawites are hanging on to power for dear life because they know it’s curtains for them if the majority Sunnis ever take control.
The Alawites have always been mistrusted by their Sunni neighbors; if they were just simple Shiites who revere the prophet’s cousin, Ali, they might be acceptable, instead they have the nerve to celebrate Christian and Zoroastrian feast days, believe in reincarnation, and, most importantly, don’t like anyone telling them what to do.
As we know from bitter experience in the North of Ireland, sectarianism is a curse; it’s now playing out its poisoned hand in Syria where the Alawite 12% of the population, led by the Assad family, have been ruling the roost for almost half a century. Russia, with its naval bases, and Iran, with its support of Hezbollah, are major players on the Assad side, but in the end the numbers favor Syrian’s large Sunni population.
This is a battle we should run a mile from; it will play out of its own accord, partition will most likely be the bloody, and perhaps desired, result.
We have our own nation building to do. Instead of sending young men and women off on more impossible foreign adventures, give them employment at home rebuilding roads, bridges and cities. Oh, but I forgot, that would only add to the deficit, as if bombs, bullets, and American lives come cheaply.
The last thing Syria needs right now is a new crusade. The Sunni rebels, including hard-line Al Qaeda sympathizers, will get armaments from their co-religionists in the oil rich Gulf States; any help we give should be in the form of medical supplies and other humanitarian aid.
Senators McCain and Lindsey would be better off employing their considerable political skills in securing decent and sensible immigration legislation. It’s an issue close to Irish hearts and many of us will be very grateful to them for their efforts.
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
Tuesday, 16 July 2013
Where Have You Gone, Franklin Delano...
There’s a feeling of unease infecting the country.
One could attribute it to the recent recession but it’s deeper and cuts right across society. It’s the uncertainty of what’s coming next. What kind of world are we handing over to our children, and will they find a meaningful place in it?
Change follows every big economic upheaval; it’s the sheer suddenness that’s troublesome this time. Take the industrial revolution of the 19th century when people fled their agrarian societies and flocked to cities to spend the rest of their short lives toiling in factories. Drastic though it was, that change played out over decades, and in the end people formed unions, governments intervened on their behalf, and conditions became more acceptable.
Again during the great depression of the 1930’s the patrician president, Franklin Roosevelt, initiated game changing legislation that with time, and the outbreak of World War II, restored full employment to the country.
In the current malaise, however, no one appears to be thinking ahead; if anything we’re living in a fool’s paradise where politicians endlessly jaw on without offering any meaningful solutions to a myriad of social and economic problems.
At a time we should be spending to promote job creation, as Roosevelt did in the 1930’s, the mantra is “cut taxes and deficits,” when it’s now obvious that the 2009 stimulus programs – although heavily weighted in tax cuts - saved us from the long term recessions of many European countries.
But the most troubling aspect is the sense that we’re not all in this together, that those in the top financial echelon share little of the general uncertainty.
“I’m 48, I lost my job. I’ve always played by the rules, but now the system has no use for me.” I overheard a woman say recently.
She has a point, with the weakening of unions she is on her own. A person half her age will be willing to work for a lot less just to get a foot in the door.
Employment may be finally picking up but good jobs are scarce and reserved for those with the requisite skills. Meanwhile many colleges are a joke, even less prepared for the huge societal change than the rest of us. They charge through the nose for degrees that have little relevance, leaving students with debt they’ll likely never repay, especially with Congress unwilling to put a cap on student-loan interest rates.
I’m by no means decrying a Liberal Arts degree, far from it, but to send any graduate into the current specialized workforce without a sound knowledge of Excel and other computer programs is madness. But not to worry debt-ridden graduates can always pick up those skills with an unpaid internship.
The housing market is finally beginning to boom again but it’s a hard nut to crack for those without substantial means. Not only are large institutions buying up property but as many as a third of all purchases are now being made with full cash down. Meanwhile credit is still tight and mortgages difficult to come by for the less affluent.
Is there no hope? Of course there is, but it will only come from the ballot box. Look how pragmatic Republicans have done an about face on immigration after the last presidential election. Their reasoning may have been self-preservation but who cares - the country will receive an economic lift by the introduction of millions of hard working and enterprising people into the system.
Still, real change won’t come without anger – anger at a system that is no longer working for the great majority, anger at a political class that must go hat in hand to corporate chieftains and their moneyed ilk for the funds to run for office, and anger at ourselves for allowing the system to be appropriated.
Of course we can take our anti-depressants and sit around waiting for a new Franklin Roosevelt to make everything okay again. But without a general desire for change I’m not sure even the patrician from Hyde Park could cut through the current national malaise.
One could attribute it to the recent recession but it’s deeper and cuts right across society. It’s the uncertainty of what’s coming next. What kind of world are we handing over to our children, and will they find a meaningful place in it?
Change follows every big economic upheaval; it’s the sheer suddenness that’s troublesome this time. Take the industrial revolution of the 19th century when people fled their agrarian societies and flocked to cities to spend the rest of their short lives toiling in factories. Drastic though it was, that change played out over decades, and in the end people formed unions, governments intervened on their behalf, and conditions became more acceptable.
Again during the great depression of the 1930’s the patrician president, Franklin Roosevelt, initiated game changing legislation that with time, and the outbreak of World War II, restored full employment to the country.
In the current malaise, however, no one appears to be thinking ahead; if anything we’re living in a fool’s paradise where politicians endlessly jaw on without offering any meaningful solutions to a myriad of social and economic problems.
At a time we should be spending to promote job creation, as Roosevelt did in the 1930’s, the mantra is “cut taxes and deficits,” when it’s now obvious that the 2009 stimulus programs – although heavily weighted in tax cuts - saved us from the long term recessions of many European countries.
But the most troubling aspect is the sense that we’re not all in this together, that those in the top financial echelon share little of the general uncertainty.
