Let's Go Mets!!!

 How about those Mets!

I know I shouldn’t rave about the boys from Queens so early in the season for fear I’ll send them crashing down from their perch atop the NL East.

And I’m aware that New York is considered a Yankees town – but have you noticed that when the Mets are winning, our city comes alive.

I have a radical friend who claims it’s all part of the class system, that the Yanks are the corporate team, while the Mets are more working and lower middle-class.

He stresses that when the Bronx Bombers are losing by more than 2 runs in the middle of the 7^thinning many of their more well-heeled admirers not only stretch, they also exit the stadium; whereas, no self-respecting Mets fan would dream of boarding the 7 train without getting their full 9 innings money’s worth.

How did I become such a Mets loyalist?

Like many things it came to pass in a saloon - Tomorrow’s Lounge on 86^thStreet in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to be precise.

Our crew of immigrants, music heads, and general ne’er-do-wells hung out in this den of iniquity.

Bay Ridge was Mets country and whenever the team was playing, the muted television was turned to Channel 9. This was back in the early 1970’s when Cable - not to mention Roku or Apple TV - was still a techie pipedream.

‘Twas in the cool alcoholic shadows of Tomorrows I slowly parsed baseball’s arcane rules, and came to the conclusion that America’s pastime was simpler than cricket, but way more convoluted than rounders.

I barely remember our first pub outing to Shea Stadium, except that we were way up high (in more ways than one) in the nosebleeds, and a disgruntled neighbor remarked that he’d never seen so much beer consumed by so few.

Did the Mets win that game? I can’t even remember whom they were playing, so I guess winning – or remembering - is not of paramount importance to Mets partisans.

I do vividly remember the Mets glory years of the 1980’s when we ruled New York, led by such stalwarts as Keith Hernandez, Rusty Staub, Daryl Strawberry and Doc Gooden.

Part of this triumph was bittersweet, however, as my first cousin Charlie Kerfeld pitched relief for the Astros at the time and, blood being thicker than Budweiser, I was emotionally torn whenever the two teams clashed.

Imagine my elation when that remarkable Cavan impresario, Steve Duggan, succeeded in booking Black 47 for Irish Night at Shea, not once but four times. There we were out on second base playing in the same position as The Beatles themselves to a delirious multitude of the Mets faithful.

To this day I proudly cite that Black 47 played Shea Stadium more times than the lads from Liverpool.

I regret to say that neither of my two sons followed in my footsteps, but in fairness both were part of the Jeter Generation when even many in Amazin’ Bay Ridge turned their backs on Los Mets.

Such sporting loyalties spring from deep within the psyche. Thus, in my novel, Rockaway Blue, diehard Yankee loyalist Jimmy Murphy is still finding it hard to figure out why his son Brian became a Mets fan.

And yet, in an odd way, this puzzling “betrayal” gives him some small relief when dealing with the loss of Brian during 9/11.

I have to say my Yankee friends have been very understanding about my Mets obsession; nowadays, they merely sigh and shake their heads, though more in sorrow than anger.

One, however, continues to be politely condescending. But he stepped way beyond the pale recently when he suggested that the pep in the step of New Yorkers of late is due to the ending of the pandemic, not “the Mets winning a few games against the dregs of the National League.”

Enough of such patronizing pessimism! I’m willing to state now that come hell or high water this October I will not be mouthing my usual, “Wait until next year” mantra.

I wish you all a very happy summer, and I’ll see you at the World Series in Citi Field when autumn leaves are falling.

Turner & Kirwan of Wexford at The Boardy Barn

 So, The Boardy Barn in Hampton Bays, Long Island is no more. I can hear silent tears dripping into pint mugs all over BBQ.

You don’t know what BBQ is – well, then you probably wouldn’t have felt very comfortable in the raucous atmosphere of the Barn.

It stands for Brooklyn, The Bronx, and Queens, and was a pejorative term used for those who invaded Hampton Bays from the boroughs on summer weekends.

Because we were well known in most of the Irish neighborhoods of New York, Turner & Kirwan of Wexford felt right at home in the Boardy Barn.

We played happy hours there every summer weekend in the late 1970’s, where up to a thousand roiling, sweaty people would dance and carouse after making their way up to Montauk Highway from the pristine beaches of Hampton Bays.

