“Do you remember back in the Five Points
When the fire was in the air
The streets were hot as the hob of hell
The bodies was everywhere
Old Johnny jumped up on a burnin’ plank
And roared out to the sky
I didn’t come here to America to give up the ghost and die…”
The Five Points was the original melting pot – the first claw grip on the new world for many Irish immigrants. Already a force in downtown Manhattan by the 1830’s, they poured into its dismal streets during the years of the Great Hunger.
Set in the heart of the “Ould Sixth Ward,” the Five Points got its name from a confluence of three streets and five corners. You can even stand on the exact site at the intersection of Worth and Baxter but it would be hard to summon up the old throbbing vitality of life, for most of its seedy lanes and alleys are now covered by the courthouses of Foley Square and Chinatown’s Columbus Park.
But the spirit and influence of the Five Points live on. One could argue that the area spawned the election of our first black president, for it was in the Five Points that the newly arrived Irish cohabited with the entrenched African-American population - the first voluntary large-scale racial integration in American history.
Common law marriages between Africans and Irish were far from a rarity in the Points. This, allied with the general squalor, alcoholism and poverty greatly appalled Charles Dickens on his visit to the “world’s most dangerous slum.”
The great novelist and reformer, however, was enchanted by the music and dancing that he encountered in Pete William’s saloon where he witnessed the precursor of tap dancing as Irish jiggers competed with African shufflers. In fact, Master Juba, the first internationally recognized tap-dancer honed his chops in the Points during “challenge dances” with Irish John Diamond. Eventually, each man would receive the astronomical fee of $500 for their contests at the nearby Bowery and Chatham Theatres.
The music created by African and Irish players who performed for integrated audiences in Five Points’ saloons has been cited as a root of Jazz and Rock & Roll. That doesn’t surprise me for while forming Black 47 we were aware of Dickens’ account of Irish/African music collaboration – one of the reasons we set jigs and reels to hip-hop rhythms. Songs like Funky Ceili and Rockin’ The Bronx were echoes of those dancing days and carousing Five Points’ nights.
Dickens made much of the area’s poverty and turmoil, yet he overlooked the industriousness of its inhabitants. From child match-sellers and corn-on-the-cob hawkers, to mothers taking in washing and sowing, and fathers day jobbing, the Irish dragged themselves up from near destitution. One only has to check the records of The Emigrant Savings Bank to find that recently arrived Five Pointers saved diligently for eventual escape and a better life for their children.
As in every group there were good and bad, and the rioting that spread from the Points during the anti-Draft Riots of 1863 will always be a stain on our heritage. History however, is rarely black and white, and one should always factor in the prevailing conditions that led to such outbursts.
Within a generation, the Irish had organized and taken political control of the Sixth Ward and in 1880 they helped elect the first Irish Catholic Mayor of New York, William R. Grace.
There is no particular monument to the Five Points or its inhabitants, but on this coming Friday, June 12th in a night that will be “more Paddy than Patrick,” Shilelagh Law and Black 47 will celebrate these forgotten people during the Five Points Féile at the Knitting Factory on nearby Leonard Street (www.knittingfactory.com). Amidst a raucous hooley, if you listen closely enough you may hear this echo from across the years:
“I didn’t come here to America across the raging foam
To die like a slave in a pigsty, I came here to find a home
Where I could live in dignity, hold me head up high
So don’t go messin’ with me or me family
Or I’ll blow these Five Points to the sky.”
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Remember The Alamo
“A hundred and eighty were challenged by Travis to die
By a line that he drew with his sword as the battle drew nigh
A man that crossed over the line was for freedom
And he that was left better fly
Then over the line crossed a hundred and seventy nine
Hey up Santa Anna, they’re killing your soldiers below
So the rest of Texas may know
And remember the Alamo.”
I was singing that song the night we blazed down Route 66 past the exit to Shamrock, Texas; I still wonder how my life would have turned out if we’d pulled off.
That was back in a more fluid time when solid citizens trusted agencies to deliver their cars to the far reaches of the country. Just go to a bustling little office in Times Square, brandish a driver’s license, and they’d toss you the keys of a Caddy, or in this case, a brand new Audi.
And so, along with a friend, who for discretion’s sake we’ll call the Taxi driver, I set off for San Francisco one frigid December evening. So what, you might inquire, were we doing way down on Route 66? Suffice it to say that the motoring skills of NYC taxi drivers do not translate well to interstate highways.
We hadn’t even made it past the Poconos before we skidded on black ice and jack-knifed into a tractor-trailer. The Audi, as you might imagine, fared badly in this encounter, and to add insult to injury, we were detained for reckless driving. After our release, we hit a blizzard in Indiana and, upon consideration of our luck thus far, thought better of crossing the Rockies in a battered jalopy that was losing more oil than an Iraqi pipeline.
And so we headed south on an alternate route through the Lone Star State, although, to be honest, I needed little excuse to visit Texas - mythical country for a kid who haunted Wexford’s Abbey Cinema. In short, I wanted to see the Alamo; not to mention that a spin down Route 66 was as important to a rock & roller as a visit to the Vatican by a country curate.
Besides, my seafaring father had shipped out of Texas City to work the oilrigs in the Gulf of Mexico and intimated in no uncertain terms that Texans were the friendliest and most generous people in the world. He slyly winked at me when my mother wasn’t looking, leading me to believe that Texan ladies were not without their charms either.
