A wise Irishwoman once said, “Get to the heart of the issue, then all your problems will seem a lot simpler.”
Though she gave this advice in relation to a romance gone sour I was reminded of her words when reading the competing budget ideas of Rep. Paul Ryan and President Obama.
Both offer starkly competing visions but buried beneath all the trillions was the simple issue, “What kind of America do you want?”
Why do we never have that discussion? Probably because from the moment our politicians gain office they’re running for re-election and would prefer to deal with the immediate – like raising money.
Be that as it may, the deficit appears to be the main political talking point right now. Where did the damned thing come from in the first place?
Well, President Bush was handed a surplus of $231 billion on Jan 1st, 2000. Uncomfortable with this godsend he decided to reimburse us by giving an across the board tax cut.
To the man’s credit, he did promise to do so during his campaign. So, if you voted for him – suck it up! And if you didn’t vote at all, then what were you thinking? Democracy is not for wimps - it calls for commitment.
I didn’t vote for the man because I’m partial to the idea of a financial cushion. I’ve watched too many unforeseen disasters come rolling down the pike.
But Republicans prefer less government and that’s their right. President Bush, however, compounded matters by invading Iraq and granting a costly prescription drug Medicare benefit.
Trouble really arrived during the financial crisis of 2008 causing Mr. Bush to initiate the costly Troubled Asset Relief Program (TARP).
Then, in order to prevent mass unemployment President Obama added his own brick to the hod with his stimulus program. Which roughly puts us where we are now – hocked to the eyebrows to the Chinese Yuppie comrades.
Here’s the deal! If we were to go back to the tax rates of the Clinton Administration we’d reduce the deficit by $800 billion over the next 12 years.
Now I don’t know about you but I was drinking top shelf in Bubba’s days. It’s been all downhill since W and Barry went behind the stick. Clinton’s tax rates might have been a shade higher but I definitely had more shilling rattling around in my pocket.
Putting it baldly, the economy fared considerably better under Clinton’s tax raises than under Bush’s and Obama’s tax cuts.
Of course for a politician to even whisper, “raise taxes” is akin to announcing to your nearest and dearest that you intend hitting the pub with the lads the next ten nights in a row. A veritable invitation to suicide!
Raising taxes alone won’t bring back the Clinton salad days, entitlements like Medicare and Medicaid will need curbing; but hands off Social Security, for mere pennies a week from each of us that great program will run longer than Steve Duggan’s painted greyhound!
The real issue is - do you want a pre-FDR country with little or no social safety net but where you’ll definitely get to keep more of your hard-earned money?
If you’re young, educated and feeling lucky, Paul Ryan’s your man. He’s earnest and affable but doesn’t appear to have much of a grasp of economic history - harsh budgetary cuts in the midst of an anemic recovery is usually a recipe for economic stagnation.
Amazingly, by cutting entitlements while issuing roughly the same amount in tax breaks his plan will make no dent in the deficit but put a lot more people on the street! He ignores the fact that despite all President Bush’s tax cuts the middle class lost ground and the national debt ballooned.
On the other hand, dear President Obama, raising taxes on the rich alone may bring a smile to Rachel Maddow’s lovely face but will barely shave the deficit.
So, “what up?” as the rappers say?
Well, no one likes raising taxes but if we were to get real leadership and the full story, my guess is we’d all pull our weight. Most of us can handle reliving the 90’s, going back to the 20’s is out of the question.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Say It Ain't So, Bob Dylan
Say it ain’t so, Bob Dylan! After all the years of times a changin’ you go off to China and let the yuppie comrades dictate your set list?
Don’t you know that there are hundreds of thousands of us around the world who would gladly pony up a buck or two to enable you to thumb your nose at them? Jeez, if you caught me after a couple of pints I’d kick in a twenty spot myself!
What were you thinking, man? After fifty years of freewheelin’ you throw it all away and for what?
It’s not as if I don’t have experience of the matter. Back in ‘94 when Black 47 was the hottest thing since fried bread certain promoters would request that we not perform our version of Danny Boy as it celebrated the life of a gay Irish construction worker. Such conduct abruptly ended when it became obvious that we would then definitely play the bloody thing.
Likewise during the war we performed selections from our IRAQ CD every night, losing both gigs and fans in the process. No big deal, if you’re going to talk the talk then you better be prepared to walk the walk.
But what were Mao’s children going to do, Bobby? Throw fried rice at you if you slipped in the beautiful, if somewhat innocuous, Blowin’ In The Wind?
The least you could have done was fire off a blistering version of Masters of War, let them yuppie comrades know they should get their butts out of Tibet.
Still, it’s been a long time since you were overtly political. By the mid 60’s you seemed to tire of the whole idea. It begs the question if you were ever really political or were always just an astute weatherman who could tell which way the wind was blowing?
Be that as it may you have written some of the great protest songs whether by accident or design. That’s because you’re a first class poet, albeit a cruel one. You once accused the great Phil Ochs, a bona-fide politico, of being a mere journalist (ouch!).
Water under the bridge now! But you did write With God On Our Side, perhaps the second best protest song. That you were inspired by numero uno, The Patriot Game, is neither here nor there. Dominic Behan was less than thrilled and tried to haul you into court.
