Normans Invasions - Wexford & Sicily

 The Christian Brothers in Wexford were not fans of the Normans. They regarded these conquerors who arrived from Wales in 1169 as some sub-species of the hated English, enough said!

I was less convinced, but then I grew up in the shadow of towering Selskar Abbey, a Norman edifice that stands to this day. King Henry II arrived there soon after the Norman invaders to do penance for the murder of Thomas a’Beckett in Westminster Cathedral.

It would appear, however, that he really came to keep an eye on the conquering Norman barons lest they set up a kingdom of their own.

The Normans seemed to have no trouble intermarrying with the Irish and their names are still popular locally. In fact it would be hard to travel throughout Ireland without tripping over a Burke, Fitzgerald, Butler, Roche, Power, Redmond, Sinnott, or even Rice, one of whom, Edmund, founded the Irish Christian Brothers.

Oddly enough, these invaders were descended from the Norsemen who had already founded Wexford (Weissfjord) centuries earlier. It was as if they were coming home, except that they now spoke French from their sojourn in Normandy.

They were skilled builders. No sooner had they conquered an area than they set about fortifying it, and building a castle that might also serve as an administrative and religious center. Hence Selskar Abbey in the heart of old Wexford town!

You can see their footprints in many parts of Europe. Imagine my surprise when I came upon a Norman castle while traveling down the coast of Eastern Turkey some years back.

There it stood, gaunt, and deserted, but still dominating a hill over the sparkling blue Mediterranean. Although much more majestic, it reminded me of Ferrycarrig Castle a few miles up the Slaney from Wexford town.

Sure enough, I discovered that Norman Crusaders built it on their way to create a kingdom in Palestine.

I had heard of the Norman Kingdom of Sicily but was unaware of its breadth and power. They first arrived in Southern Italy in 999AD as mercenaries and over the next 200 years ruled not only the island of Sicily but also the southern third of the Italian Peninsula, and parts of North Africa.

They have left their mark all over this lovely island and I was constantly reminded of Norman Wexford while on a recent visit.

It’s fascinating how effortlessly Norman architecture blends in with exotic Sicily, yet that seems to have been a trait of these people – move in, take over, but allow the natives to carry on their local business, as long as they keep the peace and pay their taxes.

That’s not to say they didn’t commit barbarous acts in medieval Ireland, but such was the case all over our fractious country in the unending disputes between the clans.

And if affairs were unsettled in Ireland, then Sicily was a real hotbed of religious and civil disorder with Muslim, Byzantine, Calabrian, and various other castes and creeds vying for influence, not to mention sundry Holy Fathers seeking to extend their power from the nearby Papal States.

Back in Wexford one had to use one’s imagination to visualize our conquerors – not so in Palermo. Norman mosaics abounded, particularly in the well-maintained churches.

King Roger II of Sicily personified the Norman desire to integrate with their subjects and surroundings; thus, in a mosaic at the Church of Santa Maria dell’Ammiraglio (St. Mary of the Admiral) he made a statement with his coronation fresco.

Abandoning his warrior attire he dressed in flowing Byzantine robes and instead of receiving his crown from the aggressive Pope Innocent II, he instead opted to have an Eastern version of Jesus coronate him.

On that day too, he declared that Muslim and all other local religions should have the same rights as Christians.

Roger II (Ruggero II) is still celebrated around Sicily but after his death in 1154 his golden age of tolerance began to fade. Eventually a Holy Roman Emperor succeeded him and affairs reverted to their normal sectarian barbarism.

And yet in a quiet church in the bustling city of Palermo, while admiring a beautiful mosaic, I was reunited with the town of my youth and gained some insight into our stormy Norman Irish history.

Welcome Back Paddy Reilly's!

So Paddy Reilly’s has reopened.  Welcome back - though your absence was short, you were missed.

It’s not just that New York City is daily becoming less of an Irish town and any pub is a loss; no, it’s that Reilly’s stood for something – original Irish music that had something to say.

You may not have noticed it but live music is on the ropes right now. Sure you’ve got Taylor Swift packing them in, fair play to her; but that’s American Express music, it costs an arm and a leg, and is designed to keep you purring and never to offend.

When was the last time you strolled into a pub and were blown away by some band singing songs that you never even imagined before, all the while challenging you with their opinions?