Well, we never made it to the Alamo though we were greeted with open arms everywhere, particularly when the taxi driver let it be known that I was a long lost kinsman of Hugo O’Connor, the first governor of Texas. A little exaggeration, perhaps, but this discreetly dropped nugget literally and figurative raised spirits in the grandest of saloons and the humblest of cantinas.
Now maybe Shamrock is no great shakes but on that wintry night as the taxi driver was putting pedal to metal, the very name summoned up visions of big flowing pints and plates of corn-beef and cabbage. Who knows, if we had stopped I might still be ensconced there - the proprietor of my own saloon. The taxi driver, no doubt, would be operating his own car service, we’d both have accents the like of JR, and be living in bliss with a couple of beautiful cowgirls.
Fantasy or not, it would have been far preferable to our immediate fate. For some miles down the pike, the taxi driver flipped a lit cigarette out into the frigid night. Unbeknownst to us, it reentered our opened back window. Soon thereafter the back seat went up in flames, putting the final nail in the Audi’s coffin.
Let’s just say that I did not grace Texas with my presence for some time after this fiasco. Nonetheless, I never lost my fascination for the Lone Star State and someday I hope to hit the stage at the North Texas Irish Festival where I’m told over 60,000 Celts whoop it up every March.
I’m sure there’ll be some Shamrockers amongst them, maybe even a cowgirl or two denied me by fate and a New York City taxi driver on a frigid December night. Until then…Remember the Alamo!
By a line that he drew with his sword as the battle drew nigh
A man that crossed over the line was for freedom
And he that was left better fly
Then over the line crossed a hundred and seventy nine
Hey up Santa Anna, they’re killing your soldiers below
So the rest of Texas may know
And remember the Alamo.”
I was singing that song the night we blazed down Route 66 past the exit to Shamrock, Texas; I still wonder how my life would have turned out if we’d pulled off.
That was back in a more fluid time when solid citizens trusted agencies to deliver their cars to the far reaches of the country. Just go to a bustling little office in Times Square, brandish a driver’s license, and they’d toss you the keys of a Caddy, or in this case, a brand new Audi.
And so, along with a friend, who for discretion’s sake we’ll call the Taxi driver, I set off for San Francisco one frigid December evening. So what, you might inquire, were we doing way down on Route 66? Suffice it to say that the motoring skills of NYC taxi drivers do not translate well to interstate highways.
We hadn’t even made it past the Poconos before we skidded on black ice and jack-knifed into a tractor-trailer. The Audi, as you might imagine, fared badly in this encounter, and to add insult to injury, we were detained for reckless driving. After our release, we hit a blizzard in Indiana and, upon consideration of our luck thus far, thought better of crossing the Rockies in a battered jalopy that was losing more oil than an Iraqi pipeline.
And so we headed south on an alternate route through the Lone Star State, although, to be honest, I needed little excuse to visit Texas - mythical country for a kid who haunted Wexford’s Abbey Cinema. In short, I wanted to see the Alamo; not to mention that a spin down Route 66 was as important to a rock & roller as a visit to the Vatican by a country curate.
Besides, my seafaring father had shipped out of Texas City to work the oilrigs in the Gulf of Mexico and intimated in no uncertain terms that Texans were the friendliest and most generous people in the world. He slyly winked at me when my mother wasn’t looking, leading me to believe that Texan ladies were not without their charms either.
Well, we never made it to the Alamo though we were greeted with open arms everywhere, particularly when the taxi driver let it be known that I was a long lost kinsman of Hugo O’Connor, the first governor of Texas. A little exaggeration, perhaps, but this discreetly dropped nugget literally and figurative raised spirits in the grandest of saloons and the humblest of cantinas.
Now maybe Shamrock is no great shakes but on that wintry night as the taxi driver was putting pedal to metal, the very name summoned up visions of big flowing pints and plates of corn-beef and cabbage. Who knows, if we had stopped I might still be ensconced there - the proprietor of my own saloon. The taxi driver, no doubt, would be operating his own car service, we’d both have accents the like of JR, and be living in bliss with a couple of beautiful cowgirls.
Fantasy or not, it would have been far preferable to our immediate fate. For some miles down the pike, the taxi driver flipped a lit cigarette out into the frigid night. Unbeknownst to us, it reentered our opened back window. Soon thereafter the back seat went up in flames, putting the final nail in the Audi’s coffin.
Let’s just say that I did not grace Texas with my presence for some time after this fiasco. Nonetheless, I never lost my fascination for the Lone Star State and someday I hope to hit the stage at the North Texas Irish Festival where I’m told over 60,000 Celts whoop it up every March.
I’m sure there’ll be some Shamrockers amongst them, maybe even a cowgirl or two denied me by fate and a New York City taxi driver on a frigid December night. Until then…Remember the Alamo!
Thursday, 21 May 2009
The Night I Almost Whacked Pete Seeger
I have something of a grave nature to confess. Many years ago I came within a hair of whackin’ Pete Seeger. Well, I shouldn’t take full responsibility; Pierce Turner was equally involved in this dastardly deed.
Those who braved the watering holes of the Bronx and Greenwich Village when Ed Koch ruled the roost will remember Turner and Kirwan of Wexford fondly – or otherwise!