“I’m 48, I lost my job. I’ve always played by the rules, but now the system has no use for me.” I overheard a woman say recently.
She has a point, with the weakening of unions she is on her own. A person half her age will be willing to work for a lot less just to get a foot in the door.
Employment may be finally picking up but good jobs are scarce and reserved for those with the requisite skills. Meanwhile many colleges are a joke, even less prepared for the huge societal change than the rest of us. They charge through the nose for degrees that have little relevance, leaving students with debt they’ll likely never repay, especially with Congress unwilling to put a cap on student-loan interest rates.
I’m by no means decrying a Liberal Arts degree, far from it, but to send any graduate into the current specialized workforce without a sound knowledge of Excel and other computer programs is madness. But not to worry debt-ridden graduates can always pick up those skills with an unpaid internship.
The housing market is finally beginning to boom again but it’s a hard nut to crack for those without substantial means. Not only are large institutions buying up property but as many as a third of all purchases are now being made with full cash down. Meanwhile credit is still tight and mortgages difficult to come by for the less affluent.
Is there no hope? Of course there is, but it will only come from the ballot box. Look how pragmatic Republicans have done an about face on immigration after the last presidential election. Their reasoning may have been self-preservation but who cares - the country will receive an economic lift by the introduction of millions of hard working and enterprising people into the system.
Still, real change won’t come without anger – anger at a system that is no longer working for the great majority, anger at a political class that must go hat in hand to corporate chieftains and their moneyed ilk for the funds to run for office, and anger at ourselves for allowing the system to be appropriated.
Of course we can take our anti-depressants and sit around waiting for a new Franklin Roosevelt to make everything okay again. But without a general desire for change I’m not sure even the patrician from Hyde Park could cut through the current national malaise.
Monday, 8 July 2013
Jazz and all that Love
What do you think about Jazz? Can’t make head nor tail of it? I used to suffer from the same affliction myself. And yet Jazz may well be the great American cultural creation, so in this season of mom, apple pie and another Mets’ nosedive let’s take a look at it.
First things first - the key to enjoying Jazz is finding your way in. My own initiation came at the Kiwi, a down and out after-hours joint in Manhattan’s East Village half a lifetime ago. The place didn’t even boast a jukebox but when the humor was on him one of the regulars used to blast his cassette mix-tapes from a battered old boom box.
Jimmy Rees had been featuring John Coltrane that uproarious morning though he might as well have been playing Larry Cunningham and The Might Avons for all the attention I was paying.
I’m not sure exactly what happened but suddenly the iconic sax man’s manic stream of notes began to make sense and I swear I could tell exactly what he would play next. It was exhilarating, like deciphering a hidden code that allowed you to enter a wonderful new world.
When I finally looked over at Rees, he was beaming back at me, “You finally got it, man, right?” He called out.
Rees died soon thereafter. They misdiagnosed him in a local emergency room, thought he was just another drunk who needed sobering while he was suffering from a bad dose of Pneumonia.
But let me try and pass on the gift he gave me. First of all, don’t start with Coltrane, he may be a titan and someone you’ll enjoy in time, but he’s too much of a speeding train to safely clamber aboard. Rather go with Miles Davis.
Miles was the coolest and he understood Trane and his addiction to notes per minute delivery. Once when the sax man mournfully concluded that he was so infused with his muse that he could never seem to conclude a passage, Miles dryly suggested, “Did you ever try taking the horn out of your mouth?”
Miles was the man and in more ways than one. When heroin was wiping out the world around him, he locked himself in a room for two months and went cold turkey. He emerged determined to echo the terrifying loneliness he’d just experienced and to do so with the fewest and most relevant notes possible.
Begin your journey with any of his albums, but I would suggest Kind of Blue, Sketches of Spain, or Porgy and Bess.
Kind of Blue is the top selling Jazz record of all time and for good reason – it’s accessible. It sounded like cocktail music to me at first, and therein lies the key: play it in the background while having a brew. If you’re off the sauce, don’t worry – this understated masterpiece will still work its magic but may take a few minutes longer.
Coltrane is on there, restrained for once and interacting beautifully with Cannonball Adderley on alto-sax. But most importantly listen for Bill Evans’ lovely piano chords; they make the perfect bed for the aching sparseness of Miles’ trumpet.
I’ve listened to Sketches of Spain innumerable times and found new reasons to marvel with each hearing. Many would say it’s not Jazz at all – more a mini-symphony - but who cares; after a couple of listens you’ll have gained an innate knowledge of the culture and history of Spain, and you won’t have endured a word of a lecture.
You’ll already be familiar with many of the melodies of Porgy and Bess. George Gershwin may be America’s pre-eminent composer, but Miles and arranger Gil Evans take his music to places that the Bard of the Lower East Side never dreamed of in their scintillating re-imagination.
Try one of these albums for the Fourth of July – you’ll be amazed at how well they go with hot dogs, burgers and cold beer. In a world of hype, Miles remains the man and if you can handle his coolness he’ll open you up to a whole universe of red, white and blue American music.
First things first - the key to enjoying Jazz is finding your way in. My own initiation came at the Kiwi, a down and out after-hours joint in Manhattan’s East Village half a lifetime ago. The place didn’t even boast a jukebox but when the humor was on him one of the regulars used to blast his cassette mix-tapes from a battered old boom box.
Jimmy Rees had been featuring John Coltrane that uproarious morning though he might as well have been playing Larry Cunningham and The Might Avons for all the attention I was paying.
I’m not sure exactly what happened but suddenly the iconic sax man’s manic stream of notes began to make sense and I swear I could tell exactly what he would play next. It was exhilarating, like deciphering a hidden code that allowed you to enter a wonderful new world.
When I finally looked over at Rees, he was beaming back at me, “You finally got it, man, right?” He called out.
Rees died soon thereafter. They misdiagnosed him in a local emergency room, thought he was just another drunk who needed sobering while he was suffering from a bad dose of Pneumonia.