In the early days, that’s what Reilly’s was about. Chris Byrne and I formed Black 47 in there. We figured that with Bob Marley dead and The Clash disbanded there was an opening for a political band playing original music.

We didn’t have any songs but we did have gigs, as Chris’s band, Beyond The Pale, broke up that night and he had a scattering of engagements to fulfill in The Bronx.

We knocked off some originals that week, compiled a list of interesting songs we could jam on, and the following Friday we hit The Bronx.

Or rather, The Bronx hit us. Let’s just say each of those early gigs was a battle that ended up in a no-decision - basically speaking, we got out alive.

But it was late 1989, a recession was raging, bands were needed on Bainbridge, and we were no sooner fired by one joint than hired by another.

Months later when we returned to Reilly’s we had many original songs, a growing following and an “independent” reputation. When someone demanded a Pogues song, a typical riposte was, “When was the last time you heard The Pogues do a Black 47 song?”

Steve Duggan, manager and eventually owner of Paddy Reilly’s, saw our potential, and why not? The place was jammed, the pints were flowing, enough said!

But it wasn’t just Black 47. Though we established a residency on Wednesdays and Saturdays, a scene began - soon Spéir Mór were playing Fridays, Rogue’s March Sundays, Paddy A-Go-Go Mondays, Eileen Ivers & Seamus Egan Tuesdays, with a top of the line Seisiún every Thursday. The Prodigals eventually took over Fridays and continue to play there to this day.

All of these bands made an impact nationally, along with many others who packed this small Second Avenue venue. The key was originality. Everyone was writing their own songs and creating their own style.

There’s nothing wrong with playing standards, but that ground has already been well covered; there comes a time when you’ve got to put your best foot forward and reach for the stars.

Black 47 eventually performed everywhere from stadiums to Leno, Letterman, and O’Brien, but a night in Reilly’s stands out.

We were introducing a new song, it was long, involved, and barely rehearsed, but as we played something happened that became bigger than all of us; the audience stood rapt in attention and the silence continued for a long moment after we’d finished. The song was James Connolly and it’s gone on to become a civil rights anthem.

It’s almost impossible for musicians to make a living now, streaming killed CDs, a vital revenue stream for most touring bands, while the pandemic has put the kibosh on so many live venues.

Oddly enough, the humble Irish pub could be the savior. Unlike many celebrated rock venues, pub owners know their business and are willing to take chances. It’s the musicians responsibility to draw the crowds.

Connolly’s on 47^thStreet has a great sound system and a tradition of packed houses, Ulysses on Stone Street has a new state of the art Music Room.  

So welcome back, Paddy Reilly’s! It’s the best of times and the worst of times, but people will always love live music. It’s just got to be original, and say something to the young people of today, much like it did in the Paddy Reilly’s of yesterday.

Good Vibrations in Hells Kitchen

Everything changed in November 1976 when The Sex Pistols released Anarchy In the UK.  Punk was born.

Yeah, yeah, I know Punk began in CBGB’s a couple of years earlier with The Ramones and Television. I was there, but The Pistols put the politics in Punk, and The Clash set London burning soon after.

Within weeks of Anarchy’s release EMI Records dropped the Sex Pistols for swearing on live TV. They should have given them a medal for honesty, considering the state of the UK in those days.

Rock music tends to rev up and regenerate the more depressed things are politically and economically. 

Progressive Rock - the hip music of the pre-Punk era - had become so ponderous and self-referential, you needed actual music training to play the damned thing.

And what’s reading scores got to do with Rock ‘n’ Roll? Just rip out 3 loud chords, take a shot of Jameson’s, open your mouth, and see what comes out – chances are your friends can dance to it, that’s what Punk was all about.  Turn up to 11, have some fun, and to hell with the begrudgers!

Over in Belfast in 1976, a self-confessed “old hippy” named Terri Hooley opened a record shop on Great Victoria Street. Terri’s taste was broad and he lamented the fact that Belfast had become a no-go area for international touring bands.

In fact, Belfast had become a no-go area in general, with Catholic and Protestants sticking to their own turf – and never the twain would meet.

Like many music aficionados Terri had little interest in 3 chord manic Rock ‘n’ Roll, but like everyone else he listened to the Almighty John Peel on BBC and he sensed a change coming.