That great day never occurred because it was pointed out that both of you had lifted the melody from the traditional Merry Month of May.
Despite these little pinpricks I still consider you one the great artists of the 20th Century – right up there with Joyce and Picasso. And if I hadn’t heard your voice sneering Like a Rolling Stone from a cloth-covered radio I’d still be sculling pints back in Wexford.
The great thing about you, Bobby, is that after 50 years you’re still relevant. Your voice may now sound like Lady Gaga scraping her nails on a rusty cowshed but you’ve always got something to say. It may be thirteen years since you released Time Out Of Mind but there are some of us still blown out of the water by its enduring depth and magic.
Despite having had the good fortune to share managers with you, and be friends with one of your players and your best biographer, you’re still a mystery to me.
All three of these people testify that you’re a master of the mind game who’ll toy endlessly with people’s perceptions; maybe that’s what your bowing down to the comrades is really all about – a further tinkering with the foundations of our admiration?
Most of your acolytes would have pulled the show from principle or pragmatism. But the mystic joker, as ever, didn’t give a damn.
Ah well, it’s good to know you still matter, Bob. I only have one question for you, “How does it feel to be on your own… still the one and only rolling stone?”
Don’t you know that there are hundreds of thousands of us around the world who would gladly pony up a buck or two to enable you to thumb your nose at them? Jeez, if you caught me after a couple of pints I’d kick in a twenty spot myself!
What were you thinking, man? After fifty years of freewheelin’ you throw it all away and for what?
It’s not as if I don’t have experience of the matter. Back in ‘94 when Black 47 was the hottest thing since fried bread certain promoters would request that we not perform our version of Danny Boy as it celebrated the life of a gay Irish construction worker. Such conduct abruptly ended when it became obvious that we would then definitely play the bloody thing.
Likewise during the war we performed selections from our IRAQ CD every night, losing both gigs and fans in the process. No big deal, if you’re going to talk the talk then you better be prepared to walk the walk.
But what were Mao’s children going to do, Bobby? Throw fried rice at you if you slipped in the beautiful, if somewhat innocuous, Blowin’ In The Wind?
The least you could have done was fire off a blistering version of Masters of War, let them yuppie comrades know they should get their butts out of Tibet.
Still, it’s been a long time since you were overtly political. By the mid 60’s you seemed to tire of the whole idea. It begs the question if you were ever really political or were always just an astute weatherman who could tell which way the wind was blowing?
Be that as it may you have written some of the great protest songs whether by accident or design. That’s because you’re a first class poet, albeit a cruel one. You once accused the great Phil Ochs, a bona-fide politico, of being a mere journalist (ouch!).
Water under the bridge now! But you did write With God On Our Side, perhaps the second best protest song. That you were inspired by numero uno, The Patriot Game, is neither here nor there. Dominic Behan was less than thrilled and tried to haul you into court.
That great day never occurred because it was pointed out that both of you had lifted the melody from the traditional Merry Month of May.
Despite these little pinpricks I still consider you one the great artists of the 20th Century – right up there with Joyce and Picasso. And if I hadn’t heard your voice sneering Like a Rolling Stone from a cloth-covered radio I’d still be sculling pints back in Wexford.
The great thing about you, Bobby, is that after 50 years you’re still relevant. Your voice may now sound like Lady Gaga scraping her nails on a rusty cowshed but you’ve always got something to say. It may be thirteen years since you released Time Out Of Mind but there are some of us still blown out of the water by its enduring depth and magic.
Despite having had the good fortune to share managers with you, and be friends with one of your players and your best biographer, you’re still a mystery to me.
All three of these people testify that you’re a master of the mind game who’ll toy endlessly with people’s perceptions; maybe that’s what your bowing down to the comrades is really all about – a further tinkering with the foundations of our admiration?
Most of your acolytes would have pulled the show from principle or pragmatism. But the mystic joker, as ever, didn’t give a damn.
Ah well, it’s good to know you still matter, Bob. I only have one question for you, “How does it feel to be on your own… still the one and only rolling stone?”
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Michele Bachmann and Powerball
I recently sang a couple of songs in Cooper Union at the centennial commemoration for those who perished in the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire.
“You don’t say,” says Your Man up in Pearl River. “We didn’t think you were performing at a Sarah Palin Rally!”
I do have to admit that it was a thrill to stand on the same stage where a rather more stellar Republican, Abraham Lincoln, gave one of his greatest speeches.
Besides, Sarah is auld hat now. Everyone and their granny knows that Michele Bachman is the new inheritor of Margaret Thatcher’s mantle.
But back to the commemoration - I had the unenviable task of following Cecil Roberts, President of the United Mine Workers Union. This was akin to going on after the Rev. Ian at a DUP rally in East Belfast.
Brother Roberts is one hell of an orator. He had the audience crying over the 100,000 US miners that have died from work related accidents since 1930, he had them cheering by declaring that Gov. Scott Walker of Wisconsin is the best union advocate to come down the pike in decades, and he had them taking to the barricades when he stated that the top 1% in this country who own 35% of the wealth could kiss his union ass.