Whatever, as they say. One evening we found ourselves in the company of Pete Seeger and Malachy McCourt playing a benefit in Manhattan’s Town Hall. I can’t remember for whom but, given the nature of the bill, it probably wasn’t the National Rifle Association or the British Conservative Party.
The plan was as follows: Malachy would MC, we would “get the crowd going,” and Pete would headline. However, upon our arrival, Town Hall was in a state of pandemonium for no one had thought to hire a PA. To add insult to injury, the crowd was already filing in.
“No bother,” says Turner, “sure haven’t we the auld Shure system outside in the back of the van.”
And so we hauled in speakers and amp – the smell of last night’s spilled pints from Durty Nellies still fresh upon them. Since we had some fears that this utilitarian sound system might not be heard in the far recesses of the towering balcony, we humped the pristine grand piano to the front of the stage and hoisted one of the speakers atop.
Though gasping from the exertion we finished setting up on the stroke of 8 and, with the sweat pouring off us, lashed straight into a 15-minute deconstruction of Ewan McColl’s “Traveling People,” replete with a 12-minute moog synthesizer solo.
Pete Seeger - who had threatened to cut the cables on Bob Dylan’s first electric performance - was astounded that we could coax the sound of bagpipes from this box of knobs and wires, and enthused to all and sundry that he’d never heard the beatings of these sweating boys from Wexford.
So all was hunky-dory until after the intermission, when out strode Pete strumming away on his banjo to rapturous applause from the packed house. Unfortunately, however, the stage curtain had got stuck on the Shure speaker propped atop the piano. Unaware of this impediment, the stage manager kept tugging for dear life until the speaker began to wobble and then sway in an alarming manner.
Turner and I watched from the wings, paralyzed with fright. Casting his eyes neither left nor right, up stepped up Pete to the microphone and exhorted the crowd to join him in “This Land Is Your Land.” Rising to their feet, 1500 left-wingers, tree-huggers and other ne’er-do-wells did so with gusto.
Then, proving my theory that the good god in heaven has definite subversive leanings, Pete suddenly was moved to stride forward onto the lip of the stage just as the Shure speaker gave one last wobble and came crashing down on the very spot where he had been standing only milliseconds before.
Suspecting a capitalist plot, the crowd gasped, but so focused was Pete that he didn’t even hear the crash behind him. Red-faced and trembling, Turner and I scurried out onstage and righted the offending speaker, and the star continued the show unaware that he had just been within a hair of meeting Jesus.
I recalled that night on Pete’s 90th birthday and celebrated the 30 extra years that the good god in heaven had granted one of the greatest living Americans. I also muttered a prayer of thanks that Turner and I had not joined the despised ranks of Lee Harvey Oswald, Mark Chapman and other well-known assassins.
Pete Seeger has always stood by his convictions even when they were unfashionable and deemed treasonous. Like such diverse figures as Tom Paine and Alexander Hamilton, he is convinced that Americans should have the right to express their own political beliefs, without having to tip their cap to those who would define patriotism in a narrow and factional manner.
Here’s to you, Pete, may you have another thirty birthdays. Just keep a weather eye open, J. Edgar Hoover might not have been able to lay a finger on you, but Turner & Kirwan of Wexford could be lurking in the wings.
Those who braved the watering holes of the Bronx and Greenwich Village when Ed Koch ruled the roost will remember Turner and Kirwan of Wexford fondly – or otherwise!
Whatever, as they say. One evening we found ourselves in the company of Pete Seeger and Malachy McCourt playing a benefit in Manhattan’s Town Hall. I can’t remember for whom but, given the nature of the bill, it probably wasn’t the National Rifle Association or the British Conservative Party.
The plan was as follows: Malachy would MC, we would “get the crowd going,” and Pete would headline. However, upon our arrival, Town Hall was in a state of pandemonium for no one had thought to hire a PA. To add insult to injury, the crowd was already filing in.
“No bother,” says Turner, “sure haven’t we the auld Shure system outside in the back of the van.”
And so we hauled in speakers and amp – the smell of last night’s spilled pints from Durty Nellies still fresh upon them. Since we had some fears that this utilitarian sound system might not be heard in the far recesses of the towering balcony, we humped the pristine grand piano to the front of the stage and hoisted one of the speakers atop.
Though gasping from the exertion we finished setting up on the stroke of 8 and, with the sweat pouring off us, lashed straight into a 15-minute deconstruction of Ewan McColl’s “Traveling People,” replete with a 12-minute moog synthesizer solo.
Pete Seeger - who had threatened to cut the cables on Bob Dylan’s first electric performance - was astounded that we could coax the sound of bagpipes from this box of knobs and wires, and enthused to all and sundry that he’d never heard the beatings of these sweating boys from Wexford.
So all was hunky-dory until after the intermission, when out strode Pete strumming away on his banjo to rapturous applause from the packed house. Unfortunately, however, the stage curtain had got stuck on the Shure speaker propped atop the piano. Unaware of this impediment, the stage manager kept tugging for dear life until the speaker began to wobble and then sway in an alarming manner.
Turner and I watched from the wings, paralyzed with fright. Casting his eyes neither left nor right, up stepped up Pete to the microphone and exhorted the crowd to join him in “This Land Is Your Land.” Rising to their feet, 1500 left-wingers, tree-huggers and other ne’er-do-wells did so with gusto.