Soon after Good Vibrations opened Hooley noticed that the black leather-jacketed youth from both communities, if not mixing, were sharing space around his shop; and as Punk raised its spiked head he realized that both Protestants and Catholics were buying the same records.

There would be many ups and downs in the Terri Hooley story, but I won’t spoil them for you, instead go see the musical Good Vibrations that opens for previews tonight at The Irish Arts Center. It’s the real deal.

You don’t have to like Punk Rock but my guess is even if you don’t give a fiddler’s for this unruly genre, you’ll be humming Teenage Kicks by The Undertones, Alternative Ulster by Stiff Little Fingers or one of the many anthems that a driven group of 12 actors and musicians from Belfast will be delivering for the next month.

Though Belfast has changed immeasurably in the last 50 years, it’s good to look back, from the safety of a theatre seat, at a benighted weirdo like Mr. Hooley who stood up to sectarian conformity, and in his own way set the stage for the ongoing peace process.

Personally, I’m in awe of the musicians who formed Stiff Little Fingers, The Outcasts, Rudi, and Protex, not to mention the stalwart fans who supported them. In 1981 while on tour in Belfast with the punky Major Thinkers, though our gig was cancelled because of the Hunger Strikes, I felt in mortal danger twice in the one night – talk about a tough town!

It’s to the Irish Arts Center’s credit that they are hosting this Lyric Theatre production, hot off the stage from a blockbuster run at Belfast’s Grand Opera House.  And what better space in which to experience this explosive musical!

I can vouch for the state-of-the-art PA system and am looking forward to seeing how the Good Vibrations creative team uses the amazingly adaptable IAC theatre.

In a way, this will be a coming-of-age production for the Center – a large sized original musical encapsulating an important political and social moment in Irish history.

It’s time the Punk Spirit of ’76 as portrayed in Good Vibrations was unleashed in New York City, and where better to feel its heat than in Hell’s Kitchen.

All that remains to be decided is what to wear? Black leather will never go astray, try safety pints in a ripped-up Taylor Swift t-shirt, spiked hair, bovver boots, torn fishnets, studded dog collars!

If you didn’t live the punk life while it was happening, now’s your chance. Don’t waste it!

 

Good Vibrations at The Irish Arts Center, 726 11^thAvenue, NYC  June 14-July 16 

Box Office 888-616-0274  boxoffice@irishartscenter.org

Going Up the Country - East Durham on my mind

 

I’m going up the country

Baby, don’t you wanta go

Going to take you some place

Where you’ve never been before

 

I’m going, I’m going

Where the water tastes like wine

We can jump in the river

Stay drunk all the time

 

Around this time of year, Going up the Country by Canned Heat starts gnawing at my brain. Small wonder, seeing I spent so many Memorial Day Weekends in the “mountains?” 

 

I’m not referring to the Himalayas, Pyrenees, or even the McGillycuddy Reeks. I’m talking Catskills, and in particular a large-size piece of heaven known as the Irish Alps.

 

I’d never even heard of these particular Alps until Turner & Kirwan of Wexford got fired from a lucrative summer gig in Falmouth MA. I’ve still no notion why this abrupt termination came to pass, though it may have been for singing an anti-Vietnam War ditty.

 

In a panic, I called Mike O’Brien, nephew of the Clancy Brothers, who told me that a band had just received the heave-ho at O’Shea’s Irish Center in Leeds, and if we could make it onstage by 8pm the following evening, the gig was ours.

 

When I inquired the whereabouts of Leeds, Mike replied cryptically, “It’s just off the Thruway between Albany and Kingston.”

 

Try as we might, we couldn’t locate Leeds on our hardback Atlas of America; besides, there was always the chance that Mike, with his refined Tipperary humor, was having us on.

 

But with Falmouth a washout, we threw caution to the wind and set off for Albany in our old Dodge Polara, hoping to buy a local map somewhere on the Thruway to Kingston.

 

We did find Leeds eventually - though we sped through it once without noticing -and we were onstage and pumping out Kinks, Grateful Dead and Irish Rovers moments before 8pm under the critical eye of Mr. Gerry O’Shea.

 

We were alternating sets with the fabulous Mike O’Brien and Chris King, known widely as Trinity 2, and to say we played like demons while chatting up the crowd like twin demented Johnny Carsons would be an understatement, for we were in true survival mode: failure could mean starvation. 