But let me try and pass on the gift he gave me. First of all, don’t start with Coltrane, he may be a titan and someone you’ll enjoy in time, but he’s too much of a speeding train to safely clamber aboard. Rather go with Miles Davis.
Miles was the coolest and he understood Trane and his addiction to notes per minute delivery. Once when the sax man mournfully concluded that he was so infused with his muse that he could never seem to conclude a passage, Miles dryly suggested, “Did you ever try taking the horn out of your mouth?”
Miles was the man and in more ways than one. When heroin was wiping out the world around him, he locked himself in a room for two months and went cold turkey. He emerged determined to echo the terrifying loneliness he’d just experienced and to do so with the fewest and most relevant notes possible.
Begin your journey with any of his albums, but I would suggest Kind of Blue, Sketches of Spain, or Porgy and Bess.
Kind of Blue is the top selling Jazz record of all time and for good reason – it’s accessible. It sounded like cocktail music to me at first, and therein lies the key: play it in the background while having a brew. If you’re off the sauce, don’t worry – this understated masterpiece will still work its magic but may take a few minutes longer.
Coltrane is on there, restrained for once and interacting beautifully with Cannonball Adderley on alto-sax. But most importantly listen for Bill Evans’ lovely piano chords; they make the perfect bed for the aching sparseness of Miles’ trumpet.
I’ve listened to Sketches of Spain innumerable times and found new reasons to marvel with each hearing. Many would say it’s not Jazz at all – more a mini-symphony - but who cares; after a couple of listens you’ll have gained an innate knowledge of the culture and history of Spain, and you won’t have endured a word of a lecture.
You’ll already be familiar with many of the melodies of Porgy and Bess. George Gershwin may be America’s pre-eminent composer, but Miles and arranger Gil Evans take his music to places that the Bard of the Lower East Side never dreamed of in their scintillating re-imagination.
Try one of these albums for the Fourth of July – you’ll be amazed at how well they go with hot dogs, burgers and cold beer. In a world of hype, Miles remains the man and if you can handle his coolness he’ll open you up to a whole universe of red, white and blue American music.
Sunday, 30 June 2013
Support Your Irish Festival!!!
They’re everywhere now. Increasing and expanding by the year, Irish festivals have outgrown their natural roots on the East Coast and the Rust Belt of the Midwest. Now they flourish in Kansas City, Savannah, Manheim, and places you’ve never even heard of. Every month I get a call from some savvy All-American wondering about his or her chances of pulling off an Irish Festival.
And why not? Get yourself a fenced-in space, a stage, a workable PA, a headlining band, beer company support, a volunteer staff, some fine weather and you could be on your way to being the next Milwaukee Irish Fest.
Where did it all start? Well, that’s a bit like the Ray’s Pizza conundrum, isn’t it? But my gut instinct is that it all began back in the New York Irish community of the 50’s. Okay! South Side Chicago and Boston, you’ve got documented proof that your festivals were celebrating their centenaries when wide-trousered Galway men and their petticoated dates from Leitrim, Mayo and Tyrone were chastely cheek-to-cheeking to Micky Carton’s Orchestra at the Jaeger House on Lexington Avenue.
My theory, though, is that when these young immigrant Irish trooped out to the Rockaways on pre-air-conditioned summer weekend and danced and drank in the haunts along the Irish Mile, that the seeds were sown for the modern Irish Festival.
With time, those dancers married, had children and didn’t get out as much. Besides, the urban decay of the 60’s hit the Rockaways hard. Most of Irish Town was demolished and the streets were no longer as safe; but the couples still wished to meet, reminisce and show off their kids. So, they unfolded their beach chairs, bought a keg, finagled a couple of hungover musicians into playing and before you knew it, they had a rip-roaring block party on their hands.
The Rockaway Festival that grew out of those innocent Sunday afternoons was one of my favorites – although, one year I was almost brained by a beer cooler thrown by an appreciative fan. Alas, the festival is no more – our national savior, Mr. Giuliani, put his Puritan kibosh on it by barring the sale of alcohol. And who in their right mind would want to attend a dry Irish Festival?
But I digress. A number of veterans of the Rockaway bash who relocated to Southern Florida, Sheila Hynes and Rory O’Dwyer (son of the great Irish American Civil Rights activist, Paul O’Dwyer) amongst other longed for an authentic hooley around St. Patrick’s Day. They hired a park, a PA and engaged Adrian Flannelly to snare some top class musicians. A couple of decades later, their festivals in Ft. Lauderdale and West Palm Beach are still setting the pace and, given the location, they almost always have good weather.
The first festival I performed at was the Catholic Charities event out in Coney Island. Chris Byrne and I were in the midst of a very earnest version of The Patriot Game” at the end of which, to the wail of the pipes, I would denounce every Taoiseach, Tanaiste and elected rat-catcher for betraying the Cause when, to my amazement, I glimpsed the sight of a nun in full habit sweeping past me. Figuring it was some kind of flashback, I returned to my denunciations but there she was again, this time fiddling with a boom-box from which emanated the heavenly sound of synthesized strings. After the set, I found out that we had overstayed our allotted time, the good sister had a second gig to get to, and it was “later for you, Black 47, whoever the hell you are!” Sister Mary Beata is a trooper who will be playing festivals a long time after more trendy musicians have hung up their guitar straps.
Speaking of divine intervention, ask Frank Bradley about weather. Frank is the visionary behind the great South Side Chicago Festival held every Memorial Day Weekend. Sounds balmy, right? On our first appearance in 1991, snow began falling as we hit the stage. We were contracted for a 90 minute set and, fearful of not being paid, we blazed on through a gathering blizzard to about 50 hardy souls who danced to our frantic pleas for James Connolly to rise up, initiate a proletarian revolution and liberate us from the frozen stage. When we shuffled off like six emasculated snowmen, Frank stood there, check in hand (plus bonus) silently marveling at the lunacy of certain New York musicians. The Festival now takes the precaution of erecting an enormous tent. You just can’t trust that Lakeside weather. But you can depend on the warmth and rowdy loyalty of the South Side Irish.