On a good day up to 100 kegs of beer would be drained, and that’s not even counting cans and shots.

It was like going into battle. The only way to survive was to get the crowd on your side, and then hold them there for the remainder of the four-hour gig.

We were not your usual Irish Folk duo. Pierce Turner played a moog synthesizer on top of an electric clavinet and battered a high-hat with his left foot.

I assaulted a kick drum and an electric-acoustic Ovation boosted by a battery of effects. Between us we sounded not unlike a psychedelic A train roaring through a local stop.

We learned early that every song had better segue directly into the next, for any silence could lose you the crowd’s fickle attention.

The bartenders approved of this strategy – continuous noise equaled continuous drinking, with no time wasted on niceties.

To that end, before every set they topped off a pint glass of Southern Comfort for each of us. We had discovered that this sweet but fiery liquid was Janis Joplin’s favorite poison, and what was good enough for the Texan Blues belter was just the ticket for two culchies from Wexford.

The crowd was usually happily wasted, but one afternoon a guy seeking to impress his date grabbed one of our pint glasses assuming it was full of beer and tossed it back.

His eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees, and his date screamed as her paramour’s forehead hit the concrete floor.

We were playing Lola by The Kinks at the time. With a capacity clientele screaming the chorus no one even blinked.

I don’t ever remember a fight in the Barn. The security guys preferred gentle persuasion to the sadistic maneuvers favored in other establishments.

But the truth is owners dictate the mood and carryon in every gin mill; and Mickey Shields and Tony Galgano were princes in their field. Even at its most rip-roaring, the Boardy Barn always seemed friendly and well managed.

Tony, in particular, encouraged Turner & Kirwan to go over the top. All these years later, I can still picture him smiling broadly as we got the whole joint snarling the chorus of Bob Dylan’s elemental kiss-off, Like a Rolling Stone.

When I complimented him later on his acceptance of high-spirited behavior, he merely smiled and explained that he and Mickey were in the business of selling booze not cotton candy.

I guess Mickey, a large sized character himself, knew the place wouldn’t be the same without Tony who passed away in November.

A hurricane had been forecast for our last Boardy Barn gig, yet all appeared calm enough as the evening wore on. Suddenly, a blast of wind hit the huge marquee tent and the support poles shuddered violently.

Security took over, and though well oiled, the crowd departed in a disciplined manner.

In the spills of driving rain Tony helped us carry our equipment to the van and told us to make for Manhattan, but if the storm worsened to check into the nearest motel and charge the room to him.

We made it home safely, Tony, and it’s my loss that I never saw you again to thank you for your consideration.

I’m sure many readers will raise a glass to you for giving us all so many priceless happy hours back in the Boardy Barn of our youth.

Is Dundalk the new Liverpool?

All right! Hands up – who has been to Dundalk in the Wee County Louth?

Not many, I’d suggest? I’ve only been there once and that was for a much needed whiskey cure at Mark’s Bar, after a hair-raising encounter with the British Army just across the border.

I have, however, known many people from Dundalk, and an independent, spirited bunch they are.

The question is – could Dundalk be the next Liverpool?

What are you laughing at? Wasn’t Liverpool a disdained backwater with a woeful accent before The Beatles turned the world on its ear?

Talk about accents! I don’t even know how to do justice to the Dundalk “shpake.”

Best take a listen to Jinx Lennon – a musician as original and flinty as John Winston Lennon himself.

I came upon Jinx by accident. I’m always looking for good songs for Celtic Crush, my SiriusXM show, and was advised to listen to Dundalk’s Mary Wallopers.

This quaintly named band is the real deal – and in an interview with The Irish Times, no less, they mentioned that Jinx is both an influence and inspiration.

So, I went to the fountainhead and there on Jinx’s iTunes page I found “Proud to be a Nobody from County Louth.”

Just repeat that title a couple of times – are you catching all the internal rhymes? Willie Yeats, move over – it’s time for the mighty Jinx Lennon!

Now I know Tommy Smyth, broadcaster and County Louth nationalist, would rate Jinx’s song title as oxymoronic, since there’s no such thing as a nobody in the wee county.

But the song itself is touching, defiant, original, and totally unforgettable. Not to mention it has already swamped the few brain cells I have left, and won’t depart until I banish it with a hefty dose of Daniel O’Donnell.