 

Thus began my love affair with “the mountains” and it’s never ended. Growing up on the banks of the Slaney, I’m a seacoast man myself, but once the Irish Alps get in your blood there’s no getting away from them.

 

We didn’t even visit the nearby metropolis of East Durham that whole summer; for we performed 6 nights a week, played poker until way beyond dawn, slept like lambs, and lay on the rocks beneath a nearby mini-waterfall while nursing our hangovers through the steamy afternoons; not to mention we partook of 3 square meals a day courtesy of the angelic, if brusque, Mrs. O’Shea who felt we both needed “to pack on some pounds before yer mammies see yez again.”

 

Old Gerry ran a tight ship but drink was free to musicians, as long as you didn’t overdo it. What more could you ask for – 3 months in an upstate Eden to think, write new songs, and press re-start? 

 

There was one drawback, Gerry had been a noted boxer, and loved to throw a ramrod-stiff jab at your shoulder – he would then check upon your bruises the following day.

 

It was until the Black 47 era that I got to play the capital of the Alps, East Durham, and that came courtesy of the wonderful Handel family at the rip-roaring Blackthorne Resort.

 

Though we played midnights until whenever on Memorial Weekend Fridays and Saturdays for 20 years - with a headlining gig at the East Durham Irish Festival in-between - the days seemed to stretch forever and I loved to stroll the country roads or sit on Connemara-style stony walls and wonder about the first Irish who settled there.

 

Do yourselves a favor, go up to the Catskills for a couple of days full of long nights. It’s like going home, you’ll meet friends you never knew you had, and as Canned Heat put it, “the water tastes like wine.” 

 

I’m not sure they were right about “staying drunk all the time,” but there will be wild moments ahead of you in those glorious mountains. Tell them I sent you – and don’t sleep near the rooster!

Inishowen Peninsula and Memories of a Rathmines Landlady

 Pierce Turner and I used to share a flat in an old town house in Rathmines, Dublin. Once very upscale, the area had fallen on hard times and was disparagingly known as Culchieland.

 

On a recent visit I found Rathmines had more or less reverted to its original patrician state. Our house at 15 Belgrave Square, once a warren of rooms teeming with refugees from Wexford, Kerry, and Kiltimagh was once again a one-family home.

 

I wondered what had become of the communal bathroom, dominated by a large gas meter into which you inserted shillings in the foreboding presence of the landlady, before taking your allotted weekly bath. Let me hasten to assure all prudes that this virtuous senior citizen departed before one disrobed.

 

All gone now, even our local, the Hideaway Pub, where my friends and I murdered copious pints of foaming Smithwicks.

 

Our set was entirely composed of bogmen, though we did tolerate a number of nihilistic young ladies who risked reputation and much else by associating with us.

 

We were a rambunctious crowd and banned from many establishments, though we were far from aggressive. The only one who had ever engaged in fisticuffs was my brother, Jimmy, who had his nose rearranged in an argument with a rickshaw driver in Singapore during his short-lived nautical career. 

 

He resides in Breezy Point now, and as far as I can gather is more than welcome in all saloons on that sedate, gated Rockaway community.

 

Lest I digress further, I’m writing this particular column because I had a eureka moment in bed one recent morning. I might add that the moment, such as it was, had nothing to do with my ex-landlady who supervised the heating of my bathwater back in Rathmines.

 

It did, however, pertain to a song written by Mr. Turner and myself in those heady days of the early 70’s.

This lost classic was called Inishowen Peninsula and was inspired by a gig Pierce did in Culdaff while a member of the Arrows Showband – remember showbands? You played “six nights and every Sunday” as Brush Shields once declared, which at a wage of 30 pounds per week came out to roughly 4 quid a gig.

 

No wonder we emigrated and hit the big time at Durty Nelly’s on Kingsbridge Road and the Bells of Hell in Greenwich Village.

 

Turner and I could recall the melody of Inishowen Peninsula – even the chords - but the words escaped us.

 

Hence, the recent eureka moment! I bolted up in bed, heart pounding, the fog of half a century and the damage done by thousands of pints had dissipated; I was suddenly back in Rathmines gazing at Turner, his long brown hair cascading down his shoulders as we recorded the song into a gleaming new Grundig tape recorder.