For my money, having a headlining act is a must for a successful festival. Ask Cavan man Steve Duggan, whose Belmont Family Festival had chugged along to respectable successes. Some years back he nailed down the Saw Doctors for his Saturday night extravaganza and hit the jackpot with a record-breaking attendance.
Of course, when you have built up a reputation like the Milwaukee Irish Fest, you don’t really need a headliner. Back in 1981, the goals of the organizers were modest, hoping in some small way to emulate the successful local Fest Italiano. Now over 100,000 pass through their turnstiles annually. Founded by Chuck and Ed Ward and a loyal, hard-working committee, Milwaukee has become the Mother of all Irish Festivals. One of the projects funded by the Festival is the Irish Music Archives; it now contains almost 50,000 pieces of Irish recordings and sheet music.
Festivals, of course, reflect the current dynamics of Irish American life. There is the eternal battle between those more attuned to the homeland who cringe at leprechauns, green beer, freckle-faced competitions, and those who see no harm or, indeed, make a buck from such shenanigans. Then there are the various political activists who consider it their right to set up a table on the big day versus those who feel that festivals should be apolitical or that Irish politics ended circa 1916. This has led to friction at many festivals. But now, with peace in the ascendancy in the North of Ireland this issue shows every sign of becoming a memory. Besides, a vast majority of people now feels that festivals are about celebrating Irishness in its myriad forms and the tent is big enough for all.
I’m forever impressed by the level of altruism at festivals. Practically all of the money raised goes to an array of charities and quite often of the construction or maintenance of Irish Community Centers. Volunteers spend many months prepping, primping and preparing for their big weekend. It’s a rare festival nowadays that does not have its headliner booked by November. Take for instance the Dublin Ohio Festival. Kay McGovern and the Dublin Irish Celebration Committee work with Sandra Puskarcik and the City of Dublin in apparent harmony to run this ever-evolving event.
When asked the secret of their success they cited the usual suspects: good location, great PA systems, over 1200 dedicated volunteers and draconian stage management – Kay personally has knocked on the hotel doors of tardy musicians and will not allow any act – no matter how big – to go beyond its allotted time. And where do the profits go? A very equitable split between Irish organizations such as Project Children, cultural and sporting activities in schools, theaters, social groups, with the balance going back into the City of Dublin to ensure that the festival is self-sufficient. Their parting advice to prospective promoters: organize, have some money to spare and be prepared for every possible disaster that might happen, because it eventually will.
But in the end festivals are about community. Whether this means a return to the old neighborhood of Rockaway, a celebration of being South Side Irish in Chicago or a uniting of the clans in Patchogue, North Haven, Hartford or Herkimer, the festival is a way of getting together and celebrating heritage. In a society that becoming ever more white bread and homogenized, it’s an affirmation of all the things that make us different.
So, you want to start your own Irish Festival? Just get a fenced off space, a stage, a PA, a good band, a Mussolini-like stage manager and everything Irish you can think of – except the weather. Maybe I’ll see you there this summer.
And why not? Get yourself a fenced-in space, a stage, a workable PA, a headlining band, beer company support, a volunteer staff, some fine weather and you could be on your way to being the next Milwaukee Irish Fest.
Where did it all start? Well, that’s a bit like the Ray’s Pizza conundrum, isn’t it? But my gut instinct is that it all began back in the New York Irish community of the 50’s. Okay! South Side Chicago and Boston, you’ve got documented proof that your festivals were celebrating their centenaries when wide-trousered Galway men and their petticoated dates from Leitrim, Mayo and Tyrone were chastely cheek-to-cheeking to Micky Carton’s Orchestra at the Jaeger House on Lexington Avenue.
My theory, though, is that when these young immigrant Irish trooped out to the Rockaways on pre-air-conditioned summer weekend and danced and drank in the haunts along the Irish Mile, that the seeds were sown for the modern Irish Festival.
With time, those dancers married, had children and didn’t get out as much. Besides, the urban decay of the 60’s hit the Rockaways hard. Most of Irish Town was demolished and the streets were no longer as safe; but the couples still wished to meet, reminisce and show off their kids. So, they unfolded their beach chairs, bought a keg, finagled a couple of hungover musicians into playing and before you knew it, they had a rip-roaring block party on their hands.
The Rockaway Festival that grew out of those innocent Sunday afternoons was one of my favorites – although, one year I was almost brained by a beer cooler thrown by an appreciative fan. Alas, the festival is no more – our national savior, Mr. Giuliani, put his Puritan kibosh on it by barring the sale of alcohol. And who in their right mind would want to attend a dry Irish Festival?
But I digress. A number of veterans of the Rockaway bash who relocated to Southern Florida, Sheila Hynes and Rory O’Dwyer (son of the great Irish American Civil Rights activist, Paul O’Dwyer) amongst other longed for an authentic hooley around St. Patrick’s Day. They hired a park, a PA and engaged Adrian Flannelly to snare some top class musicians. A couple of decades later, their festivals in Ft. Lauderdale and West Palm Beach are still setting the pace and, given the location, they almost always have good weather.
The first festival I performed at was the Catholic Charities event out in Coney Island. Chris Byrne and I were in the midst of a very earnest version of The Patriot Game” at the end of which, to the wail of the pipes, I would denounce every Taoiseach, Tanaiste and elected rat-catcher for betraying the Cause when, to my amazement, I glimpsed the sight of a nun in full habit sweeping past me. Figuring it was some kind of flashback, I returned to my denunciations but there she was again, this time fiddling with a boom-box from which emanated the heavenly sound of synthesized strings. After the set, I found out that we had overstayed our allotted time, the good sister had a second gig to get to, and it was “later for you, Black 47, whoever the hell you are!” Sister Mary Beata is a trooper who will be playing festivals a long time after more trendy musicians have hung up their guitar straps.
