Backstage at Paradise Square

About 20 minutes into the musical Paradise Square, a piece of unscripted magic occurs on the dance floor of a bar in New York City’s Five Points. 

The stage is throbbing to the steps of Irish immigrants and African-Americans when the characters played by Garret Coleman of Hammerstep and the vivacious Chloe Davis come face to face.

They smile in recognition of each other’s talent and allure, before launching into a riveting dance-off.

Without a word being uttered we understand how amalgamation between Irish and African-Americans became such a factor in mid-19^thCentury New York until it was swept away by the fury of the 1863 Draft Riots.

Another non-verbal revelation occurs when the two communities are being torn apart by the first Federal Army Draft that targeted immigrants but purposely ignored African-Americans.

At the height of an argument word arrives that a popular Irishman has lost his life while serving in Virginia with the Fighting 69^thRegiment.

A silence descends on the bar, broken only by the sobs of the deceased’s African-American wife. Her people are grieved by the news, but an ineffable pain spreads across the faces of the Irish.

Every immigrant will recognize it – the sorrow you feel when you realize a friend will never see Ireland again, and will be laid to rest far from home.

Paradise Square embraces such unscripted moments, and this is a look at some of them from the intimacy of backstage.

I give much of the credit to an amazing cast, many of whom have put years of detailed work into building their characters.

Paradise Square began back in 2012 as Hard Times at the Cell theatre on 23^rdStreet, and morphed into a large scale musical at workshops in Toronto, and productions in Berkeley and Chicago. This New York story has finally arrived home and can be seen in preview at The Barrymore on 47^thStreet before opening on April 3^rd.

In the course of its odyssey many people gave so much to this project. And yet, the spine of the piece remains the same: that two brutalized peoples, Black and Irish, met in a downtown slum, and for a brief moment created a new idea of what America could be.

Little was written about them, for history has little interest in the poor; suffice it to say these interracial couples and their children were despised and given the name amalgamationists by the uptown establishment.

Even a social reformer like Charles Dickens was horrified - though he marveled at the steps and music they created in their raucous dancehalls, where American Tap Dancing emerged from the fiery competitions between African Juba and Irish step champions.

These are not the streets of the sepia-toned American dream beloved of Hollywood and television; both Black and Irish have trouble negotiating the ladder to acceptance in a racist and sectarian land.

Two women drive the action. African-American Nelly O’Brien manages her saloon and awaits the return of her Irish husband from war; while her sister-in-law Annie covertly aids Rev. Samuel Lewis, her Black husband, in transporting escaped slaves to freedom in Canada.

Actors Joaquino Kalukango and Chilina Kennedy bring our heroines to life. Both are descended from immigrants, Angolan and Irish. They light up the stage with their talent, imagination, and humanity. And, oh, what voices!

Paradise Square opens a window to a brutal American past where slavery was a fact of life, and Irish immigrants were despised for their religion and their refusal to fit into a sectarian society.

These circumstances could have turned Nelly O’Brien and her feisty sister-in-law against each other, but the bonds of family hold them together.

In their unscripted moments this cast is often at their best, just like the Irish and African-Americans must have been when confronting bigotry and discrimination in the Points.

The Draft Riots utterly changed their neighborhood, the inter-racial dancehalls closed, and “everyone went back to their own.” Yet, 160 years later we now have a Black mayor running our city and an Irish-American governor presiding over our state.

Our two communities have so much in common – music, dance, partying, a thirst for justice, and a love of family. Perhaps, the cast of Paradise Square can show us a way back together - in our own unscripted moments.

Come for the Craic - New York is back!

 Do you feel like the sun has begun to shine again – that after a long winter the dawns now arrive earlier and seem more hopeful?

What a change in a matter of weeks! Was it only January that Omicron swept through these streets and sent people scurrying back home after an optimistic Advent?

But we soon found that this variant’s bark was worse than its bite, and after some days of discomfort most people recovered fairly quickly. There were exceptions: we lost a popular and accomplished musician, Brian O’Neill, a Tyrone boy who will never be forgotten on these shores.

