Sample Itinerary
Hi. Just thought you might be interested in a brief overview of a recent week-in-the-life during April:Saturday: NEFFA. Volunteer stint at food table; socializing; schlepping; jamming; playing for Israeli dance with Robin and the Deaf Girls.
Sunday: NEFFA, again. Performance with Commonwealth; socializing; schlepping; practice with Amelia for gig.
Later, party at family home of Cape Breton fiddler extraordinaire Doug Lamey, with bursts of conversation and full-steam-ahead jamming.
Monday: Late-evening farewell party at Club Passim for Cindy Howes, Passim night manager, Podcaster, promoter and generally delightful person; ad hoc open mic ensues, at which I sing "The Village Idiot Song."
Tuesday: Rehearsal for BC Irish Studies Program performance.
Wednesday: Morris dance practice.
Thursday: Irish Connections organizational meeting, followed by social hour (actually more like two).
Friday: Performance with BC Irish Studies Program faculty (Seamus Connolly, Laurel Martin, Jimmy Noonan and Beth Sweeney) and their terrific students, three of whom I collaborated with for separate pieces.
Saturday: Performance at Gore Place Sheepshearing Festival with Commonwealth.
Later, more practice with Amelia.
Sunday: Sloth, mainly.
Of course, the day after the day after that was May Day...
A Pause in the Proceedings
When I started this little bit of whimsy 10 years ago (technically I started it twice in 1996, but after the first several months the contents were inexplicably deleted), Princess Diana, Saddam Hussein, Pope John Paul II, William Manchester, Johnny Unitas, Margaret MacArthur, Johnny Cunningham and Tony Cuffe, among others, were still alive -- yes, the World Trade Center was still with us, too -- my daughters were in elementary school, and I was in search of a community. My wife and I had found and cultivated one through our school involvement, but it obviously had a built-in expiration date. So I thought that tossing around various thoughts, observations and experiences -- here and elsewhere throughout the Triple Double U -- might be a means to find others with whom I shared some characteristics or traits.So did I find a community? Well, yes -- here, here, here, here, to name a few. Did the 'Net facilitate this? Partly. Did "Daze and Quirks"? Well, frankly, not much; but that was OK, because This Space has been a means to set down a lot of things -- films seen, books read, music heard, epiphanies realized, parental moments crystallized -- and in so doing, to perhaps better integrate them into my memory.
If this is starting to sound like a farewell message, well, not so fast. What's happened, I think, is that in the past couple of years this community I've fashioned is now getting a lot of the attention I used to indulge here. So I think at the very least I need to re-think what "D&Q" could be, if anything at all, in this new landscape. At any rate, its past and current incarnations will still be here for the forseeable future, should anyone be interested.
And I will certainly be around.
November, Let's Remember
A negligent newsman, I am, I am. But here's a quick look at the past, oh, couple of months:*Two very enjoyable morris dance events, here and here.
*Lots of great music sessions: The Brendan Behan (with after-party), two outings at J.P. O'Hanlon's (with Tina Lech and then Jeremy Kittel, as well as Our Man Flynn), a BC Irish Society party and even a resurgence at Tommy Doyle's in Hahvahd Squah.
*A Boston Urban Ceilidh at BC, co-organized by yours truly. A high point: Encountered a young African-American woman in sweats, scribbling in her notebook as Laura Cortese and band churned out reels. Remarked, "I've never seen anyone do homework at a ceilidh before," and she smiled, explaining that she had actually come as part of an assignment for her music class. "But I love it!" she exclaimed, with a smile. "I even did a couple of the dances. I came right here from basketball practice, but now I feel energized!" There might be a socially relevant perspective piece in there, somewhere, but all I know is, the conversation literally warmed my heart.
*Books: Paddy on the Hardwood: A Journey in Irish Hoops, Rus Bradburd; Songs In Ordinary Time, Mary McGarry Morris; Our Town: A Heartland Lynching, a Haunted Town, and the Hidden History of White America, Cynthia Carr
What I Did to My Summer Vocation
In shortish order:*Had a beyond-imaginably lovely Labor Day weekend as part of the American music staff at Pinewoods. Music, more music, and plenty of conversation, notably with sometime band-mate Heather, who will surely conquer the Irish music world if there is any justice. Even got to sing "The Village Idiot Song" and marry 20th-century, pseudo-blues guitar to a 16-17th century viol piece.
*Played a couple of tune sets with occasional session buddy Flynn Cohen at the Blackstone Valley Celtic Festival, most of which I spent in the Green Room Tent happily chatting with Halali, Matt and Shannon Heaton, Aoife Clancy, Robbie O'Connell, George Keith and various other friends and acquaintances. Not meaning to drop any names, of course. Fun? Hell yes.