Speaking of divine intervention, ask Frank Bradley about weather. Frank is the visionary behind the great South Side Chicago Festival held every Memorial Day Weekend. Sounds balmy, right? On our first appearance in 1991, snow began falling as we hit the stage. We were contracted for a 90 minute set and, fearful of not being paid, we blazed on through a gathering blizzard to about 50 hardy souls who danced to our frantic pleas for James Connolly to rise up, initiate a proletarian revolution and liberate us from the frozen stage. When we shuffled off like six emasculated snowmen, Frank stood there, check in hand (plus bonus) silently marveling at the lunacy of certain New York musicians. The Festival now takes the precaution of erecting an enormous tent. You just can’t trust that Lakeside weather. But you can depend on the warmth and rowdy loyalty of the South Side Irish.
For my money, having a headlining act is a must for a successful festival. Ask Cavan man Steve Duggan, whose Belmont Family Festival had chugged along to respectable successes. Some years back he nailed down the Saw Doctors for his Saturday night extravaganza and hit the jackpot with a record-breaking attendance.
Of course, when you have built up a reputation like the Milwaukee Irish Fest, you don’t really need a headliner. Back in 1981, the goals of the organizers were modest, hoping in some small way to emulate the successful local Fest Italiano. Now over 100,000 pass through their turnstiles annually. Founded by Chuck and Ed Ward and a loyal, hard-working committee, Milwaukee has become the Mother of all Irish Festivals. One of the projects funded by the Festival is the Irish Music Archives; it now contains almost 50,000 pieces of Irish recordings and sheet music.
Festivals, of course, reflect the current dynamics of Irish American life. There is the eternal battle between those more attuned to the homeland who cringe at leprechauns, green beer, freckle-faced competitions, and those who see no harm or, indeed, make a buck from such shenanigans. Then there are the various political activists who consider it their right to set up a table on the big day versus those who feel that festivals should be apolitical or that Irish politics ended circa 1916. This has led to friction at many festivals. But now, with peace in the ascendancy in the North of Ireland this issue shows every sign of becoming a memory. Besides, a vast majority of people now feels that festivals are about celebrating Irishness in its myriad forms and the tent is big enough for all.
I’m forever impressed by the level of altruism at festivals. Practically all of the money raised goes to an array of charities and quite often of the construction or maintenance of Irish Community Centers. Volunteers spend many months prepping, primping and preparing for their big weekend. It’s a rare festival nowadays that does not have its headliner booked by November. Take for instance the Dublin Ohio Festival. Kay McGovern and the Dublin Irish Celebration Committee work with Sandra Puskarcik and the City of Dublin in apparent harmony to run this ever-evolving event.
When asked the secret of their success they cited the usual suspects: good location, great PA systems, over 1200 dedicated volunteers and draconian stage management – Kay personally has knocked on the hotel doors of tardy musicians and will not allow any act – no matter how big – to go beyond its allotted time. And where do the profits go? A very equitable split between Irish organizations such as Project Children, cultural and sporting activities in schools, theaters, social groups, with the balance going back into the City of Dublin to ensure that the festival is self-sufficient. Their parting advice to prospective promoters: organize, have some money to spare and be prepared for every possible disaster that might happen, because it eventually will.
But in the end festivals are about community. Whether this means a return to the old neighborhood of Rockaway, a celebration of being South Side Irish in Chicago or a uniting of the clans in Patchogue, North Haven, Hartford or Herkimer, the festival is a way of getting together and celebrating heritage. In a society that becoming ever more white bread and homogenized, it’s an affirmation of all the things that make us different.
So, you want to start your own Irish Festival? Just get a fenced off space, a stage, a PA, a good band, a Mussolini-like stage manager and everything Irish you can think of – except the weather. Maybe I’ll see you there this summer.
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
Caribbean Kesh
It’s hard to imagine that those who protested the mistreatment of Irish Republican prisoners over the last 45 years are not gravely concerned about the hunger strikes, forced feeding, and lack of due process at the US prison in Guantánamo.
Some, no doubt, are hesitant to speak out for fear of seeming to support the hard core Al Qaeda members interned, but all of these prisoners deserve their day in court if only to uphold American concepts of justice.
Many were swept up in the aftermath of the US invasion of Afghanistan – often by Pakistanis and Afghans eager to collect the $5000 bounty payments offered by the US. Most were low to mid-level Taliban supporters involved in a civil war against the Northern Alliance and others.
Although my sympathies were with the Northern Alliance and their leader Ahmad Shah Massoud, no one would have accused this charismatic man of being a Jeffersonian Democrat. Along with other warlords he was responsible for the destruction of large parts of Kabul. Nor was he a feminist; in fact odious as they eventually became, the Taliban was initially formed to protect village women from rape and to restore law and order in an anarchistic country.
Many of those interned in Guantánamo were not originally committed enemies of the USA; given their background and education they wouldn’t have been able to find New York on a map. You can bet your bottom dollar, however, that after 12 years of forced detention without a trial they’re not exactly whistling Yankee Doodle Dandy.
A sizeable number, including over fifty Yemenis, were given clearance for repatriation to their home countries by a committee of top national security officials, but because of congressional resistance and presidential apathy they’re being held in a legal limbo.
President Obama claims he would close down Guantánamo but House Republicans will not allow him to transfer the prisoners to mainland prisons. What are they afraid of? Contaminating the morals of the heartland? When was the last time anyone broke out of a US high-security prison?
The argument against either a civil or military trial of the top level Al Qaeda operatives is that self-incriminating evidence gained through torture may not be admissible. The Bush/Cheney chickens continue to come home to roost – this time in the form of waterboarding, a.k.a. simulated drowning.