Then, proving my theory that the good god in heaven has definite subversive leanings, Pete suddenly was moved to stride forward onto the lip of the stage just as the Shure speaker gave one last wobble and came crashing down on the very spot where he had been standing only milliseconds before.
Suspecting a capitalist plot, the crowd gasped, but so focused was Pete that he didn’t even hear the crash behind him. Red-faced and trembling, Turner and I scurried out onstage and righted the offending speaker, and the star continued the show unaware that he had just been within a hair of meeting Jesus.
I recalled that night on Pete’s 90th birthday and celebrated the 30 extra years that the good god in heaven had granted one of the greatest living Americans. I also muttered a prayer of thanks that Turner and I had not joined the despised ranks of Lee Harvey Oswald, Mark Chapman and other well-known assassins.
Pete Seeger has always stood by his convictions even when they were unfashionable and deemed treasonous. Like such diverse figures as Tom Paine and Alexander Hamilton, he is convinced that Americans should have the right to express their own political beliefs, without having to tip their cap to those who would define patriotism in a narrow and factional manner.
Here’s to you, Pete, may you have another thirty birthdays. Just keep a weather eye open, J. Edgar Hoover might not have been able to lay a finger on you, but Turner & Kirwan of Wexford could be lurking in the wings.
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Waterboarding
Where do you stand on the “torture” debate that’s been roiling the national consciousness of late? Like many, I wish it would just go away. After all, there are so many serious economic problems to deal with. What’s there to gain in rehashing thorny issues that are receding ever more quickly into the past?
The problem, as ever, is not the past – it’s the future. Although it seems unlikely, now that we have a pragmatic idealist in the White House, there will come a time when the drums will beat, the flags wave and we’ll be asked to rush off to war again.
We won’t be asked to fight a noble enemy – has there ever been one? More likely it will be a group of psychopaths seeking to destroy as many civilians as possible in order to gain publicity for their cause. Then what?
I remember standing on a rooftop in Lower Manhattan watching the twin towers collapse. Within seconds a rumor swept the neighborhood that a third plane was on its way. At that moment if some “foreigner” in a turban or dashiki had been accused of harboring relevant information, I wouldn’t have given much for his chances of survival. Such is the heat of the moment.
Apologists for torture reason that the country was under severe stress from the catastrophe of 9/11 – that the end justified the means. Tell that to Winston Churchill who resisted calls for extreme measures to be meted out to enemy detainees during the London Blitz.
The Spanish Inquisition perfected the technique we know as waterboarding but I doubt if even those noble men of god used it a hundred or more times on individual heretics, as happened on our behalf during 2003. It goes without saying that using simulated drowning even once is repugnant to most Americans, no matter what claims of legality are argued by former White House lawyers.
I think that many of us are wary of a real investigation for fear of what it may uncover. We’ve come to terms with the indecencies of Abu Ghraib but so far we’ve not had to confront the things done on our behalf by our Eastern European and Middle Eastern allies. Some of the “suspects” we handed over to these paragons of human rights were innocent of any major crime; we just did not wish them “questioned” under the safeguards provided by American jurisdiction.
And to think much of this illegality - for want of a better word - was conducted in a vain attempt by the Bush Administration to link Al Qaida with Saddam Hussein. The sad part is, while Bush, Cheney, et al are inking their book deals, we’re still mired in Iraq preventing the inevitable confrontation between Sunni and Shia in their thirteen hundred year old schism.
To say that American goodwill has been shamelessly squandered is an understatement. We used to be the good guys - and for the most part we still are – it’s just that we’re not seen that way anymore. We can sweep the mess created by a paranoid, brainless administration under the carpet and get on with putting the country back on a sound economic footing as President Obama and a majority of the country would prefer.
The problem is: with the recent release of classified information regarding the noble art of waterboarding the genie has now well and truly been let out of the bottle
So, what to do? Well, how about appointing an independent commission - but spare us the usual grandstanding bipartisan politicians. There are many women and men of sound judgment who could dispassionately disclose what actually happened to the country in our rush to war back in 2003.
That story would make gripping reading and, who knows, perhaps things weren’t as bad as some people suspect. One way or another, with the truth revealed we could finally put this fiasco behind us, reset our moral compass, and once more become the “good guys.”
If nothing else, those who perished on 9/11 will rest easier for they will no longer be used to justify perverse policies that the vast majority of them would never have condoned while alive.
The problem, as ever, is not the past – it’s the future. Although it seems unlikely, now that we have a pragmatic idealist in the White House, there will come a time when the drums will beat, the flags wave and we’ll be asked to rush off to war again.
We won’t be asked to fight a noble enemy – has there ever been one? More likely it will be a group of psychopaths seeking to destroy as many civilians as possible in order to gain publicity for their cause. Then what?
I remember standing on a rooftop in Lower Manhattan watching the twin towers collapse. Within seconds a rumor swept the neighborhood that a third plane was on its way. At that moment if some “foreigner” in a turban or dashiki had been accused of harboring relevant information, I wouldn’t have given much for his chances of survival. Such is the heat of the moment.
Apologists for torture reason that the country was under severe stress from the catastrophe of 9/11 – that the end justified the means. Tell that to Winston Churchill who resisted calls for extreme measures to be meted out to enemy detainees during the London Blitz.