*Spent an overnight with Me Mum so I could drive her to and from her eye surgery.
*Got idea, thanks to aforementioned session buddy Flynn, for a project on contra dance in New England that might just be do-able.
*Went to a session at the Brendan Behan Pub - - and subsequently wound up being hired with my session mates to play three blocks away at a backyard BBQ, at which there seemed to be numerous people with tattoos and/or pitbulls. Nonetheless, a grand time.
*Dubbed my new musical enterprise "Tooremoor," which I am happy to say will play at next January's Boston Celtic Music Fest. Hint: It's a corruption of "two or more."
*Books read included: "Lila Says," by Chimo; "Amaryllis Night and Day" by Russell Hoban; "Lighthousekeeping" by Jeannette Winterson; and "All Souls" by Michael Patrick McDonald.
*Most importantly of all, bid farewell to southward-traveling OD, off to begin her college career. Somewhere, it seems, a book's chapter, or perhaps a volume, has closed.
Work is back to its familiar cycle, our downstairs apartment is full again, as is life. See you, sometime.
Tune of June
It's often one of the quieter months, theoretically, what with the wind-down at work and the end of regular weekly commitments for the summer. But, gosh, this June did not pass without a fair amount of noise and light.*OD now being an officially minted high school graduate, our connection with the school community becomes ever more frayed and distant. Not that that's in and of itself a "bad" thing; it just simply is - - we grow, we change, we move on. Many good days, some not so. A lot of memories to sift through in one sitting. Still, the fact is, it's an achievement in which OD should take equal parts pride and humility. There were many who made it possible - - some of them with shared genetic material - - but she did most of all.
*A more musically active month there seldom has been:
==Irish Connections was blighted to some degree by the ubiquitous cool downpours which permeated most of the spring. But YD and I headed down to Canton nonetheless so I could do my shift at performer hospitality and will-call, whilst she befriended (and photographed) various and sundry carnival barkers.
Having done my time, and delivered YD back home, I proceeded to enjoy myself for the next several hours: Crooked Still, which gives the best sound checks ever (but then you'd have to, if you've got Rushad Eggleston in the mix); Paul Brady, who I hadn't seen live since he performed at the 1979 Lisdoonvarna Festival in the midst of thick smoke from a distant bonfire - - this night, he did most of his own compositions but thankfully also included "Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore"; and a de rigeur appearance at the Boston Urban Ceilidh, where poor Hanneke Cassel practically shredded her vocal cords putting us through our paces.
But I have to mention the performance by Keltic Dreams, a group of about 30 elementary schoolkids from the Bronx, almost all of Latino, Hispanic or African-American extraction, who were turned on to Irish dance by their Dublin-born teacher and wound up forming a troupe of their own. There will be a link forthcoming to an article in Boston Irish Reporter that will provide some much-needed elaboration. Do come back.
==Boston Celtic Music Fest Wonder Weekend. OK, we didn't call it that, but it was quite a two-headed bit of fun: Saturday, a two-and-a-half hour cruise around Gloucester Harbor with the likes of George Keith, Abbie MacQuarrie, Jeremy Ball, Susie Petrov and Mike O'Leary. Great weather, calm waters (no Technicolor yawns from this writer, thanks) and wonderful music and songs - - got in an energetic "Courted A Sailor," in fact. Sunday was the benefit concert at Passim, fronted by Robbie O'Connell, Jacqueline Schwab and Barbara and Robert McOwen. Got to do a turn as MC and auctioneer, and to listen to four people who, period full stop, know how to put on a good show.
==YD and I represented the household at Old Songs this year. Skirted some nasty weather over the weekend, and were treated to many reunions with old friends and new (and with family members, of course). Oh yes, music: Wild Band of Snee is Dr. Seuss meets Frank Zappa by way of Edward Lear, anchored by Rushad's gleeful sense of the absurd and Aoife O'Donovan's absolute love of music in the moment; Teada, young guns of Irish music with very precise group vision; and a chorus song workshop that, serendipitously, featured Joe Hickerson singing "Ain't No Grave Can Hold My Body Down" and Michael Cooney with "Red Velvet Steering Wheel Cover Driver," both of which were fixed in my mind permanently thanks to the Fox Hollow Folk Festival.
==Lastly, but not leastly, new musical collaborator Kristin and I had our first gig - - playing for half an hour at a garden party - - and then proceeded to record an audition CD. Rather hope it's the start of a byootiful, fruitful relationship.