And get a load of the saxophone work on this sparse recording – obviously played by a musician steeped in the backstreet Blues and Soul of downtown Dundalk.

Now, Mr. Lennon’s language on other songs of his oeuvre may leave something to be desired, but don’t let that turn you off.

For when you listen to the bould Jinx, you’re not only hearing an authentic local Irish accent, you’re also clueing into the shrouded psyche of modern Ireland.

This is not your imitation Dublin 4 intonation that has steamrolled the life out of Ireland’s unique linguistics; no it’s an in-your-face culchie sensibility that would blowtorch the paint off the sacred walls of the Shelbourne Hotel.

Not that Jinx would ever be invited into such an establishment. They wouldn’t allow the like of this fellow into Stephen’s Green for fear the very flowers might droop in horror.

In other words this border schizo is like a welcome, but bracing, blast of fresh air.

But on to the Mary Wallopers! Not only are they the most interesting ballad group since The Dubliners, the brothers Charles and Andrew Hendy are also the driving force behind the Culchie Rap group, TPM (Tax Payer’s Money)

.

That’s the genius of these siblings. They allow one to see that the only real difference between Ballads and Rap is sensibility.

Dundalk and The South Bronx may be distant geographically, but the issues of 19^thCentury ballads and 21^st Century rap are much the same - poverty, dispossession, and a desire to speak out about such things in your own accent and delivery. 

The brothers Hendy and their musical associate Seán McKenna have chosen to live in Dundalk rather than try their luck in far flung London or Manchester.

Why go anywhere else when you’ve got the Internet? After all, that’s how I found them, and now through SiriusXM they’re available all across the US and Canada.

Try their version of Hamish Imlach’s “Codliver Oil and Orange Juice.”

And for a short, if corrosive, blast of Culchie Rap listen to TPM’s paean to “The Boys on the Dole,” but far from the earshot of your up-market granny or know-it-all nephew.

This is the modern Ireland you won’t hear on RTE. It’s hilarious, outrageous, ribald, and in your face, but familiar to those of us raised in country pubs and discos.

And now for the first time it has spokesmen who don’t give a fiddler’s about sounding cool.

Long live Jinx and The Wallopers, and three cheers for Dundalk – the new Liverpool! 

Mother Jones - Working Class Hero

 She was known as “the most dangerous woman in the world,” and reveled in the title. The poor and the dispossessed adored her - the rich and the powerful were less impressed.

You can tell why with statements such as: “Some day we will have the courage to rise up and strike back at these great 'giants' of industry, and we will see that they weren't 'giant' after all—they only seemed so because we were on our knees and they towered above us.”

She was known as Mother Jones but was baptized Mary G. Harris on August 1^st, 1837 on the north side of Cork City.

No one knows exactly when she was born and she was loath to tell.

Her parents were tenant farmers who left for Canada during the Great Hunger. She experienced the usual discrimination and sectarianism meted out to Irish Catholic immigrants. But she did receive a good education that would stand to her throughout her long life.

She became a schoolteacher, moved to Michigan but chafed under convent rules, and lit out first for Chicago and then Memphis where she met her husband George Jones, a molder by trade and militant union man.

They had four children and we’d probably never have heard of Mary Jones if Yellow Fever hadn’t taken the lives of her husband and children.

Alone and devastated, she moved back to Chicago. It’s hard to know how she carried on, but not unreasonable to speculate that her loss led to a fierce desire for privacy.

She rarely mentioned the loss of her family, or spoke of her parents, brothers and sisters. It was as if she wished for a clean slate – but at what cost?

She opened a dress shop and with her singular drive and ambition gained a wealthy clientele. But she never forgot her husband’s trade union principles.

She began to attend union meetings and listened to the great radical orators of the day. Then tragedy struck again – she lost her home and business in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.

She devoted herself to the task of rebuilding Chicago, and couldn’t help but notice that through boom and bust the rich did well, while workers of all creeds and colors failed to prosper.

“I belong to a class that has been robbed, plundered, murdered, maligned, vilified, jailed, persecuted all down the ages. The earth was not made for a few, but for all God’s people.”

A class warrior had been born, and over the years her reputation grew for she shirked no fight. She is often associated with the United Mine Workers, particularly in “medieval West Virginia,” where she organized, and confronted the brutal security forces of the mine owners.