The Spanish Inquisition perfected the technique we know as waterboarding but I doubt if even those noble men of god used it a hundred or more times on individual heretics, as happened on our behalf during 2003. It goes without saying that using simulated drowning even once is repugnant to most Americans, no matter what claims of legality are argued by former White House lawyers.
I think that many of us are wary of a real investigation for fear of what it may uncover. We’ve come to terms with the indecencies of Abu Ghraib but so far we’ve not had to confront the things done on our behalf by our Eastern European and Middle Eastern allies. Some of the “suspects” we handed over to these paragons of human rights were innocent of any major crime; we just did not wish them “questioned” under the safeguards provided by American jurisdiction.
And to think much of this illegality - for want of a better word - was conducted in a vain attempt by the Bush Administration to link Al Qaida with Saddam Hussein. The sad part is, while Bush, Cheney, et al are inking their book deals, we’re still mired in Iraq preventing the inevitable confrontation between Sunni and Shia in their thirteen hundred year old schism.
To say that American goodwill has been shamelessly squandered is an understatement. We used to be the good guys - and for the most part we still are – it’s just that we’re not seen that way anymore. We can sweep the mess created by a paranoid, brainless administration under the carpet and get on with putting the country back on a sound economic footing as President Obama and a majority of the country would prefer.
The problem is: with the recent release of classified information regarding the noble art of waterboarding the genie has now well and truly been let out of the bottle
So, what to do? Well, how about appointing an independent commission - but spare us the usual grandstanding bipartisan politicians. There are many women and men of sound judgment who could dispassionately disclose what actually happened to the country in our rush to war back in 2003.
That story would make gripping reading and, who knows, perhaps things weren’t as bad as some people suspect. One way or another, with the truth revealed we could finally put this fiasco behind us, reset our moral compass, and once more become the “good guys.”
If nothing else, those who perished on 9/11 will rest easier for they will no longer be used to justify perverse policies that the vast majority of them would never have condoned while alive.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
A Horse or a Pub?
No one can be certain when the US will emerge from this recession but we will do so a different country.
We will rally much faster than the nations of the EC for there is little other choice – lacking their social safety net we will change careers, work at jobs “beneath us,” invent new ways of making a living, even create industries; in fact do anything to survive.
Anyone familiar with Ireland of the 70’s will not need to be reminded of the mass stasis and depression that blighted the country; remember the saying – “last one out, lock the door and turn out the lights!”
It’s a toss of the coin, though, whether the US or China will recover first. Both sets of people are industrious: they are more frugal and thrifty; we tend to be more inventive. They need us to purchase their products, while we cannot fund our lifestyle without their credit.
It’s amazing that two such disparate systems are so interdependent. At the moment they have the more dynamic government, willing and eager to spend on capital projects so that when this crisis passes their county will have benefited – they are currently building or are have plans for a dozen new subway systems in order to lessen their dependence on foreign oil. With a bit of luck we’ll have the 2nd Avenue line in operation around the time the Mets next win the World Series. Hey, you gotta believe!
So far, however, we have always trumped Mao’s children when it comes to putting original ideas into operation - especially, in the midst of recessions. Witness the groundbreaking advances in computer technology during the recession of the 70’s and the boom in related industries soon after.
Now that the junk bond dreams and credit default schemes of the financial industry are behind us, expect a surge in entrepreneurship and the creation of new industries. That’s the American way.
Like it or not, though, we’re entering an age of the self-employment, part-time work and internships. Because we didn’t reform the health insurance system in flusher times most of the onus still remains on employers to provide that service; this puts American business at a disadvantage with most of the industrialized world where private citizens tend to pay into government backed schemes. Hopefully, the situation will be remedied in the coming four years, but the world will be a very different place by then with new challenges – and challengers.
Where will we be socially when the dust clears? I’ve always felt that the 60’s actually ended around 1983 - along with the preceding recession. Yuppies swept away the final vestiges of the counter-culture and it became cooler to work rather than party all night.
Tell me about it – I’m writing this at six in the bloody morning! Either we need another 60’s or more hours in the day. Come to think of it - where are my bell-bottoms?
And yet, tough times beget opportunities. During the recession of the early 90’s Black 47 got its start in the Bainbridge Avenue/204th Street area of the Bronx – then the center of Irish immigrant life.
It’s said that every Irishman would like to either own a pub or a racehorse. I don’t know about the ponies, but during the construction boom of the mid-80’s it seemed as though a pub opened weekly around Bainbridge where live music was deemed essential to the success of saloon or shebeen.
And so Black 47 headed up the Major Deegan three or four times a week all through 1990-91. We worked our way up and down Braindamage (as it was affectionately known), getting fired more often than not, but there was always a new pub with need of a band.
By the time the recession ended in 1993 we had moved on to Letterman and the rest of the country. I never found out exactly what happened up on the street of dreams, but by the time we returned some years later, the Bainbridge we all knew and loved had disappeared.
This current recession will change us all and the way we look at life – the question is, how?
We will rally much faster than the nations of the EC for there is little other choice – lacking their social safety net we will change careers, work at jobs “beneath us,” invent new ways of making a living, even create industries; in fact do anything to survive.
Anyone familiar with Ireland of the 70’s will not need to be reminded of the mass stasis and depression that blighted the country; remember the saying – “last one out, lock the door and turn out the lights!”