*Things you don't expect to hear in a conversation with an MBTA bus driver:
"How're you doin' today, sir?"
"Oh, pretty good, how about you?"
"Well, today I'm wishing I still was working at my accountant job in Munich."
*Books:
=="The Troubles," by Tim Pat Googan - - Absolutely fascinating, often enthralling behind-the-scenes look at Northern Ireland, mainly focused on the 1966-96 period. Particularly of interest: Coogan's account of the "Greening of the IRA," taking place largely through the crucible of the late 1970s/early 1980s prison protests and hunger strikes; and the frequently aggrieved relationship between the media and British, Irish and Northern Irish governments about coverage of The Troubles - - a conflict that rings uncannily like what we've seen of late vis a vis Iraq and the War on Terror.
=="My Life as a Dog," by Reidar Jonsson.
=="Captives," by Linda Colley.
*Films:
=="L'Effrontee"
=="Napoleon Dynamite"
May-Ahem
Didn't really mean to make this a once-a-month-only enterprise, but so it goes these days.*Somewhat disappointing morris season, mainly because Lilac Sunday was a victim of the nearly 10-day procession of grim, raw, rainy days which inflicted itself on the middle part of May. Fortunately, May Day and the Ginger Ale were spared.
May Day had a different feel to it, since Commonwealth had its dawn stand in the wilds of Arnold Arboretum before joining the Cambridge throng. And the numbers overall seemed down this year, for some reason. But in all, it was May Day, and we made the most of it. So much so, in fact, that I was plumb tuckered out for the better part of a day and a half.
The Ginger Ale had fine weather, thank goodness, and an overall really congenial ambiance. Maybe 10 years just brings that sort of comfort and ease. Also helped that there seemed to be so many parents from the morris and folk community on hand, to really help lend a sense of solidarity. Best of all, OD clearly enjoyed herself, even doing "Princess Royal" with Nathaniel in a perfect spirit of friendly competition and one-upmanship.
And we did manage a Harvard Square dance-out with Newtowne and Muddy River, though, which made up some for the lack of Lilac.
*Continuing the nascent musical partnership with Kristin, via a short practice and a couple of Doyle's sessions at which we were the only participants. Very enjoyable getting used to our musical and personal quirks.
Meanwhile, largely through the encouragement of occasional session-mate Flynn Cohen, I'm trying to work on using the bouzouki for rhythm rather than just melody and counterpoint. Had a terrific craic with Flynn and the delightful Tina Lech at O'Hanlon's, where I experienced the pleasure of "hop jigs."
Earlier that same day, I attended a photo shoot at a former school (now used for affordable housing) in Jamaica Plain under the direction of shutterbug and occasional fiddler Paul McEvoy, who wanted to take a group photo of (mainly) Irish/Irish-American/Celtic musicians in the Boston area. (Paul prepared well: took out a special permit to keep the curb across from the site free of parked cars and allow for an unobstructed shot.) One by one, two by two, and on and on, the musicians trickled in, alone or with friends and family; folks like Larry Reynolds, Frank Ferrel, Joe Joyce (The People's Choice), Seamus Connolly and Jimmy Hogan, who've seen it and done it all for decades, not just years. And then there were John McGann, Paul Mulvaney, Brian O'Donovan, Bridget Fitzgerald, Michael O'Leary - - t-t-talkin' 'bout my generation. Add in the likes of Matt and Shannon Heaton, Flynn Cohen, Laura Cortese, George Keith, Eric Merrill, Paddy League. . . aw, you know, it was just a real once-in-a-lifetime event.
And much to my surprise, I suddenly became part of it, as Paul ushered me into the shooting area, the stairs of the old school. No instrument with me, but at least I wore my BCMFest T-shirt.
The greetings and small talk accelerated to hundreds of intertwined conversations per minute, many of them in familiar Irish brogue or classic Boston Irish patois.
"Well! Look who's here!"
"Jazus, the people they invited to this! Ye're gonna break the camera lens with that face!"
"Best-dressed I've ever seen yah!"
"Hey, have ye heard lately from-?"
Brian O'D was in rare form. A few of us were remarking on the concept of trying to herd so many musicians into one place in a given time period, to which he replied: "The pure naivety of this is impressive in of itself." Later, as the throng of photo-models-to-be continued to grow, he channeled Colonel Kurtz: "Drop the Big One. You can take out the whole music community right here."
At length, Paul directed everyone to break out their instruments, so fiddles, flutes, accordions, guitars, plus the odd banjo and bodhran, were fetched out of cases. It was, of course, futile to expect hands to stay completely at ease, so before long there were about a half-dozen separate tunes emanating from the steps.