That being said, I’m in no way convinced that, even given the torture issues, some of our keenest prosecutorial minds wouldn’t be able to lay a couple of lifetimes behind bars on Khalid Sheik Muhammed and his Qaeda killers.
The hunger strike was supposedly the last line of defense in ancient Irish life. “If your more powerful neighbor has denied you justice, go sit on his doorstep and starve yourself until he relents,” is the legend handed down.
Both the Red Cross and United Nations recognize that a prisoner of sound mind has a right to hunger strike as a last resource. Right now we have 104 ticking time bombs in Guantánamo, 41 of them being force-fed. You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to know where this will end up.
Shackling prisoners to special chairs with head restraints, while shoving tubes up their noses for over 30 minutes, is not only inhumane, it provides a publicity bonanza and a recruiting tool for Al Qaeda. Forcibly administering them Raglan, an anti-nausea drug with serious side effects, may help keep these hunger strikers alive, but says little for us as a society.
Close down this Caribbean Long Kesh, repatriate the low level prisoners to their country of origin, disperse the actual Al Qaeda supporters to Federal high security mainland prisons and then afford them fair trials. Their day is over. It’s time for us to restore the US to its “shining city on the hill” status. Let’s put these last twelve years of un-American behavior once and for all in the rear mirror.
We, of all people, know the value of symbols. Let’s not create an Al Qaeda Bobby Sands. We’re better than that.
Some, no doubt, are hesitant to speak out for fear of seeming to support the hard core Al Qaeda members interned, but all of these prisoners deserve their day in court if only to uphold American concepts of justice.
Many were swept up in the aftermath of the US invasion of Afghanistan – often by Pakistanis and Afghans eager to collect the $5000 bounty payments offered by the US. Most were low to mid-level Taliban supporters involved in a civil war against the Northern Alliance and others.
Although my sympathies were with the Northern Alliance and their leader Ahmad Shah Massoud, no one would have accused this charismatic man of being a Jeffersonian Democrat. Along with other warlords he was responsible for the destruction of large parts of Kabul. Nor was he a feminist; in fact odious as they eventually became, the Taliban was initially formed to protect village women from rape and to restore law and order in an anarchistic country.
Many of those interned in Guantánamo were not originally committed enemies of the USA; given their background and education they wouldn’t have been able to find New York on a map. You can bet your bottom dollar, however, that after 12 years of forced detention without a trial they’re not exactly whistling Yankee Doodle Dandy.
A sizeable number, including over fifty Yemenis, were given clearance for repatriation to their home countries by a committee of top national security officials, but because of congressional resistance and presidential apathy they’re being held in a legal limbo.
President Obama claims he would close down Guantánamo but House Republicans will not allow him to transfer the prisoners to mainland prisons. What are they afraid of? Contaminating the morals of the heartland? When was the last time anyone broke out of a US high-security prison?
The argument against either a civil or military trial of the top level Al Qaeda operatives is that self-incriminating evidence gained through torture may not be admissible. The Bush/Cheney chickens continue to come home to roost – this time in the form of waterboarding, a.k.a. simulated drowning.
That being said, I’m in no way convinced that, even given the torture issues, some of our keenest prosecutorial minds wouldn’t be able to lay a couple of lifetimes behind bars on Khalid Sheik Muhammed and his Qaeda killers.
The hunger strike was supposedly the last line of defense in ancient Irish life. “If your more powerful neighbor has denied you justice, go sit on his doorstep and starve yourself until he relents,” is the legend handed down.
Both the Red Cross and United Nations recognize that a prisoner of sound mind has a right to hunger strike as a last resource. Right now we have 104 ticking time bombs in Guantánamo, 41 of them being force-fed. You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to know where this will end up.
Shackling prisoners to special chairs with head restraints, while shoving tubes up their noses for over 30 minutes, is not only inhumane, it provides a publicity bonanza and a recruiting tool for Al Qaeda. Forcibly administering them Raglan, an anti-nausea drug with serious side effects, may help keep these hunger strikers alive, but says little for us as a society.
Close down this Caribbean Long Kesh, repatriate the low level prisoners to their country of origin, disperse the actual Al Qaeda supporters to Federal high security mainland prisons and then afford them fair trials. Their day is over. It’s time for us to restore the US to its “shining city on the hill” status. Let’s put these last twelve years of un-American behavior once and for all in the rear mirror.
We, of all people, know the value of symbols. Let’s not create an Al Qaeda Bobby Sands. We’re better than that.
Tuesday, 18 June 2013
Welcome to New York - do's, don'ts and dangers
“Ah, the summer time has come
And the streets are thick with tourists…”
So what’s a regular New Yorker to do? Well, accentuate the positive: after all, out-of-towners keep the cash flowing; besides, most of us were once blow-ins too.
With that hippy-dippy sentiment safely put to bed, herewith a couple of practical do’s and don’ts for visitors that will lower the blood pressure of an already over-stressed city.
First and foremost - don’t walk two abreast down narrow city sidewalks, especially if you like to shuffle along at the pace of an exhausted rhinoceros. New Yorkers are all a day late, a dollar short and will be less than complimentary to you and the horse you rode in on if they can’t get past.
Despite our gruff exteriors, however, we’re romantic to a fault. That being said we have zero tolerance for couples – of any sex or preference – holding hands while dawdling along our busy thoroughfares.
We have no problem whatsoever with them hastening into darkened doorways and committing all manner of unspeakable acts from Fifty Shades of Grey. We might even applaud discreetly – for, at least, they’ll be keeping the sidewalks clear.
Ever wonder why New Yorkers charge at you loudly exclaiming, “Excuse me?” It’s because you’re daydreaming on a corner and blocking the bloody way while the pedestrian light is blinking “don’t walk” - which to any self-respecting New Yorker means, “run like hell!”
And, puh-leeze, don’t wear earphones in this city! Many New Yorkers do, you counter. That’s their problem, pal, and a whack on the head will eventually wise them up. It may not be the Fort Apache 70’s but this is still a tough town.