 

I sprinted to my laptop as the forgotten words poured forth. Acres of undisturbed memory seemed to be available at my fingertips? Would this be a whole new beginning or might I die of shame? 

 

Alas it was but a fleeting moment, but Turner & Kirwan of Wexford, once described as “the hottest thing since Cain and Abel,” may do a reunion gig in New York City in 2024 to support the re-release of our meisterwork, Absolutely & Completely. 

 

In the meantime, here’s to Culdaff, Rathmines, spinster landladies who oversaw weekly baths, and all the things young emigrants leave behind.

 

On the Inishowen Peninsula

There is a man who doesn’t know who I am

Or how I plan to go there on my honeymoon

With the sun of June

And Paulie’s collie doggie who we normally call Moon

Will come soon,

Will come thatchers

In from the pastures

On a sunny kind of winter’s day

 

I saw him stroll across the bog

Separating fog and calling out the name of his dog

Who must be soggy and so wet

Where have our souls met

On a sunny kind of winter’s day

 

Birds sing in the treetops on a sunny kind of winter’s day

And life was so priceless before he went away

 

He fell off the edge of Ireland so the papers say

Someone saw a something floating out to sea

Or could it be he in Culdaff

Who’ll have the last laugh

On a sunny kind of winter’s day

 

Birds sing in the treetops on a sunny kind of winter’s day

And life was so priceless before he went away...

Linked Forever Rory and Phil

They are often linked together by nationality, era, and musical intensity, yet it would be hard to think of two personalities less alike than Rory Gallagher and Phil Lynott.

Rory was shy and retiring, and often seemed uncomfortable even at parties thrown in his honor.

That’s how I first met him in Dublin.  I was a teenage fan and could barely believe he was standing 20 feet away from me.

I could tell he was checking me out too, which was mindboggling as in those days I was at least as shy as he was.

He walked hesitantly towards me and inquired in his gentle Cork accent if I was driving home that night.  When my jaw dropped he realized he had the wrong person.

Almost stuttering, he informed me that I looked like someone from Cork City, and he had been hoping I might give him a lift home.

And with that he was gone, off to bum a lift from someone else, leaving me with the notion that I should steal a car, drive him to Cork, and to hell with the consequences.

I was much more familiar with Phil Lynott, but then so was everyone who lived in Dublin in the early 1970’s.

Phil was the most charismatic person I’ve ever met, and perhaps the most ambulatory, for he always seemed to be walking, this mixed-race, handsome young man with the Crumlin accent that could rip paint off the walls.

Everyone on the music scene shared his ups and down: we rejoiced when he was hired by Skid Row and despaired when he was fired soon thereafter. I was on chatting acquaintance with him for years, which didn’t make me special, because Philo would have talked to the wall - and probably did.

You’ve no idea of the impact Thin Lizzy’s Whiskey in the Jar had on Irish youth. That wonderful trio of Phil on bass, Eric Bell on guitar, and Brian Downey on drums, shook the living daylights out of the old traditional song, ripped up BBC’s Top of the Pops, and changed Ireland forever.

Rory made it big before Lizzy, of course, and had already been hailed by Hendrix as the greatest living guitarist. But Rory didn’t give a fiddler’s about stardom. He would have been thrilled to be called the greatest Delta Bluesman; but that wasn’t likely unless he’d have settled for the River Lee Delta.

Rory had made his own pact with the devil, much like the great Robert Johnston 50 years earlier at a Mississippi crossroads.

And it showed! When he hit the stage it was probably the closest I’ve experienced to real religion; the man from Cork, by way of Ballyshannon, had that rare power to make you feel totally alive, out of your head, and spiritually uplifted, all at the same time.

Mr. Lynott’s elixir was of a different kind. He too believed in the redemptive power of rock ‘n’ roll, but he was also totally aware of everything going on around him. Let one of his players drop the intensity for a millisecond and you could hear him berating the offender over the din. Phil demanded 120%, and for the most part he got it.

I never totally bought into the Thin Lizzy dual-guitar playing spectacle, it always seemed a bit contrived, and though Gary Moore was a six-string wizard, nothing compared to the raw Irish passion of the early Phil/Eric/Brian trio.

How did it all fall apart? That comes with the intensity of the music game – you have to live it to totally understand the pressure. Booze is always free, substances are rarely far behind, and prescribed medications complicate everything.