But the infection figures are now at a very manageable level, and New York City is open for business again.

Hey, why not come see us – St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner and you know what a blast that can be. The Parade will be back in full force – the streets will be ours again.

You couldn’t pick a better time. Hotels have plenty of vacancies and there are deals to be had.

If Broadway is your thing, why wait? Even tickets for Hamilton can be had, not to mention that your daughter will be in your coolness debt forever for taking her to Wicked on the Great White Way.

A host of new shows are opening including Paradise Square, one that I conceived and co-wrote. And let me fill you in on a secret: preview shows on Broadway are rarely any different than post-opening shows – except for the reduced prices. In fact, they often sizzle with excitement because of the thrill of the new.

And on no account forget that in New York City we have two Irish themed Off-Broadway theatres that are among the best in the world.

Recently, I saw Boucicault’s Streets of New York turned into a vibrant musical by director, Charlotte Moore, while Ciarán O’Reilly, one of the pre-eminent interpreters of Eugene O’Neill, is now stewarding A Touch of the Poet at the Irish Repertory Theatre.

And get thee to the new Irish Arts Center building in Hells Kitchen where Martin Flynn, and Paul Muldoon recently played, and Good Vibrations: A Punk Rock Musical from Belfast will soon shake the rafters.

Congratulations to Aidan Connolly, Pauline Turley, Rachael Gilkey, and the welcoming staff on the opening of this state of the art cultural facility.

It’s good to see yellow taxis again, but I like to walk these streets. That’s where you catch the pulse of the city. And don’t let the doomsayers scare you off the subways – that’s how New Yorkers get around.

One mode of transport that’s often forgotten is the ferry services. Take a walk down the West Side and, near the Irish Famine Memorial, you can hop on a boat that will take you across the Hudson to Jersey City or Hoboken.

Or stroll further down river to The Battery and catch the Staten Island Ferry – won’t cost you a dime and you can get up-close views of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.

When you land at St. George Terminal take a taxi or Shanks’ Mare to Snug Harbor Cultural Center & Botanical Garden. Drop by the Noble Maritime Collection and say hello to my friend, Dawn Daniels, who’ll fill you in on the history of this remarkable New York treasure.

It’s hard to beat the ferry to Rockaway Beach from Wall Street. Yeah, you’ve heard the song by The Ramones, but there’s nothing quite like seeing Bay Ridge, the Verrazano Bridge and Coney Island from the water before you arrive in the Republic of Rockaway.

You might not need a passport but you definitely enter a different dimension when you hit the Irish Riviera.

To top it all, Rockaway has become cool with surfers and hipsters in the last 20 years. You might even run into resident poet-rocker Patti Smith as she goes about her business.

Do drop by Rogers Pub on Beach 116^thStreet, meet the old guard and say hello to my brother, Jimmy Kirwan, who holds court there on Tuesday afternoons.

There’s so much else to see in our city. Come back to us. We’re open for business again, and as Frankie says, “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.”

Neil Young V Joe Rogan

 Neil Young had the biggest head of any musician I’d ever met. I’m talking literally, of course, not figuratively.

He came to see Black 47 in Paddy Reilly’s back in the early 90’s. During a break we sat together, but every time I glanced around to check out the size of the crowd, Neil’s head blocked my view.

We shared the same manager, the legendary Elliot Roberts. Elliot could talk the hind-legs off Delaney’s donkey but Neil drank his beer in relative silence.

Oddly enough I still remember the two morsels of information he shared with me that night.

In between deep slugs of Steve Duggan’s best-poured pint of Guinness, Neil casually mentioned that his father, a Canadian sportswriter had retired to Howth in Co. Dublin.

When I inquired what guitar effects he used to get such an array of sounds, he was quite adamant that he employed none. He must have caught the look of disbelief on my face for he added, “Turn the guitar up loud enough and you’ll get any sound you want.”

After that piece of sonic wisdom we returned to studying the creamy bubbles of Guinness settle at the bottom of our glasses.

I mention this to iterate that Neil Young is a man of few, but consequential, words.