Hardly, Lincolnesque but effective nonetheless!
Now I don’t blame schoolteachers, cops or firemen for the country’s financial woes; it’s no crime to wish to retire with some kind of financial security.
But the fact is there’s so much anti-union rhetoric currently being spewed out that a certain amount is beginning to stick. If there’s a change in the weather fingers begin pointing at the UAW, while if the Yankees lose a couple of games, it’s likely the fault of the AFT.
All of us, Left, Right and Center, are being manipulated by that top 1%. It’s just that we’re so busy trying to keep our heads above water we don’t have time to stop and think about it.
Consider this! Back in the bellbottom 70’s manufacturing workers were pulling in $15-20 per hour. The recently negotiated UAW contract guarantees new hires $14 per hour. Thirty years of progress!
That great American ineluctable right – or rather assumption – that one can make the middle class is now a mere pipe dream for much of the population.
Many who lost their jobs in the recent financial debacle stand scant chance of regaining their standard of living, for those decent union jobs of 30 years ago have been replaced by low paying service industry positions, if at all. The great factories that I once drove past on Route 80 are now boarded up shells. Buffalo, Toledo, Detroit are graveyard cities, their populations declining by the year.
How did this come about? Well we trusted venal politicians in the pocket of lobbyists employed by the top1% oligarchy. Meanwhile, we allowed ourselves to be divided by a media more interested in selling ads than seeking the truth; and the sad part is - nothing has changed.
Capitalism itself was almost brought down by Wall Street cowboys whose only interest was the bonuses they would receive for their casino-like trading from over-leveraged positions. And now we’re prepared to let their political hacks dilute and shackle the recently enacted Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act.
Hey, but let’s not get carried away, we all have that infinitesimal chance of someday joining the heady 1%, so don’t rock the boat, baby. Lloyd Blankfein from the Bronx was raised in public housing and will receive $19 million this year for steering Goldman Sachs to the brink and then resuscitating it. Who cares that people are raising families on $19,000 per annum?
So to hell with Cecil Roberts and his unions, later for collective bargaining and regulation too! The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire happened100 years ago and it was just a bunch of immigrants anyway. It’s every man for himself now – every woman too. Besides, there’s always Michele Bachmann – and Powerball
“You don’t say,” says Your Man up in Pearl River. “We didn’t think you were performing at a Sarah Palin Rally!”
I do have to admit that it was a thrill to stand on the same stage where a rather more stellar Republican, Abraham Lincoln, gave one of his greatest speeches.
Besides, Sarah is auld hat now. Everyone and their granny knows that Michele Bachman is the new inheritor of Margaret Thatcher’s mantle.
But back to the commemoration - I had the unenviable task of following Cecil Roberts, President of the United Mine Workers Union. This was akin to going on after the Rev. Ian at a DUP rally in East Belfast.
Brother Roberts is one hell of an orator. He had the audience crying over the 100,000 US miners that have died from work related accidents since 1930, he had them cheering by declaring that Gov. Scott Walker of Wisconsin is the best union advocate to come down the pike in decades, and he had them taking to the barricades when he stated that the top 1% in this country who own 35% of the wealth could kiss his union ass.
Hardly, Lincolnesque but effective nonetheless!
Now I don’t blame schoolteachers, cops or firemen for the country’s financial woes; it’s no crime to wish to retire with some kind of financial security.
But the fact is there’s so much anti-union rhetoric currently being spewed out that a certain amount is beginning to stick. If there’s a change in the weather fingers begin pointing at the UAW, while if the Yankees lose a couple of games, it’s likely the fault of the AFT.
All of us, Left, Right and Center, are being manipulated by that top 1%. It’s just that we’re so busy trying to keep our heads above water we don’t have time to stop and think about it.
Consider this! Back in the bellbottom 70’s manufacturing workers were pulling in $15-20 per hour. The recently negotiated UAW contract guarantees new hires $14 per hour. Thirty years of progress!
That great American ineluctable right – or rather assumption – that one can make the middle class is now a mere pipe dream for much of the population.
Many who lost their jobs in the recent financial debacle stand scant chance of regaining their standard of living, for those decent union jobs of 30 years ago have been replaced by low paying service industry positions, if at all. The great factories that I once drove past on Route 80 are now boarded up shells. Buffalo, Toledo, Detroit are graveyard cities, their populations declining by the year.
How did this come about? Well we trusted venal politicians in the pocket of lobbyists employed by the top1% oligarchy. Meanwhile, we allowed ourselves to be divided by a media more interested in selling ads than seeking the truth; and the sad part is - nothing has changed.
Capitalism itself was almost brought down by Wall Street cowboys whose only interest was the bonuses they would receive for their casino-like trading from over-leveraged positions. And now we’re prepared to let their political hacks dilute and shackle the recently enacted Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act.
Hey, but let’s not get carried away, we all have that infinitesimal chance of someday joining the heady 1%, so don’t rock the boat, baby. Lloyd Blankfein from the Bronx was raised in public housing and will receive $19 million this year for steering Goldman Sachs to the brink and then resuscitating it. Who cares that people are raising families on $19,000 per annum?