You’re living life at hyper-speed, often far from home, and though there’s always company and acclaim, you can be achingly lonely and stretched to the limit.

Rory lived longer than Phil, but he began drinking later in life.  So many years have passed but I wish they were both alive and garnering some of the joy they still give the rest of us.

Still, they left behind a tremendous musical legacy, and right now I could use a shot of Whiskey in the Jar followed by a chaser of Messin’ With The Kid.

Turn the volume up to 11 and take a taste yourself!

ON THE 20TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE INVASION OF IRAQ

How will history judge us, I wondered while listening to Paul Wolfowitz, Deputy Secretary of Defense in the Bush administration, as he looked back on the 20^th anniversary of the invasion of Iraq?

 

Wolfowitz had learned few lessons; in his closeted view, Saddam Hussein was a dangerous man, and the universe was better off without him.

 

At best you could say Wolfowitz, a noted American political scientist and diplomat, was guilty of only viewing the world through a prism of his own choosing.

 

We continue to be haunted by his ilk, those who seek to foist their own particular reality upon the rest of us. Our guilt is that we allow them to do so.

 

Why do I single out Wolfowitz from the other three architects of America’s greatest foreign policy debacle? Well, I have little doubt that Donald Rumsfeld is still arguing his case with St. Peter at the gates of heaven, having departed this mortal coil back in 2021.

 

Can you ever forget his smarmy self-satisfaction as he guided us through nights of “shock and awe,” exulting over the precision bombing of Baghdad – never mentioning that innocent civilians were dying in this obscene, videogame-like barrage.

 

Not a word did we hear from Vice-President Richard Cheney, the main architect of this “war on terror.” 

 

Unlike Rumsfeld, Mr. Cheney always knew when to duck back into the shadows and let retired military experts whitewash the carnage.

 

As for President Bush, nowadays he paints pictures down in Texas and apparently sleeps like a log at night, no second thoughts needed.

 

After all, barely 4500 American service people died in this useless war, roughly 10% of those who perished in that other noble overseas crusade, Vietnam.

 

There have been many public mea culpas since the end of the Vietnam disaster, but on the 20^th anniversary of the Iraq invasion not a word of apology was to be heard, though the official cause of the war - Iraq’s possession of weapons of mass destruction - has long ago been disproved.

 

Needless to say there was little mention of the estimated 400,000 Iraqis killed, and the many millions displaced.

 

What of the damage done to our own people who served over there? Well, hey thanks for your service, guys, and what a shame those ungrateful Iraqis never appreciated all you went through on their behalf! 

 

But it’s way deeper than that. Our institutions have suffered, there’s now a general mistrust of government, we loathe our politicians, and much of it dates back to our Iraqi misadventure.

 

This, by the way, is not a partisan screed. President Biden and Senator Clinton both voted to authorize the invasion. In fact, I believe Mrs. Clinton would have been president by now if she’d made a stand against the invasion. 

 

I have little doubt either that Donald Trump would still be a reality TV star had we allowed United Nations sanctions to successfully continue restraining Saddam Hussein.

 

Contrary to his usual revisionism, Mr. Trump did not immediately come out against the war; still he was yards ahead of Mr. Biden and Mrs. Clinton.

 

But talk about foisting his unique reality upon us, President Trump has since unleashed a base of distorted prism gazers to whom even he must serve. Uncharacteristically, the man rarely demands credit for his greatest achievement, Operation Warp Speed that facilitated the creation of the Covid-19 vaccine. 

 

Why ever won’t you take a bow, Mr. President, afraid it might rattle your base?

 

Unfortunately, the furor over Mr. Trump’s NYC arraignment may allow Jerome Powell and the other Federal Reserve commissioners to turn a booming economy, with historically low unemployment rates, into a recession.

 

This unelected body of patrician bankers and academics refuses to even consider other methods of taming inflation except by upping interest rates.

 

Temporary wage/price controls, sales and income tax increases, and other economic restraints are not even given an airing.

 

Accordingly, your job – but not theirs – may soon be on the line, for you have had the temerity to gain wage increases that impinge upon corporate profits, the sole barometer of wellbeing in this economy.

 

A bleak view of the world, perhaps, but it’s never too late to apologize for a gross military misadventure 20 years ago, or to prevent an undemocratic stampede into an unnecessary recession.