Like contemporaries Joe Hill and the Rebel Girl, Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, she believed in the concept of the OBU – One Big Union for all workers.

The fame of this demure, but fierce, widow with the white hair and outdated black dresses spread, and she began to exaggerate her age to further her legend.

An individualist, she made many enemies for she had little regard for pompous politicians, priests, suffragettes, and socialists, unless they stooped to help the struggling lower classes.

She organized a children’s crusade that marched from Philadelphia to Oyster Bay Long Island to confront President Theodore Roosevelt.

The children’s banners demanded that they be sent to school rather than the mills and coalmines where so many of them put in full working weeks.

Though she kept up a frenetic pace her health deteriorated and at the age of 75 while serving a prison sentence she suffered a severe bout of pneumonia.

Nonetheless, she never stopped fighting for workers’ rights and celebrated her 100^thbirthday in 1930 some months before her death, although she was probably 93. 

She may have played a little loose with facts in the course of her dynamic life, but there’s no denying that she shone a big light on the atrocious conditions immigrants, African-Americans, and children worked under.

The young woman from Cork changed many lives for the better. A riveting orator, her rallying cry was, “Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living.”

I wonder what she’d think of our Amazon/Starbucks, union-free universe?

WEXFORD - A QUARE AULD PLACE

 It was a strange town but everywhere in Ireland was a bit strange in those days.  I’m talking about the 60’s and 70’s when I knew Wexford best.

Then again, I had a bit of an odd upbringing. My parents lived in one part of town and I lived in another with my grandfather.

Common enough in those days – for if a grandfather lost his spouse, the eldest grandson went to live with him for “company.” Hence, I grew up in a big barracks of a house almost in the shadow of medieval Selskar Abbey.

One cannot imagine such a thing happening nowadays when children are supervised so closely, whereas we roamed the narrow streets of Wexford and the surrounding countryside as free as the wind – and the rain.

I still have a fondness for rain. There was no shortage of it in my childhood, though Wexford in the “Sunny Southeast” was dry as the Sahara compared to the rest of the country where Noah in his ark was rumored to be regularly seen floating by.

Wexford was nothing if not historical. It was often trumpeted in the pubs that way back in the 2^ndCentury Ptolemy had reported our burgh’s existence under the name Menapia. 

The Vikings didn’t give a fiddler’s and, on their arrival, hastily changed the name to Weissfjord; ‘twas they bequeathed many of us with red hair and freckles, or so the story goes.

The Normans arrived without invitation in 1169 and never left. They built Selkskar Abbey a year later.

Soon thereafter King Henry II came to do penance in the Abbey for suggesting to some ne’er-do-well nobles that they permanently shut the mouth of St. Thomas a’Becket.

Wexfordians took their religion seriously; in my day we had three large Catholic houses of worship, two Churches of Ireland, a Presbyterian kirk, a Methodist hall, a Quaker meeting house, and all manner of other spiritual establishments including Jehovah’s Witnesses, one of whom got soundly thrashed by a Catholic priest for infringing upon the good father’s franchise.

I myself was a saintly Franciscan altar boy until I stumbled upon the teachings of Marx and Lennon - Groucho and John.

Wexford had declared itself a Free French Republic in 1798 and had little time for Dublin, unless the county hurling team made it to the All Ireland final, which was rare enough.

The rest of the country tearfully emigrated. We, unsentimental Free French Republicans, accepted the reality that Ireland was a failed state and could not support its people

Although many people voted Fianna Fáil, Mr de Valera was not popular. People switched to the BBC when he spoke on Radio Eireann; and when television was introduced they preferred Mister Ed, and headed for the pub when Dev made an appearance.

Everyone had relatives in England. Aidan Ffrench, lead singer of the local Visitors Showband was a cousin of Liverpool’s George Harrison, though he preferred the sweet tones of Hoboken’s Frank Sinatra.

Music pulsed through the streets of Wexford. My father, a merchant seaman, played his Tango 78’s, my grandfather loved Gilbert & Sullivan, while a couple of doors down from us, Dr. Tom Walsh made a fair fist of Verdi’s arias and founded the Wexford Opera Festival.

Delinquent Teddyboys chanted Buddy Holly’s Rockabilly while fierce skinheads toasted Prince Buster’s Ska, either of these communities would rearrange your features for merely gazing at them.