It’s a toss of the coin, though, whether the US or China will recover first. Both sets of people are industrious: they are more frugal and thrifty; we tend to be more inventive. They need us to purchase their products, while we cannot fund our lifestyle without their credit.
It’s amazing that two such disparate systems are so interdependent. At the moment they have the more dynamic government, willing and eager to spend on capital projects so that when this crisis passes their county will have benefited – they are currently building or are have plans for a dozen new subway systems in order to lessen their dependence on foreign oil. With a bit of luck we’ll have the 2nd Avenue line in operation around the time the Mets next win the World Series. Hey, you gotta believe!
So far, however, we have always trumped Mao’s children when it comes to putting original ideas into operation - especially, in the midst of recessions. Witness the groundbreaking advances in computer technology during the recession of the 70’s and the boom in related industries soon after.
Now that the junk bond dreams and credit default schemes of the financial industry are behind us, expect a surge in entrepreneurship and the creation of new industries. That’s the American way.
Like it or not, though, we’re entering an age of the self-employment, part-time work and internships. Because we didn’t reform the health insurance system in flusher times most of the onus still remains on employers to provide that service; this puts American business at a disadvantage with most of the industrialized world where private citizens tend to pay into government backed schemes. Hopefully, the situation will be remedied in the coming four years, but the world will be a very different place by then with new challenges – and challengers.
Where will we be socially when the dust clears? I’ve always felt that the 60’s actually ended around 1983 - along with the preceding recession. Yuppies swept away the final vestiges of the counter-culture and it became cooler to work rather than party all night.
Tell me about it – I’m writing this at six in the bloody morning! Either we need another 60’s or more hours in the day. Come to think of it - where are my bell-bottoms?
And yet, tough times beget opportunities. During the recession of the early 90’s Black 47 got its start in the Bainbridge Avenue/204th Street area of the Bronx – then the center of Irish immigrant life.
It’s said that every Irishman would like to either own a pub or a racehorse. I don’t know about the ponies, but during the construction boom of the mid-80’s it seemed as though a pub opened weekly around Bainbridge where live music was deemed essential to the success of saloon or shebeen.
And so Black 47 headed up the Major Deegan three or four times a week all through 1990-91. We worked our way up and down Braindamage (as it was affectionately known), getting fired more often than not, but there was always a new pub with need of a band.
By the time the recession ended in 1993 we had moved on to Letterman and the rest of the country. I never found out exactly what happened up on the street of dreams, but by the time we returned some years later, the Bainbridge we all knew and loved had disappeared.
This current recession will change us all and the way we look at life – the question is, how?
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Ewan MacColl
I listened to Raglan Road by Luke Kelly recently. The song tells the story of Patrick Kavanagh’s unrequited love for the beautiful young Hilda Moriarty.
Kavanagh scribbled down the words of his poem and bade Kelly sing them to the air of Dawning of the Day one evening in the Bailey, a literary watering hole off Dublin’s Grafton Street. What a performance that must have been!
I hadn’t heard Kelly’s austere version in some years and was struck by the way he mines the diamond hard words for their inherent longing and regret without employing even a smidgen of melancholy.
It brought to mind the towering influence of Jimmie Miller. Who? Well, you might know him better as Ewan MacColl. Writer, singer, collector, poet, playwright, broadcaster, political activist, MacColl’s shadow still looms large over those of us from all shades of the spectrum who dabble in folk music.
Opinionated and authoritative, the man even ran a “school” where singers sat at the feet of the master, Luke Kelly amongst them. There MacColl pounded home the idea of the song’s sanctity and the duty of singers to immerse themselves in the words and music, then get out of the way and let the voice deliver the unadorned message.
Did he come to that understanding from Yeats’ dictum that “poetry should be as cold and passionate as the dawn,” or from the Calvinist heritage of his Scottish ancestry?
The man himself was born in Salford, home of fabled Manchester United. He would later immortalize this dingy conglomeration of factories and small terraced houses in “Dirty Old Town,” a song usually attributed to Shane McGowan.
McGowan doesn’t hesitate to credit MacColl’s influence, stating that in his youth he would never be caught dead in some stultifying folk club unless MacColl was performing within.
MacColl’s influence has transcended folk music. Listen to the restrained reading Roberta Flack gives “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” The man from Salford wrote that one too. In fact he first sang it over the phone as a gift to girlfriend Peggy Seeger while she was performing in the US. MacColl was for many years banned entry to the country because of his political views.
A confirmed Marxist, he had a fierce and uncompromising conviction in the dignity of workers – not just in their right to a fair standard of living, he also believed that many of the proletariat’s cultural values could be uplifting.
With that in mind, he set out to collect the songs and reminiscences of crofters and laborers, tramps and travelers, and the factory workers of the English industrial heartland.
He presented these in a series of groundbreaking BBC radio shows, though not in the dry anthropological manner of the day. Instead he introduced these “hidden” people in their unadulterated accents and earthy vitality, and bade them tell their own stories.
The shows caused a sensation because working people for the first time heard their own accents and experiences on the hitherto class-conscious national radio station. We’re long accustomed to this format now and perennially hear it exploited on call-in radio; but MacColl was an original who helped to give voice to the pent-up energy and raw talent that was being wasted and frustrated by the British class system.