Now I don’t follow pop culture so I don’t know Joe Rogan from a hole in the wall. But I know his type – having been interviewed at hundreds of radio stations across these vast United States.

Joe is descended from the shock jocks of the last 50 years, most of whom were pretty harmless. If you didn’t like them, you just flipped the dial, and they faded off into the ether.

Mr. Rogan, however, has a huge national audience for his podcast; rumor has it the lucky man has received $100 million from Spotify for his services.

Good for you, Joe! At least someone is making money from Spotify. The vast majority of musicians make pennies from this all-powerful lease-a-song outfit.

Neil Young’s recent beef with Joe Rogan and Spotify is that both podcaster and platform are allowing false information to be spread about the efficacy of vaccines that are saving thousands of lives every day.

Well over 900,000 Americans have died from Covid-19 in the last two years and more than 2000 continue to die daily from this curse.

Mr. Rogan has the most popular podcast in the universe right now. You’d think in these trying times he’d use it to save lives? With Omicron infection declining by the day, we may soon have an opportunity to get back on our feet and prepare for what comes next. 

Vaccines and booster shots may not be our only saviors from any future variants, but for now they are undoubtedly the best options.

Which brings me back to Neil. Some months after our quiet interaction at Reilly’s, Black 47 played Farm Aid at his request, along with Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and a host of legends.

It was a very democratic concert at the Iowa State football stadium. Each act was allotted time enough for three songs.

As you might imagine Black 47 performed in the afternoon; it was night before Neil Young closed the show.

John Mellencamp was the penultimate act and he almost blew that packed stadium apart with his kinetic brand of hinterland rock. Standing amidst Elliot’s entourage at the side of the stage I wondered how Neil could top that.

He strolled on with just an acoustic guitar and stood before the microphone, before walking offstage again to where his young son, Ben, who suffered from cerebral palsy, sat in his wheelchair.

He took some seconds to establish eye contact with Ben. Then Neil ambled back onstage and sang After The Gold Rush, a lament about our heedless destruction of the environment.

The sheer artistry of the song and the depth of its message caused a powerful hush to descend on the multitude in that vast football stadium.

It was a major lesson in both music and life - volume is not important in getting your message across, but the truth most definitely is.

Think about it, Joe, ratings and vapid notoriety only count for so much. There are lives to be saved out there.

The Priest's Housekeeper and Me

 Once a person of consequence, the priest’s housekeeper appears to have slipped quietly into the past. She was mostly a rural Irish phenomenon, for in urban areas priests usually lived communally tended to by anonymous sacristans.

But in villages the priest’s housekeeper was a force to be reckoned with.

And why not - the canon, monsignor, parish priest or curate was the most important local authority and the housekeeper was his eyes and ears.

More often than not she was an outsider, and had either arrived with her reverend, or was hired from some other part of the county.

She might make friends locally and visit them, but the big house was like a magnet always drawing her back.

Though there was never a suggestion of any hanky-panky, there was an ineffable bond between them that often led to gossip.

The housekeeper’s power lay in her proximity to unquestioned power and in her ability to subtly let the community know which way the wind was blowing.

I had much opportunity to study these formidable ladies because my grandfather’s headstone business necessitated contact with every parish priest and curate in County Wexford.

Then when I was nearing my teenage years, Miss Kitty Codd arrived to keep house for us. Her employer of 30 years, Fr. Quigley, a parish priest of some renown, had passed away recently.

My grandfather informed me that clerical housekeepers tended to move from one priest to the next, but that Miss Codd had been so attached to the late Fr. Quigley she desired a change.

Though he realized she would come with certain baggage, he was of the opinion that she might bring some order to our big barracks of a house.  We had lost two housekeepers in quick succession because my Uncle Paddy “had put the run on them” for failing to iron his shirts to his precise specifications.

I might add that my grandfather and uncle had not spoken in many years, though they worked together in the headstone business and shared the same abode.

This was the household that Miss Codd became a part of – often silent but rarely peaceful.