So to hell with Cecil Roberts and his unions, later for collective bargaining and regulation too! The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire happened100 years ago and it was just a bunch of immigrants anyway. It’s every man for himself now – every woman too. Besides, there’s always Michele Bachmann – and Powerball
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Brian Heron
Brian Heron was a singular man. More like a force of nature, that’s why it was shocking to hear he had passed away recently.
What a character! Grandson of James Connolly, lawyer, revolutionary, musician, organizer, cultural ambassador, founder of Irish arts centers on both coasts - just thinking about him is dizzying.
He had his grandfather’s eyes, though Brian’s were wilder, if less disciplined. Connolly rose up against an empire in an effort to improve the lot of working people. Heron sought to add joy and fulfillment to those same lives, while at the same time resurrecting a dormant ancient Irish spirit. A tall order, perhaps, but Brian gave it his everything.
Another relative of Connolly’s once said, “James might have been a great man but he was always getting people to do things they didn’t want to!”
Brian’s apple didn’t drop far from the tree. I once saw him persuade my brother – a man not known for his left wing sympathies – to hand out flyers for some radical group one freezing night on Seventh Avenue.
He persuaded John Lennon to write songs about the Irish struggle – in particular Sunday Bloody Sunday and Luck of the Irish. Brian, however, was far from impressed with these classics – he had hoped Johnny would create a new form of Rock & Roll Sean Nós.
It was his utter conviction that was so impressive, for Brian, though extremely likeable, never finished charm school.
One evening we acolytes - having fought the good fight at some rally or other – were promised tickets to a John Lennon concert at Madison Square Garden. As usual, we were late and there was no parking; undeterred, Brian drove his old postal van up on the footpath outside the Garden with the words, “Who’s going to tow the US Mail - or ticket it for that matter?”
Sure enough, after enjoying the show from the VIP seats, we found the van untouched and ticketless. Viva La Revolucion!
That van was to play a further role in my life. I was in those years somewhat turbulently involved with a beautiful Irish American Princess from the leafy environs of Westchester. My friends labeled her the IAP, which they less than charitably pronounced Yap!
She was not at all taken with Brian and considered him a bad influence on me. I can’t remember what that night’s particular tiff was about but we had argued until way past dawn when she had stormed off to her good job in mid-town.
Whereupon, as luck would have it, the phone rang - it was Brian urging me to pack my bags for a trip to Kansas City where revolution was in the air and comrades in short supply. Feeling that I needed my space - as we used to say back then - I signed on, wrote a tear-stained letter - that would have done justice to Dr. Zhivago - promising a speedy return, and awaited Brian.
Alas the Left is not known for making trains run on time, much less aging postal vans. Many hours later when I was just about to hop aboard the IAP arrived home from work, suitably penitent and full of affection.
At the sight of Brian and the packed van her mood changed drastically. She informed me that should I depart the locks would be changed forthwith and she would at last be free to bestow her favors on each of my many close friends who had propositioned her behind my back.
With that crushing underhanded blow delivered she sashayed up the front steps of our building in her usual ravishing manner. Brian shook his head sadly; not for the first time had sex bested the revolution. The van pulled off for Kansas City without me.
When I last saw Brian in Tampa we rolled around the floor of the Four Green Fields at the memory.
The last I heard of Brian he was planning a return to Ireland to run for president. That would, indeed, have been a great circle completed.
Rave on, Mr. Heron, you affected so many lives though many still have no notion. What better tribute? Viva La Revolucion!
What a character! Grandson of James Connolly, lawyer, revolutionary, musician, organizer, cultural ambassador, founder of Irish arts centers on both coasts - just thinking about him is dizzying.
He had his grandfather’s eyes, though Brian’s were wilder, if less disciplined. Connolly rose up against an empire in an effort to improve the lot of working people. Heron sought to add joy and fulfillment to those same lives, while at the same time resurrecting a dormant ancient Irish spirit. A tall order, perhaps, but Brian gave it his everything.
Another relative of Connolly’s once said, “James might have been a great man but he was always getting people to do things they didn’t want to!”
Brian’s apple didn’t drop far from the tree. I once saw him persuade my brother – a man not known for his left wing sympathies – to hand out flyers for some radical group one freezing night on Seventh Avenue.
He persuaded John Lennon to write songs about the Irish struggle – in particular Sunday Bloody Sunday and Luck of the Irish. Brian, however, was far from impressed with these classics – he had hoped Johnny would create a new form of Rock & Roll Sean Nós.
It was his utter conviction that was so impressive, for Brian, though extremely likeable, never finished charm school.
One evening we acolytes - having fought the good fight at some rally or other – were promised tickets to a John Lennon concert at Madison Square Garden. As usual, we were late and there was no parking; undeterred, Brian drove his old postal van up on the footpath outside the Garden with the words, “Who’s going to tow the US Mail - or ticket it for that matter?”
Sure enough, after enjoying the show from the VIP seats, we found the van untouched and ticketless. Viva La Revolucion!
That van was to play a further role in my life. I was in those years somewhat turbulently involved with a beautiful Irish American Princess from the leafy environs of Westchester. My friends labeled her the IAP, which they less than charitably pronounced Yap!