I met him once in Folk City. He had finally been allowed into the US. He was older and there was a wistfulness in his eyes - there would be no working class republic built on truth and human decency. The room wasn’t even sold out, but everyone present was touched by the simple conviction of the man and the abiding power of his message.
And if some of his political ideas now seem outdated, his cultural ideals live on – one in particular, the notion that the singer is the servant of the song and not vice versa.
The next time you hear Raglan Road, if you can actually touch that “quiet street where old ghosts meet.” then you’ll know that Paddy Kavanagh’s unrequited love lives on - courtesy of one of MacColl’s children.
Kavanagh scribbled down the words of his poem and bade Kelly sing them to the air of Dawning of the Day one evening in the Bailey, a literary watering hole off Dublin’s Grafton Street. What a performance that must have been!
I hadn’t heard Kelly’s austere version in some years and was struck by the way he mines the diamond hard words for their inherent longing and regret without employing even a smidgen of melancholy.
It brought to mind the towering influence of Jimmie Miller. Who? Well, you might know him better as Ewan MacColl. Writer, singer, collector, poet, playwright, broadcaster, political activist, MacColl’s shadow still looms large over those of us from all shades of the spectrum who dabble in folk music.
Opinionated and authoritative, the man even ran a “school” where singers sat at the feet of the master, Luke Kelly amongst them. There MacColl pounded home the idea of the song’s sanctity and the duty of singers to immerse themselves in the words and music, then get out of the way and let the voice deliver the unadorned message.
Did he come to that understanding from Yeats’ dictum that “poetry should be as cold and passionate as the dawn,” or from the Calvinist heritage of his Scottish ancestry?
The man himself was born in Salford, home of fabled Manchester United. He would later immortalize this dingy conglomeration of factories and small terraced houses in “Dirty Old Town,” a song usually attributed to Shane McGowan.
McGowan doesn’t hesitate to credit MacColl’s influence, stating that in his youth he would never be caught dead in some stultifying folk club unless MacColl was performing within.
MacColl’s influence has transcended folk music. Listen to the restrained reading Roberta Flack gives “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” The man from Salford wrote that one too. In fact he first sang it over the phone as a gift to girlfriend Peggy Seeger while she was performing in the US. MacColl was for many years banned entry to the country because of his political views.
A confirmed Marxist, he had a fierce and uncompromising conviction in the dignity of workers – not just in their right to a fair standard of living, he also believed that many of the proletariat’s cultural values could be uplifting.
With that in mind, he set out to collect the songs and reminiscences of crofters and laborers, tramps and travelers, and the factory workers of the English industrial heartland.
He presented these in a series of groundbreaking BBC radio shows, though not in the dry anthropological manner of the day. Instead he introduced these “hidden” people in their unadulterated accents and earthy vitality, and bade them tell their own stories.
The shows caused a sensation because working people for the first time heard their own accents and experiences on the hitherto class-conscious national radio station. We’re long accustomed to this format now and perennially hear it exploited on call-in radio; but MacColl was an original who helped to give voice to the pent-up energy and raw talent that was being wasted and frustrated by the British class system.
I met him once in Folk City. He had finally been allowed into the US. He was older and there was a wistfulness in his eyes - there would be no working class republic built on truth and human decency. The room wasn’t even sold out, but everyone present was touched by the simple conviction of the man and the abiding power of his message.
And if some of his political ideas now seem outdated, his cultural ideals live on – one in particular, the notion that the singer is the servant of the song and not vice versa.
The next time you hear Raglan Road, if you can actually touch that “quiet street where old ghosts meet.” then you’ll know that Paddy Kavanagh’s unrequited love lives on - courtesy of one of MacColl’s children.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Astral Weeks Revisited
Earle Hitchner’s sterling review of Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks recreation launched many trains of thought as I rattled around in the back of a van some weeks back.
What’s so special about the original album? Suffice it to say that although it is decidedly of a time and place, Astral Weeks is timeless.
Interestingly enough, Van had already attempted to record some of the songs a short while earlier in 1968 and failed to capture their haunting essence - although many artists would give their eyeteeth to have these “failures” on their resume.
But luckily for us, the man from East Belfast persisted and his producers, sensing that the songs needed more than the R&B setting of the “failures,” hired four jazz musicians including the bassist, Richard Davis.
Davis, a giant of modern jazz, is still flummoxed that he is best known for his work on Astral Weeks. He recalled that back in ’68 he and his three comrades typically did a couple of sessions in the course of a day, then broke for dinner, and often a drink and a joint, before heading back to the studio for the night session.
On one such occasion, the artist had already locked himself in the vocalist booth with an acoustic guitar. When Davis asked what kind of music was required, he replied in a thick, almost unintelligible Belfast accent, “play whatever you like.”
And therein lies the magic. Without further ado Morrison let forth, leaving the band to catch his vibe. A number of the songs are slightly out of sync until Davis finds the pocket of Van’s strummed guitar and incandescent vocals. It’s a joy to hear the musicians search for each other then actually gel together, for nowadays such “imperfections” would be fixed digitally. There are times too when Davis exuberantly overplays his hand but this only serves to drive Morrison to stretch and slide along and in between the tones and tempos of his lyrics and melodies. But no matter where Van strays, this band of adventurous New York session heads is right there with him in a way that you’ll recognize from the best albums of Miles and Coltrane.