To say she had no time for nonsense would be an understatement, and she immediately set about “putting some manners” on me. This gained her Paddy’s approval for he and I had been feuding since my arrival some years previously to keep my grandfather company.

Miss Codd must have been a dab hand at ironing for Paddy raised no complaints about singed shirt collars or other such sartorial travesties.

This truce, alas, did not last long. One morning Miss Codd delivered a bombshell. “Should I find another article of clothing on the floor I will donate it to the St. Vincent De Paul Society For The Poor.

Paddy looked up from his porridge and muttered, “You will in your…”

But Miss Codd silenced him with a steely glare and he never finished his uncouth sentence.

A sense of order descended upon our house of silent turmoil. We got used to her “clerical” ways and she for the most part tolerated our ingrained “street habits.”

She taught me a lot – a million songs, how to play cards, dance the Walls of Limerick, along with the proper way to treat young ladies once I began casting my eyes in that direction.

She was riddled with superstition and, after a cup of tea, full of chat. I waited in vain for her to shed some light on her life with Fr. Quigley, for I had a teenage notion that she had been secretly in love with him.

But the rare time his name arose she would quietly state that he had “the makings of a saint within him” and look off into the distance.

She informed me that I wasn’t responsible for my many sins, because living in a household where father and son did not speak was against both God and nature.

Both my grandfather and Miss Codd passed away in the visa challenged years I spent exclusively in the US.

I miss both of them and their quiet certitude. I even think fondly of Uncle Paddy who lived on alone in our big barracks of a house and every fortnight sent out his shirts by the sack full to be dry-cleaned.

Insurrection or a jolly old bunch of tourists?

What do you think of this whole DC Jan. 6^th affair? Was it an insurrection or just a bunch of feisty tourists dropping by the Peoples House to pass the time of day?

Whatever your opinion, these “tourists” descended upon Washington DC at the summons of Donald Trump, and eventually stormed the Capitol building to prevent the lawful election of Joseph Biden.

The fact that some of them urinated in public areas, terrorized representatives of both parties, and chanted death threats against Vice-President Pence is not the reason I’m writing this column; no, it’s that they attempted to pervert the will of the American people who had elected Joseph Biden over Donald Trump by 306-232 in electoral votes and by 81,283, 361 - 74,222, 960 in the popular vote.

There have been bitter elections and contested victories before, featuring such iconic stalwarts as Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, and Theodore Roosevelt  - and who can forget the “hanging chads” controversy in 2000 when a close Supreme Court decision led to the presidency of George W. Bush.

There were Democrats who refused to accept that result, but Vice-President Al Gore, in his wisdom, felt that such dissent on his part would do interminable damage to the United States, and so he conceded.

We ended up with the invasion of Iraq, perhaps the worst American foreign policy mistake but the country in general stayed united and moved on.

So what is Mr. Trump’s problem? Well, as New Yorkers, many of us have had ringside seats to his antics over the years. That’s why we gave him a lower percentage of votes in his hometown than practically any other elected president.

We know all about his ego and his belief in that wise old authoritarian adage, “If you say it often enough people will believe you.”

Though Mr. Trump bullied and cajoled election officials and governors in various states, most were both righteous and patriotic enough to stand up for the truth, and the integrity of the electoral system.

But even after the courts threw out the vast majority of Trump backed challenges, and Attorney-General William Barr declared that the Justice Department found no evidence of widespread voter fraud, President Trump still summoned his tourists to DC on January 6^th2021.

But then Mr. Trump often tends to favor “alternative facts” when reality doesn’t match his expectations.

What is stunning is that the party of Lincoln, Eisenhower, and Reagan has swallowed his Kool-Aid and meekly steps into line. Talk about hope and history rhyming.

It’s a long way to the midterms in November and even longer to 2024, many things will change. Given their age and the vicissitudes of public life, it’s unlikely that either President Biden or Mr. Trump will run again.

But Donald Trump will not go gentle into that good night. He will remain in control of the Republican Party and play kingmaker, forever parroting his false claim that he “wuz robbed.”

The question is – will we citizens allow his great lie to undermine a system of government that, despite faults, has acted as a beacon of light for much of the world.