She was not at all taken with Brian and considered him a bad influence on me. I can’t remember what that night’s particular tiff was about but we had argued until way past dawn when she had stormed off to her good job in mid-town.
Whereupon, as luck would have it, the phone rang - it was Brian urging me to pack my bags for a trip to Kansas City where revolution was in the air and comrades in short supply. Feeling that I needed my space - as we used to say back then - I signed on, wrote a tear-stained letter - that would have done justice to Dr. Zhivago - promising a speedy return, and awaited Brian.
Alas the Left is not known for making trains run on time, much less aging postal vans. Many hours later when I was just about to hop aboard the IAP arrived home from work, suitably penitent and full of affection.
At the sight of Brian and the packed van her mood changed drastically. She informed me that should I depart the locks would be changed forthwith and she would at last be free to bestow her favors on each of my many close friends who had propositioned her behind my back.
With that crushing underhanded blow delivered she sashayed up the front steps of our building in her usual ravishing manner. Brian shook his head sadly; not for the first time had sex bested the revolution. The van pulled off for Kansas City without me.
When I last saw Brian in Tampa we rolled around the floor of the Four Green Fields at the memory.
The last I heard of Brian he was planning a return to Ireland to run for president. That would, indeed, have been a great circle completed.
Rave on, Mr. Heron, you affected so many lives though many still have no notion. What better tribute? Viva La Revolucion!
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Aidan and George - Cousins Finally United
Aidan Ffrench died a few weeks back. In his day he was a well-known figure around County Wexford.
He had a beautiful voice and was lead singer of the Visitors Showband. I wouldn’t say I rocked out to him, as big ballads were his forte; but if Aidan was no rocker he had rock hard credentials. For he was a cousin of George Harrison’s and, in music mad Wexford, this was second only to being related to John F. Kennedy or John XXIII.
Up until the 1920’s Wexford had a bi-weekly shipping connection with Liverpool and George’s grandmother, a Miss Ffrench, apparently availed of it to seek her fortune Merseyside. Had she not, I suppose, there would have been no Beatles.
When the Fab Four struck it big Aidan dropped a line to his cousin offering to forward some tapes. George never replied. Perhaps that’s why I can’t recall Aidan ever tackling a Beatles song, though I’m convinced he could have done a first class version of “Something.”
Ah well, now that they’re both playing in the big orchestra in the sky, no doubt George can give a good excuse for his lack of etiquette.
Whenever I play The Beatles on SiriusXM I always call them “the greatest Irish band.”
This often occasions letters from Anglophiles – a pity about them! For both Lennon and McCartney have deep Irish connections and, with a name like Starkey, it’s hard to imagine that Ringo hasn’t a bit of Paddy in him too.
Indeed many people consider Liverpool to be the “capital of Ireland,” since so many Merseysiders have Irish roots. Not surprising, I suppose since Liverpool is so close to Dublin in both miles and attitude. But the real reason is that the ‘Pool was the main point of embarkation for the US.
Thus, during the Potato Famine most Irish had to travel to Liverpool before taking the boat to America. Many ran out of money or were too ill to go any further, while at the same time the Industrial Revolution was taking hold and there was much need of cheap labor in Lancashire. America’s loss was Liverpool’s gain.
What an amazing band The Beatles were! We sometimes forget that their recording career stretched barely more than seven years. Think of the sheer output and the efficiency of their genius.
They completed their first album in two four-hour sessions and still had time to take the van home and do a late night show at The Cavern. The key to their success, apart from having three top-shelf songwriters, is that they were an amazing live band.
However, they were just another group of young R&B aficionados until they went to Hamburg in 1961. They stayed many months playing six sets a night, seven nights a week; it worked, for on their return they blew everyone away Merseyside.
None of them went to college, in fact only Paul graduated high school, and yet they had something that cannot be taught in a classroom – a total belief in themselves. As John Lennon once put it, “we knew we were the best, everything else was easy.”
Nor could any of them read music – although Paul learned later in life – consequently they didn’t know the rules, but they sure as hell rewrote them. Take a look at the wonderfully innovative chordal structures of their songs.
McCartney recently attributed their success to the fact that they were the first Post-War British generation not to undergo the mandatory two years of national service – “they never got a chance to shape us,” he claimed.
There was a lot of shaping back in Wexford. You were reminded over and over of all the things you couldn’t be, and that failure was inevitable; if you disagreed you were considered “too big for your boots.”
Aidan Ffrench died largely unknown. Had he grown up in Liverpool, could he have become as famous as his cousin? We’ll never know but maybe he’s singing “Something” right now while George’s guitar gently weeps – cousins finally united!
He had a beautiful voice and was lead singer of the Visitors Showband. I wouldn’t say I rocked out to him, as big ballads were his forte; but if Aidan was no rocker he had rock hard credentials. For he was a cousin of George Harrison’s and, in music mad Wexford, this was second only to being related to John F. Kennedy or John XXIII.
Up until the 1920’s Wexford had a bi-weekly shipping connection with Liverpool and George’s grandmother, a Miss Ffrench, apparently availed of it to seek her fortune Merseyside. Had she not, I suppose, there would have been no Beatles.