And besides, do you think Walt Whitman, Stephen Foster, Miles Davis or Bob Dylan wore headphones? No way, Jose, that’s because they gleaned their inspiration from the rhythm and beats of this insomniac city, not some wimpy personalized soundtrack that your Great-Aunt Gerty wouldn’t be caught dead listening to.
Open up to the glory of the city; its white noise will rip your staid perceptions to shreds and give your jaded synapses a first class tuning-up. Bet your bottom dollar you’ll see your old hometown in a new light when - or rather if - you ever decide to go home.
Not much of a museum or gallery attendee but you want it on public record that you have more than a passing acquaintance with these joints? Try the Frick Collection at 1 East 70th Street, just off Central Park. There you’ll find Rembrandts, Renoirs, Turners and a couple of Vermeers that will knock your socks off, all in the every serene setting of Henry Clay Frick’s graceful mansion.
The Museum of Natural History is anything but soothing, but it’s an essential place to drag unpleasant adolescents, if only to wear them out. Take my word for it, an afternoon spent tramping these blistering halls and they’ll run for the comfort of their video games, leaving you free to head off for a couple of well earned libations.
Remember, Manhattan is only one fifth of New York City. Check out the other four boroughs and find out what really makes this city tick. Catch the Ikea Ferry to Red Hook and make a beeline for Rocky Sullivan’s. You’ll meet the real Brooklyn there - not the recently arrived Willyburg poseurs. Ask for George - tell him I sent you.
Hop the A train to the Republic of Rockaway. The peninsula is fighting its way back, as it always does, and you can’t beat that Queens ocean breeze.
Take the B, D or 4 trains to Bedford Park and stroll down the Boulevard to the Bronx Botanical Gardens; it’s a wonderland only awaiting discovery.
And whatever you do, board the Staten Island Ferry. You’ll see the greatest city in the world as your forefathers first did – from the harbor – and guess what, it’s free.
One last piece of advice, always look like you know where you’re going, even when you don’t; that’s one sure way of staying safe – and keeping the sidewalks open for the rest of us.
And the streets are thick with tourists…”
So what’s a regular New Yorker to do? Well, accentuate the positive: after all, out-of-towners keep the cash flowing; besides, most of us were once blow-ins too.
With that hippy-dippy sentiment safely put to bed, herewith a couple of practical do’s and don’ts for visitors that will lower the blood pressure of an already over-stressed city.
First and foremost - don’t walk two abreast down narrow city sidewalks, especially if you like to shuffle along at the pace of an exhausted rhinoceros. New Yorkers are all a day late, a dollar short and will be less than complimentary to you and the horse you rode in on if they can’t get past.
Despite our gruff exteriors, however, we’re romantic to a fault. That being said we have zero tolerance for couples – of any sex or preference – holding hands while dawdling along our busy thoroughfares.
We have no problem whatsoever with them hastening into darkened doorways and committing all manner of unspeakable acts from Fifty Shades of Grey. We might even applaud discreetly – for, at least, they’ll be keeping the sidewalks clear.
Ever wonder why New Yorkers charge at you loudly exclaiming, “Excuse me?” It’s because you’re daydreaming on a corner and blocking the bloody way while the pedestrian light is blinking “don’t walk” - which to any self-respecting New Yorker means, “run like hell!”
And, puh-leeze, don’t wear earphones in this city! Many New Yorkers do, you counter. That’s their problem, pal, and a whack on the head will eventually wise them up. It may not be the Fort Apache 70’s but this is still a tough town.
And besides, do you think Walt Whitman, Stephen Foster, Miles Davis or Bob Dylan wore headphones? No way, Jose, that’s because they gleaned their inspiration from the rhythm and beats of this insomniac city, not some wimpy personalized soundtrack that your Great-Aunt Gerty wouldn’t be caught dead listening to.
Open up to the glory of the city; its white noise will rip your staid perceptions to shreds and give your jaded synapses a first class tuning-up. Bet your bottom dollar you’ll see your old hometown in a new light when - or rather if - you ever decide to go home.
Not much of a museum or gallery attendee but you want it on public record that you have more than a passing acquaintance with these joints? Try the Frick Collection at 1 East 70th Street, just off Central Park. There you’ll find Rembrandts, Renoirs, Turners and a couple of Vermeers that will knock your socks off, all in the every serene setting of Henry Clay Frick’s graceful mansion.
The Museum of Natural History is anything but soothing, but it’s an essential place to drag unpleasant adolescents, if only to wear them out. Take my word for it, an afternoon spent tramping these blistering halls and they’ll run for the comfort of their video games, leaving you free to head off for a couple of well earned libations.
Remember, Manhattan is only one fifth of New York City. Check out the other four boroughs and find out what really makes this city tick. Catch the Ikea Ferry to Red Hook and make a beeline for Rocky Sullivan’s. You’ll meet the real Brooklyn there - not the recently arrived Willyburg poseurs. Ask for George - tell him I sent you.
Hop the A train to the Republic of Rockaway. The peninsula is fighting its way back, as it always does, and you can’t beat that Queens ocean breeze.
Take the B, D or 4 trains to Bedford Park and stroll down the Boulevard to the Bronx Botanical Gardens; it’s a wonderland only awaiting discovery.
And whatever you do, board the Staten Island Ferry. You’ll see the greatest city in the world as your forefathers first did – from the harbor – and guess what, it’s free.
One last piece of advice, always look like you know where you’re going, even when you don’t; that’s one sure way of staying safe – and keeping the sidewalks open for the rest of us.
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
Gerry Diver's Speech Project
Writing about music is like bottling the wind – difficult at the best of times. Then you hear something like Gerry Diver’s Speech Project and it opens not just your ears, but your eyes too, and other senses that you’d forgotten about.