I know we’re fatigued by a seemingly never-ending pandemic that has frayed our nerves and way of life.

Like many I’m appalled by the constant bickering of both major political parties and the abandon with which they gerrymander constituencies for their own advantage. Neither can I bear to watch the partisan rote sermonizing of MSNBC or Fox News, but elections are about ideas as much as people or parties.

 

Then I catch a glimpse of the hate-filled faces of those entitled tourists waving their Confederate flags while attacking the outnumbered Capitol police.

And I remember that President Trump sat on his hands and gleefully watched this travesty on television when he could have summoned help.

It’s at such moments I know that I have no choice but do my part to prevent these bullyboys, and their self-seeking political accomplices, from interfering with the democratic will of the American people.

History has shown the cost of sitting back and expecting others to shoulder our democratic responsibilities. Roll on mid-term November and 2024!

CBGB - the Irish connection

 They called it “the club that changed the world.” It perched on The Bowery, just above Houston Street, and went by the name CBGB.

It was an odd place – beginning with its name – the letters stood for Country, BlueGrass and Blues.

Practitioners of those musical disciplines rarely played the club unless they harbored suicidal tendencies.

Historians usually opine that either Patti Smith or Tom Verlaine of Television first graced CB’s stage; but I remember it differently, Turner & Kirwan of Wexford beat them by some months.

All these years later I still can’t describe our duo except to say we were loud, opinionated, and not for the faint-hearted. We also had a bawdy sense of humor little appreciated by various establishments – including the Irish Echo who printed our own graphic description of the group in an ad for The Bells of Hell.

This caused subscriptions to be cancelled but the Echo ruled that we were entitled to our own dubious opinion and besides, “a bit of controversy rarely went astray.” We were eventually banned from CBGB but that’s a whole other story.

How did we become the first band to play the storied club? That too came about through our association with The Bells.

You see CBGB originated on W. 13^thStreet, right opposite Malachy McCourt’s watering hole, then managed by Peter Myers, from Keswick who collaborated with us on the controversial Irish Echo ad. 

 

Turner & Kirwan of Wexford were house band at The Bells and as fate would have it, the original CBGB was not attracting much of an audience - Country, Bluegrass or Blues.

Turner & Kirwan, however, were packing the Bells with what the Sunday News described as “Irish Acid Rock.”

Hilly Kristal and his wife, Karen, used to close early and slouch disconsolately across the street to catch our “rowdy psychedelic” set which stretched into the late wee hours. 

  

Hilly eventually moved GBGB to another premises below a men’s shelter on The Bowery which he had been assured was on the brink of gentrification. I believe he bought a bridge to Brooklyn in the same transaction.

It wasn’t that Hilly tried to poach us from the Bells, more that he offered us a Monday night residency at his new club.

Truth be told though, we were doing roaring business around the city on Mondays with our “bartenders night out;” this idea came to us courtesy of Sir Charles Comer, Bob Marley’s PR maestro who also put out the word that we were attracting “hordes of wild women.”

But Hilly was a friend so we played a Grand Opening Monday night for him in his new club. The “wild women” never materialized but bartenders, defrocked Christian Brothers, all sorts of thirsty communists, and others from our Bells clientele lined up on the Bowery for admittance, when lo and behold, one of the residents of the men’s shelter above tossed a blunt dinner knife down into the parched queue.

No one was injured and the Grand Opening continued unabated, but the word spread about this incident and the following Monday night the only audience that showed was Hilly, his prize Egyptian dogs, a couple of hungover Bronx bartenders, and no sign of women, “wild” or otherwise.

This continued for a dispiriting month of Mondays until finally Turner and I informed Hilly that we were going home to Ireland, and that in our less than humble opinion his Country, Bluegrass, and Blues emporium on the Bowery would never take off.

Alas, the rest is history. In our absence Patti Smith discovered CB’s and by the time we returned the Ramones, Blondie, and every other manner of punk had created a sensational new scene, and not for the last time had Turner & Kirwan made a woeful career decision.