To be honest, I was relieved that I couldn’t attend the Madison Square Garden concerts. I’m sure they were great but it wasn’t hard to predict what Van would do. And he did it marvelously, if the CD “Astral Weeks: Live at the Hollywood Bowl” is any indicator.
I’m sure the man himself feels liberated. For a true artist refuses to get stuck in time but blazes on regardless; and Van has perennially been measured by this beautiful and ephemeral work he created back in ‘68.
Oh God, is it that long ago? And was my old buddy, the legendary rock critic, Lester Bangs, who Earle quotes liberally, a mere 34 when he so stupidly passed away? Bouncing around in the back of a van, I recalled many of our booze-fueled conversations at the Bells of Hell in those golden days before people began to take Ronald Reagan seriously.
Was there something intrinsically Irish about Astral Weeks, Lester would often ask.
Yes, there was, Lester. Joyce is there in spades: “The love that loves to love the love…” along with the Calvinist repression of East Belfast’s rainy back streets. You can almost touch the sexual longing of the shy, but purposeful, exile lately arrived in New York City. At twenty-three, Van already had ten years of hymns and blues and soul and showbands and beat groups under his belt and it all came streaming to the surface on those two magical nights.
And that’s why I didn’t want to see Van in the Garden. It would have been like coming face to face with your first love. After the initial hug and the inevitable catching up, what would you talk about? Better leave the past where it belongs – in a different country.
On the new CD Van is his powerful, brilliant self, controlling every note and tempo, but the jittery genius of Davis’ bass playing is missing. Van knows what he wants nowadays – and he always gets it!
All well and good, Astral Weeks will forever capture those two extraordinary nights when jazz and poetry, blues and folk, love and longing came “slim slow sliding” together.
More power to you, Van! You created a timeless moment and you’ve finally liberated yourself from it. Your best days may yet be ahead. Rave on, indeed, a chara.
What’s so special about the original album? Suffice it to say that although it is decidedly of a time and place, Astral Weeks is timeless.
Interestingly enough, Van had already attempted to record some of the songs a short while earlier in 1968 and failed to capture their haunting essence - although many artists would give their eyeteeth to have these “failures” on their resume.
But luckily for us, the man from East Belfast persisted and his producers, sensing that the songs needed more than the R&B setting of the “failures,” hired four jazz musicians including the bassist, Richard Davis.
Davis, a giant of modern jazz, is still flummoxed that he is best known for his work on Astral Weeks. He recalled that back in ’68 he and his three comrades typically did a couple of sessions in the course of a day, then broke for dinner, and often a drink and a joint, before heading back to the studio for the night session.
On one such occasion, the artist had already locked himself in the vocalist booth with an acoustic guitar. When Davis asked what kind of music was required, he replied in a thick, almost unintelligible Belfast accent, “play whatever you like.”
And therein lies the magic. Without further ado Morrison let forth, leaving the band to catch his vibe. A number of the songs are slightly out of sync until Davis finds the pocket of Van’s strummed guitar and incandescent vocals. It’s a joy to hear the musicians search for each other then actually gel together, for nowadays such “imperfections” would be fixed digitally. There are times too when Davis exuberantly overplays his hand but this only serves to drive Morrison to stretch and slide along and in between the tones and tempos of his lyrics and melodies. But no matter where Van strays, this band of adventurous New York session heads is right there with him in a way that you’ll recognize from the best albums of Miles and Coltrane.
To be honest, I was relieved that I couldn’t attend the Madison Square Garden concerts. I’m sure they were great but it wasn’t hard to predict what Van would do. And he did it marvelously, if the CD “Astral Weeks: Live at the Hollywood Bowl” is any indicator.
I’m sure the man himself feels liberated. For a true artist refuses to get stuck in time but blazes on regardless; and Van has perennially been measured by this beautiful and ephemeral work he created back in ‘68.
Oh God, is it that long ago? And was my old buddy, the legendary rock critic, Lester Bangs, who Earle quotes liberally, a mere 34 when he so stupidly passed away? Bouncing around in the back of a van, I recalled many of our booze-fueled conversations at the Bells of Hell in those golden days before people began to take Ronald Reagan seriously.
Was there something intrinsically Irish about Astral Weeks, Lester would often ask.
Yes, there was, Lester. Joyce is there in spades: “The love that loves to love the love…” along with the Calvinist repression of East Belfast’s rainy back streets. You can almost touch the sexual longing of the shy, but purposeful, exile lately arrived in New York City. At twenty-three, Van already had ten years of hymns and blues and soul and showbands and beat groups under his belt and it all came streaming to the surface on those two magical nights.
And that’s why I didn’t want to see Van in the Garden. It would have been like coming face to face with your first love. After the initial hug and the inevitable catching up, what would you talk about? Better leave the past where it belongs – in a different country.
On the new CD Van is his powerful, brilliant self, controlling every note and tempo, but the jittery genius of Davis’ bass playing is missing. Van knows what he wants nowadays – and he always gets it!
All well and good, Astral Weeks will forever capture those two extraordinary nights when jazz and poetry, blues and folk, love and longing came “slim slow sliding” together.
More power to you, Van! You created a timeless moment and you’ve finally liberated yourself from it. Your best days may yet be ahead. Rave on, indeed, a chara.
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