At first I thought I’d received some kind of dud CD for on the opening track the voice appeared to repeat as on an old scratched record. Soon thereafter a fiddle entered tentatively, like a blind man homing in on the source of the voice and eventually caressing it; and with that the recording had my full attention.
This was obviously no high tech pop song where banality is frozen in place and stitched together perfectly to appeal to the broadest demographic. No, this was real music, more than a little unhinged, but touching me much as it did in childhood.
Gerry Diver’s conceit is to record a human voice while in conversation, find its key, isolate and loop a phrase or two, then add complementary lines of music.
It seems so obvious and yet I can’t recall any precedent; still, there’s no mistaking the album’s ultimate effect for I began to listen to the voices around me in a new way - not just for content but for inherent melody.
Gerry has chosen a number of familiar voices: Christy Moore, Shane McGowan, Damien Dempsey to name a few; they speak quietly but with conviction about matters of importance to them – emigration, the spirit of music, memory. An accomplished multi-instrumentalist, Manchester born but Irish bred Divers clothes these shards of speech with evocative melodies and rhythms that deepen the very nature of the words spoken.
My own favorite piece features Margaret Barry, a traveling street singer who performed at fairs and outside GAA grounds on big match days.
I’d long been fascinated by her, yet I only saw her once. My grandfather had taken me to see Wexford hurl against mighty Kilkenny in the town of Enniscorthy.
Some of you will recall the excitement of match days as diverse streams of people coalesced into a torrent heading for the park while all around hucksters hawked hats and rosettes emblazoned with the colors of the teams; suddenly we were halted by a big crowd, hushed and silent as they craned their necks to catch the clatter of a solitary banjo.
My grandfather reached down, placed me astride his shoulders and murmured almost reverentially, “That’ll be Maggie Barry.”
She stood within a semi-circle of people, her back to the wall of the park, and began to sing as if to herself. Yet her voice and banjo cut through the murmuring silence. She looked vaguely forbidding – a tooth or two missing – but there was an inherent kindness and wisdom about her.
I don’t even recall the song, but it spoke of a different time, one that was already fast disappearing, the old Ireland of glens and boreens that the English had barely touched. The song and its treatment were already old-fashioned, unscathed by the popular music of the day, and yet I can still recall its effect on me.
As if by magic Maggie’s voice again leaked out from Gerry’s CD, though this time it was relating the story of her mother’s passing rather than singing of a fading way of life. Still Gerry had captured her essence - not just her spirit but the times that inspired it. Some of the music he spun around that oddly comforting voice was as old as the hills, more of it was closer to the repeated rhythms and rippling arpeggios of a Philip Glass opera, yet it all meshed seamlessly.
You may need to search the CD for a particular voice that speaks to you, but I’m sure it’s there cloaked in its own exquisitively tailored music. That’s what makes Gerry Diver’s Speech Project an album for the ages. Be sure to pick up a copy, it will restore your faith in music; chances are you’ll remember something about yourself that you’ve either forgotten or misplaced, and you’ll be the better for its return.
At first I thought I’d received some kind of dud CD for on the opening track the voice appeared to repeat as on an old scratched record. Soon thereafter a fiddle entered tentatively, like a blind man homing in on the source of the voice and eventually caressing it; and with that the recording had my full attention.
This was obviously no high tech pop song where banality is frozen in place and stitched together perfectly to appeal to the broadest demographic. No, this was real music, more than a little unhinged, but touching me much as it did in childhood.
Gerry Diver’s conceit is to record a human voice while in conversation, find its key, isolate and loop a phrase or two, then add complementary lines of music.
It seems so obvious and yet I can’t recall any precedent; still, there’s no mistaking the album’s ultimate effect for I began to listen to the voices around me in a new way - not just for content but for inherent melody.
Gerry has chosen a number of familiar voices: Christy Moore, Shane McGowan, Damien Dempsey to name a few; they speak quietly but with conviction about matters of importance to them – emigration, the spirit of music, memory. An accomplished multi-instrumentalist, Manchester born but Irish bred Divers clothes these shards of speech with evocative melodies and rhythms that deepen the very nature of the words spoken.
My own favorite piece features Margaret Barry, a traveling street singer who performed at fairs and outside GAA grounds on big match days.
I’d long been fascinated by her, yet I only saw her once. My grandfather had taken me to see Wexford hurl against mighty Kilkenny in the town of Enniscorthy.
Some of you will recall the excitement of match days as diverse streams of people coalesced into a torrent heading for the park while all around hucksters hawked hats and rosettes emblazoned with the colors of the teams; suddenly we were halted by a big crowd, hushed and silent as they craned their necks to catch the clatter of a solitary banjo.
My grandfather reached down, placed me astride his shoulders and murmured almost reverentially, “That’ll be Maggie Barry.”
She stood within a semi-circle of people, her back to the wall of the park, and began to sing as if to herself. Yet her voice and banjo cut through the murmuring silence. She looked vaguely forbidding – a tooth or two missing – but there was an inherent kindness and wisdom about her.
I don’t even recall the song, but it spoke of a different time, one that was already fast disappearing, the old Ireland of glens and boreens that the English had barely touched. The song and its treatment were already old-fashioned, unscathed by the popular music of the day, and yet I can still recall its effect on me.
As if by magic Maggie’s voice again leaked out from Gerry’s CD, though this time it was relating the story of her mother’s passing rather than singing of a fading way of life. Still Gerry had captured her essence - not just her spirit but the times that inspired it. Some of the music he spun around that oddly comforting voice was as old as the hills, more of it was closer to the repeated rhythms and rippling arpeggios of a Philip Glass opera, yet it all meshed seamlessly.
You may need to search the CD for a particular voice that speaks to you, but I’m sure it’s there cloaked in its own exquisitively tailored music. That’s what makes Gerry Diver’s Speech Project an album for the ages. Be sure to pick up a copy, it will restore your faith in music; chances are you’ll remember something about yourself that you’ve either forgotten or misplaced, and you’ll be the better for its return.
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