However, we were eventually invited back into the fold, and even banned which is more than I can say for any of goody-two-shoes punks that became famous.

But never let it be said that an Irish band was not the first to play at the fountain of Punkdom! 

Here’s to the memory of CBGB, Turner & Kirwan of Wexford, and to the late lamented godfather of Punk, Mr. Kristal.

Long may you promote in heaven, Hilly, we’ll never see your like again!

St. Stephen's Day in the Model County

 One of the glories of the extended Irish Christmas season of my youth was St. Stephen’s Day. The British called it Boxing Day, but that’s another story.

St. Stephen was the first Christian martyr and there was a vague echo of violence to the day around the “Model County” of Wexford.

Christmas Day itself was devoted to family, stuffing oneself, and generally lazing around in front of the fireplace.

On occasion in my teens I played a semi-legal and frowned upon Christmas Night dance in the Town Hall. These were promoted by Johnny Reck, a legendary Wexford character, and tended towards violence due to an excess of drink and lack of security.

After one particular tumultuous Yuletide evening Johnny washed his hands of such promotions declaring, “it’s not worth a visit to the dentist on Stephen’s Day!”

He was right on that score for it definitely would not have been seemly to arrive at the Co. Wexford Hunt on the morning of the 26^th with your jaw in a sling.

My family was split politically. My father’s people were “big Fine Gael farmers” while my mother’s were hard core Fianna Fail with deep roots in pre-Troubles Sinn Fein.

Suffice it to say this faction wouldn’t be caught dead at the West Brit sport of harassing decent Irish foxes.

Though connected to the horsey set, my father’s people were more likely to bet on the ponies than ride them. Still, my father religiously escorted us to the hunt taking care to be there well in time for the handing out of the  “stirrup cup.”

This was usually some form of hot whiskey, the smell of which wafted amidst the ordure of fresh horse manure outside some rural pub. With the hounds baying, the steeds whinnying, at the blare of a loud bugle, all would set forth in pursuit of the wily Wexford fox.

A gate to some big field would be thrown open and off the hounds would tear followed by the riders charging towards some huge ditch or hedgerow. There, the inexperienced met their Waterloo, ending up nose deep in Wexford muck, the unlucky ones being mortifyingly dragged by the stirrup.

We proletariat, on foot, would gallop past these fallen gentry, trying to conceal our laughter, and save energy for the long morning ahead of racing up and down hill, glade, and ploughed field. I never saw a fox being apprehended, much less killed, but it wasn’t for want of effort.

Eventually, we’d make it back to my Fine Gael grandfather’s for Stephen’s Day dinner at 1pm sharp.

A reserved and silent man, he did occasionally crack a smile at the tale of some horsey friend or neighbor who had come a cropper in a thorny ditch.

After one such dinner I had my only experience of mumming. The custom has long since died out around Co. Wexford and was probably in its final throes when I witnessed it.

I knew something was amiss when my Granny moaned, “Sweet Jesus protect us!” and blessed herself in unison. This was her all-purpose shield from misfortune that ranged from the death of a family member to the sighting of a lone magpie.

“The mummers have arrived,” said she to a reciprocal sigh from my grandfather.

And there they were bold as brass – four men in dresses, their faces slathered in everything from damp soot to their wives make up. One was brandishing a wooden sword, another waving a small birdcage that housed a wren, while their comrades danced a hybrid jig-tango, as they parodied a tale of St. George slaying the dragon.

At the end of the performance there was an unspoken, but vaguely threatening demand, for refreshments and payment, to which my Granny produced four large dusty bottles of Guinness while my grandfather meekly counted out an equal number of ten-shilling notes.

With the dragon safely slain, the mummers uncorked their large bottles, pocketed the legal tender and departed, while my Granny’s warm old kitchen descended once again into silence.

Meanwhile, up in the County Hospital, a mud-spattered Fine Gael horseman had a bone set, and at the dentist’s Johnny Reck spent some of the takings from his semi-legal Christmas Night dance, as another St. Stephen’s Day limped to a martyr’s close.