Still it was a very pleasant place to call home. You just had to be diplomatic, keep your eyes peeled, and think before you spoke for dentists were expensive.

Local traveler Pecker Dunne played his banjo and sang on the Main Street every Saturday afternoon. He looked like a pirate and never acknowledged the pittance I tossed in his hat.

My grandfather and I walked along the quayside most summer evenings when the fishing boats docked. His hand would shoot up like a piston to raise his hat for every lady of his acquaintance.

I often caught him studying me as I gazed out at the Irish Sea. No doubt, he recognized I’d been born with Wexford wanderlust and would eventually leave.

He was right; still I sometimes think of the life I might have lived if I’d stayed home and never roamed far from the banks of the Slaney.

PUNK IS BACK - SHAKE A LEG!

 “All I got is three chords and the truth,” Bono famously sang.

The rest of us settled for the bare three chords. The truth was a bit cumbersome to lug around to gigs“ especially at the “lig after the gig” – the post-show party.

Although there were rumblings ahead of its release in 1976, Anarchy in the UK by The Sex Pistols was the first call to arms of Punk Rock.

I can still recall Johnny Lydon’s sneering voice as it blasted from the vaunted Bells of Hell jukebox. Peter Myers, owner of this West Village saloon had just arrived back from London with the single.

Rock music had become tedious. The Pistols put the Roll back in it. Of course, Punk Rock had originated over here in CBGB on the Bowery, but there was a militant strain to the Pistols single that spoke of disgust with high unemployment, a stultifying class system, and the general malaise of the UK in the 1970’s.

Damn near anyone could play three chords on an overdriven electric guitar; stick a drummer and bass player in the mix, along with some psycho yelling a few provocative phrases, and you had your own Punk band.

You didn’t have to go to music school or practice for years to sound like Pink Floyd or Genesis. You just got up onstage, turned up to eleven, and let her rip.

John Peel, the champion of new music on BBC Radio, heard the call and dumped his Gentle Giant meanderings and twee folk confessions.

Liberation was in the air, the Punk craze spread like wildfire and some of the sparks lit up the polarized streets of Belfast.

To say that Belfast was at a bleak moment would be an understatement. There was a war going on between militant nationalists, unionists, and the British Army.

But Punk made perfect sense to both Protestant and Catholic youth, and bands sprung up overnight behind barricades and spat out more truth than even Bono could swallow.

With Belfast literally booming, bar business was at a low. You had to be a serious drinker to risk life and limb for your pint, with pubs considered legitimate paramilitary targets.

Patsy Lennon of the Harp Bar on Hill Street saw an opportunity and booked local punk outfits. And for the first time since the late 60’s Protestant and Catholic youth began to mingle.

Four bands stood out: Rudi, Stiff Little Fingers, The Outcasts, and The Undertones from faraway Derry.

I play all four of them on Celtic Crush, my weekly show on SiriusXM and their music still stands up. I’ve only experienced SLF and The Undertones live and they were phenomenal, full of you-know-what and vinegar.

Terri Hooley opened Good Vibrations, a record store on Great Victoria Street, “the most bombed half-mile in Europe.” Talk about irony!

Between The Harp and the Vibe, Belfast punks now had two non-sectarian centers to glower at each other.

Terri, a visionary, saw no reason why he shouldn’t record local bands, and soon singles were surfacing and being reviewed in NME and Melody Maker. 

John Peel was so floored on hearing The Undertones he played Teenage Kicks twice in a row on his legendary BBC show. Don’t listen to this song if you don’t want to feel seventeen again!

For that matter, beware of Alternative Ulster by Stiff Little Fingers, and don’t you dare spin Big Time by Rudi.  Margaret Thatcher might come pogoing into your bedroom.

Rockers to the end, both The Undertones and SLF will be hitting the road again this summer – 45 years after they first discovered feedback. It’s only a matter of time before they hit New York.

I’ll be there in my ripped leather jacket and skinny black jeans. I might even dust off my green suede shoes and dip my head in a bucket of Brylcreem.

Punk is back – for many it never went away. In our remote digital world everyone needs three snarling, barbed-wire chords in their life – Bono can keep the truth!

Teenage kicks will erupt again in the midst of Alternative Ulster on the banks of the Hudson. I’ll keep you posted of the dates.

The only thing we’ll be missing is the British Army. But there’ll be few tears shed for them!

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.