When the Fab Four struck it big Aidan dropped a line to his cousin offering to forward some tapes. George never replied. Perhaps that’s why I can’t recall Aidan ever tackling a Beatles song, though I’m convinced he could have done a first class version of “Something.”
Ah well, now that they’re both playing in the big orchestra in the sky, no doubt George can give a good excuse for his lack of etiquette.
Whenever I play The Beatles on SiriusXM I always call them “the greatest Irish band.”
This often occasions letters from Anglophiles – a pity about them! For both Lennon and McCartney have deep Irish connections and, with a name like Starkey, it’s hard to imagine that Ringo hasn’t a bit of Paddy in him too.
Indeed many people consider Liverpool to be the “capital of Ireland,” since so many Merseysiders have Irish roots. Not surprising, I suppose since Liverpool is so close to Dublin in both miles and attitude. But the real reason is that the ‘Pool was the main point of embarkation for the US.
Thus, during the Potato Famine most Irish had to travel to Liverpool before taking the boat to America. Many ran out of money or were too ill to go any further, while at the same time the Industrial Revolution was taking hold and there was much need of cheap labor in Lancashire. America’s loss was Liverpool’s gain.
What an amazing band The Beatles were! We sometimes forget that their recording career stretched barely more than seven years. Think of the sheer output and the efficiency of their genius.
They completed their first album in two four-hour sessions and still had time to take the van home and do a late night show at The Cavern. The key to their success, apart from having three top-shelf songwriters, is that they were an amazing live band.
However, they were just another group of young R&B aficionados until they went to Hamburg in 1961. They stayed many months playing six sets a night, seven nights a week; it worked, for on their return they blew everyone away Merseyside.
None of them went to college, in fact only Paul graduated high school, and yet they had something that cannot be taught in a classroom – a total belief in themselves. As John Lennon once put it, “we knew we were the best, everything else was easy.”
Nor could any of them read music – although Paul learned later in life – consequently they didn’t know the rules, but they sure as hell rewrote them. Take a look at the wonderfully innovative chordal structures of their songs.
McCartney recently attributed their success to the fact that they were the first Post-War British generation not to undergo the mandatory two years of national service – “they never got a chance to shape us,” he claimed.
There was a lot of shaping back in Wexford. You were reminded over and over of all the things you couldn’t be, and that failure was inevitable; if you disagreed you were considered “too big for your boots.”
Aidan Ffrench died largely unknown. Had he grown up in Liverpool, could he have become as famous as his cousin? We’ll never know but maybe he’s singing “Something” right now while George’s guitar gently weeps – cousins finally united!
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Irish Need Not Apply
The old country is bleeding. Over one thousand young people are leaving every week. Someone remarked recently, “It’s just one going-away party after another.”
Where are they heading, this best educated Irish generation? Not here – many to EU countries, some to the UK, but mostly to the new land of opportunity, Australia.
Once we would have heard their accents ricocheting around Bainbridge, Woodside and all the various South sides around the country but that’s a thing of the past.
What went wrong? Well, the long and the short of it - we don’t want them in Fortress America.
And so on this St. Patrick’s Day eve it’s time to take stock before we dive into our annual orgy of self-congratulation – some deserved, some not so.
The man reason these young Irish are not coming to the US is that it is almost impossible to do so legally – Irish need not apply. And it is hardly worth their time coming illegally, the few avenues that used to be open towards gaining a green card and eventual citizenship have been closed off. What’s the point in spending a life on the shadowy margins when somewhere else better appreciates the talent on offer?
Irish-America could do with some new blood. I recently stood outside the shell of the old Bunratty Pub on Kingsbridge Avenue and remembered nights when men wild with drink blasted jigs and reels the like of which I’d never heard in Ireland. There wasn’t an Irish face to be seen - nor any outside the Archway where only a couple of decades ago hundreds lined up to dance.
It’s the same story all over this city and the country – old neighborhoods are dying for lack of immigrant youth. Irish need not apply and most of us take it lying down.
A new Taoiseach will go hat in hand to present shamrock at the White House on St. Patrick’s Day but DC wants nothing to do with a fair immigration law. The new Know-Nothings rule the roost – Irish need not apply.
But we must face the fact that many of these young emigrants no longer see the US as the land of opportunity. Now I still stand by the claim that this is the best country in the world. But a country is only as great as the aspirations of its people.
It is indeed time to look in the mirror and examine what these emigrants see - a country at permanent war hemorrhaging its youth and wealth in endless conflicts half way around the world. A society that, instead of strengthening its social safety net, is talking of dismantling it, thus inevitably impoverishing large sections of an aging working and middle-class.
Still, these trends can be reversed – but only if we shake ourselves free from a national lethargy. It’s easy to be cynical, after all 99% of us didn’t cause the recent financial meltdown. But the fact is we didn’t keep an eye on those who were supposed to be keeping an eye on the store for us.
Most of us didn’t want to invade Iraq and, according to polls, would rather be the hell out of Afghanistan. Yet, we allow our leaders to prosecute policies that are driven by outdated 9/11 related strategies.
These are hardly just Irish-American issues but, from both left and right, we’ve always been known for our advocacy and our desire for justice, whether it be Bobby Kennedy or Ronald Reagan, William F. Buckley or Pete Hamill. Right now we badly need a comprehensive reform of emigration law no matter how difficult it may be to pass through an increasingly Know-Nothing congress.
We have inherited a country and a proud Irish-American mantle. We have need of new blood, while at the same time there are those undocumented amongst us who would only love to set foot on Irish soil again to visit aging parents.
It’s time our politicians heard that message. Many of them, Democrat and Republican, take our votes for granted. That has to end.
Then perhaps someday we’ll hear those mad flutes and fiddles blasting jigs and reels on Kingsbridge Avenue once again.
Where are they heading, this best educated Irish generation? Not here – many to EU countries, some to the UK, but mostly to the new land of opportunity, Australia.
Once we would have heard their accents ricocheting around Bainbridge, Woodside and all the various South sides around the country but that’s a thing of the past.
What went wrong? Well, the long and the short of it - we don’t want them in Fortress America.
And so on this St. Patrick’s Day eve it’s time to take stock before we dive into our annual orgy of self-congratulation – some deserved, some not so.
The man reason these young Irish are not coming to the US is that it is almost impossible to do so legally – Irish need not apply. And it is hardly worth their time coming illegally, the few avenues that used to be open towards gaining a green card and eventual citizenship have been closed off. What’s the point in spending a life on the shadowy margins when somewhere else better appreciates the talent on offer?
Irish-America could do with some new blood. I recently stood outside the shell of the old Bunratty Pub on Kingsbridge Avenue and remembered nights when men wild with drink blasted jigs and reels the like of which I’d never heard in Ireland. There wasn’t an Irish face to be seen - nor any outside the Archway where only a couple of decades ago hundreds lined up to dance.
It’s the same story all over this city and the country – old neighborhoods are dying for lack of immigrant youth. Irish need not apply and most of us take it lying down.
A new Taoiseach will go hat in hand to present shamrock at the White House on St. Patrick’s Day but DC wants nothing to do with a fair immigration law. The new Know-Nothings rule the roost – Irish need not apply.
But we must face the fact that many of these young emigrants no longer see the US as the land of opportunity. Now I still stand by the claim that this is the best country in the world. But a country is only as great as the aspirations of its people.
It is indeed time to look in the mirror and examine what these emigrants see - a country at permanent war hemorrhaging its youth and wealth in endless conflicts half way around the world. A society that, instead of strengthening its social safety net, is talking of dismantling it, thus inevitably impoverishing large sections of an aging working and middle-class.
Still, these trends can be reversed – but only if we shake ourselves free from a national lethargy. It’s easy to be cynical, after all 99% of us didn’t cause the recent financial meltdown. But the fact is we didn’t keep an eye on those who were supposed to be keeping an eye on the store for us.
Most of us didn’t want to invade Iraq and, according to polls, would rather be the hell out of Afghanistan. Yet, we allow our leaders to prosecute policies that are driven by outdated 9/11 related strategies.
These are hardly just Irish-American issues but, from both left and right, we’ve always been known for our advocacy and our desire for justice, whether it be Bobby Kennedy or Ronald Reagan, William F. Buckley or Pete Hamill. Right now we badly need a comprehensive reform of emigration law no matter how difficult it may be to pass through an increasingly Know-Nothing congress.
We have inherited a country and a proud Irish-American mantle. We have need of new blood, while at the same time there are those undocumented amongst us who would only love to set foot on Irish soil again to visit aging parents.
It’s time our politicians heard that message. Many of them, Democrat and Republican, take our votes for granted. That has to end.
Then perhaps someday we’ll hear those mad flutes and fiddles blasting jigs and reels on Kingsbridge Avenue once again.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Bad Timing and a Ferocious Thirst
Timing is everything, they say. You may have the goods and the right intentions but, if you’re not in the right place at the right time, forget about it!
Take the case of Major Thinkers – surely one of the most unfortunate band names when it came to critical reviews. However, our song “Avenue B Is The Place To Be” was once all the rage south of14th Street.” Whatever about Lower Manhattan, Belfast circa 1981 was most definitely not the place to be.
On the strength of this anthem we were invited by an Irish record company to tour the country. And so Pierce Turner, Thomas Hamlin, Peter Collins and I hit the green fields of Ireland.
The dates in the South went off riotously enough; it was when we hit the North of Ireland that our timing and luck ran out. Bobby Sands went on hunger strike.
I’m not quite sure what we were thinking but we had already reached Belfast when we discovered that “because of mounting tension” our date was “postponed until further notice.” Derry and Omagh followed suit. But Gloria Hunningford still resolved to host us on her widely watched television show.
Belfast was dark and rainy, and the tension was, indeed, rife. The streets were deserted but the city was not without color, what with each neighborhood bedecked with either Union Jacks or Tricolors.
We taped a performance of our song and both Gloria and her technical crew felt Major Thinkers “were on the edgy side.” How right they were, for a revolution was mounting within the band - our bass player, Peter, had grown tired of Turner and Kirwan forever doing the interviews.
I, somewhat unselfishly, relinquished my chat with the beautiful Gloria - for the chance of doing some sightseeing, aka drinking.
Thus did Mr. Hamlin and I hit the streets. We both had ferocious thirsts and, in an effort to quench them, soon ran out of pounds sterling. However, a number of pubs were accommodating and changed our few dollars – albeit at exorbitant rates. And then we were down to Irish punts and thus did our misfortune begin.
After various bartenders had diplomatically notified us that they could not change “Irish money,” we way cool New Yorkers decided on stealth tactics. At this point we had entered a small pub, well away from the city center. I humbly requested two pints of Guinness.
The barman, a rather charmless individual, was far from friendly; nonetheless, he put time and care into pulling two magnificent Imperials whereupon I produced a nice crisp Ten Punt note.
At the sight of this he curled his thin lips in a most alarming manner before stating in a flat East Belfast accent, “We don’t accept Free State money in here.”
The affable hum of conversation stopped dead and I should have cut my losses but a raging thirst knows no bounds for I foolishly inquired, “So what are you going to do with the two pints?”
He never took his eyes off me as he slowly tipped the two gorgeous Imperials into the sink. The silence now was deafening as I backed towards the door and into the unflappable Mr. Hamlin who had missed this exchange while trying to make sense of some political posters – not of the Republican persuasion.
That may well have been one of the longest walks of my life back to the television studios. Belfast was a maze of speed bumps so every car that passed us had to slow down, leaving us with lurid visions of being kidnapped by the UVF for the heinous crime of attempting to purchase pints of plain with Fenian money.
But we survived and life went on. Bobby Sands MP would die some months later, round about the time Major Thinkers scored an unlikely hit with “Avenue B Is The Place To Be.”
Thirty years have passed and Belfast is a pleasant bustling city despite some sectarian undercurrents. Major Thinkers, alas, are barely a memory.
Many things have changed but bad timing and a ferocious thirst can still get you in a lot of trouble.
Take the case of Major Thinkers – surely one of the most unfortunate band names when it came to critical reviews. However, our song “Avenue B Is The Place To Be” was once all the rage south of14th Street.” Whatever about Lower Manhattan, Belfast circa 1981 was most definitely not the place to be.
On the strength of this anthem we were invited by an Irish record company to tour the country. And so Pierce Turner, Thomas Hamlin, Peter Collins and I hit the green fields of Ireland.
The dates in the South went off riotously enough; it was when we hit the North of Ireland that our timing and luck ran out. Bobby Sands went on hunger strike.
I’m not quite sure what we were thinking but we had already reached Belfast when we discovered that “because of mounting tension” our date was “postponed until further notice.” Derry and Omagh followed suit. But Gloria Hunningford still resolved to host us on her widely watched television show.
Belfast was dark and rainy, and the tension was, indeed, rife. The streets were deserted but the city was not without color, what with each neighborhood bedecked with either Union Jacks or Tricolors.
We taped a performance of our song and both Gloria and her technical crew felt Major Thinkers “were on the edgy side.” How right they were, for a revolution was mounting within the band - our bass player, Peter, had grown tired of Turner and Kirwan forever doing the interviews.
I, somewhat unselfishly, relinquished my chat with the beautiful Gloria - for the chance of doing some sightseeing, aka drinking.
Thus did Mr. Hamlin and I hit the streets. We both had ferocious thirsts and, in an effort to quench them, soon ran out of pounds sterling. However, a number of pubs were accommodating and changed our few dollars – albeit at exorbitant rates. And then we were down to Irish punts and thus did our misfortune begin.
After various bartenders had diplomatically notified us that they could not change “Irish money,” we way cool New Yorkers decided on stealth tactics. At this point we had entered a small pub, well away from the city center. I humbly requested two pints of Guinness.
The barman, a rather charmless individual, was far from friendly; nonetheless, he put time and care into pulling two magnificent Imperials whereupon I produced a nice crisp Ten Punt note.
At the sight of this he curled his thin lips in a most alarming manner before stating in a flat East Belfast accent, “We don’t accept Free State money in here.”
The affable hum of conversation stopped dead and I should have cut my losses but a raging thirst knows no bounds for I foolishly inquired, “So what are you going to do with the two pints?”
He never took his eyes off me as he slowly tipped the two gorgeous Imperials into the sink. The silence now was deafening as I backed towards the door and into the unflappable Mr. Hamlin who had missed this exchange while trying to make sense of some political posters – not of the Republican persuasion.
That may well have been one of the longest walks of my life back to the television studios. Belfast was a maze of speed bumps so every car that passed us had to slow down, leaving us with lurid visions of being kidnapped by the UVF for the heinous crime of attempting to purchase pints of plain with Fenian money.
But we survived and life went on. Bobby Sands MP would die some months later, round about the time Major Thinkers scored an unlikely hit with “Avenue B Is The Place To Be.”
Thirty years have passed and Belfast is a pleasant bustling city despite some sectarian undercurrents. Major Thinkers, alas, are barely a memory.
Many things have changed but bad timing and a ferocious thirst can still get you in a lot of trouble.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