Laughter and conversation being equally prevalent, Paul grabbed a bullhorn to politely instruct people as to where they were supposed to stand. "And is anybody listening?" he concluded. "Uh, no."
But lo and behold, everyone managed to stay still for several minutes while Paul and his auxiliaries snapped away. Only minutes after the "all clear" signal, the rain came. We all scattered away to our cars, and the stairs were still and empty.
April (All of it)
*Four months.Less than four months, in fact.
And then we're a three-person household, essentially, as OD goes off to college. Every so often, the implications of that hit me, but it still seems so far off. Still, I have to say that there's a certain wistfulness for me this year about the morris dance season, something we've shared for the better part of 10 years now; a lot of "lasts" for April and May, and not just for her, but a lot of the kids we've known. So I suppose it's not just the prospect of change in our homestead, but in this community she and I have built, which is starting to assert itself in my mind.
*So, throughout these past few weeks, another kind of prospect emerges: a potential musical collaboration with a fiddler I met through the Tommy Doyle's session. After exchanging some e-mail on the possibility, we finally carved out a couple of hours and had a definite ball: Went through some Scots and Nova Scotian stuff, and I offered up "Pride of Glencoe." As a bonus, her tabla-playing roommate joined in on the fun, and the result was such that we started musing on the idea of doing an audition for BCMFest.
*Also, on the musical front was the now-annual hook-up with Seamus Connolly and his students for the BC Arts Festival. Worked out a slightly different arrangement for "The Bonnie Light Horseman" which, to my mind, is an improvement over what I had in place for, what, close to 20 years? Played bodhran on some of the sets, but also was able to back up two whistle players on the Christy Barry jigs; elected to capo up to the fifth fret, which - - as I too easily forget - - really does make for a nice, bright sound that provides a good contrast.
Mum came down for the concert, and afterwards went out with us for lunch and conversation. Nice when one's parent can get along with your friends so easily.
*Oh yes, and on the dance side of the ledger, my debut day with Commonwealth Morris, first at the Gore Place spring festival followed immediately by dear old NEFFA, which after all these years (and rumors) is apparently going to move to a new location next year - - talk about "lasts." Anyway, a very busy, demanding but ultimately satisfying day - - was in every dance, in fact - - that didn't stop: Also helped old friend Paul Mulvaney run a bouzouki workshop in the evening, and seemed to give the impression I had an idea of what I was talking about. In any case, Paul said some very kind things about me, which I take as supreme compliments.
Sunday at NEFFA, incidentally, ended with what might be called a typical NEFFA jam session. Despairing of finding a couple of friends (at NEFFA, you just do NOT say "I'll catch up with you later," unless you include a time and location), I set up shop in the back hall, pulled out the zouk and had at it. Within 15 minutes, I swear, three other musicians had showed up, and then about three more. At the end, some an hour-and-a-half later, a morris dancing fiddler and I were attempting a Romanian waltz and a 2/4 Israeli dance tune. Love it.
*I don't always start out the day weeping, but this story damn near had me doing so: Five-year-old Kai Leigh Harriott, paralyzed by a stray bullet, goes to a victim-impact hearing for the man responsible and tells him through her tears that he had wronged her - - and that she forgave him. Then her mother's pronouncement: "We're not victims here; we're victors." Who knows where all this will lead, for Kai, for her family, for her assailant. But that tableau, brief and perhaps fleeting as it was, makes a lot of grown-ups look awfully silly and petty. (Hopefully, this link will remain active for a while).
Approach of April
*Ah, gotta love the Boston Herald. For the better part of a week, they've made the Antonin Scalia Salute a front-page story. What if Tony Blair should do his rendition of King-Henry-V-at-Agincourt while visiting The Hub? Could be worth a four-page insert.
*Inspiration is a lovely thing. After spinning off some Paddy Tunney recordings for friend Flynn, I've been listening again to more "roots" singers, including several from Co. Fermanagh, and now have a list of three or four songs I want to incorporate into my repertoire. I'm neither a folklorist nor archivist, and I've drawn most of my inspiration from the folk revival, but feels like a good and worthy thing to get back to the basics.
*Books completed:
=="The Tree Sitter" by Suzanne Matson - - A coming-of-age memoir of Julie, a young woman who, through her lover, becomes involved with a group of environmental activists in the Pacific Northwest. Matson very effectively evokes Julie's uneasy but self-transforming initiation into the group, which begins when she helps "tree sit" in an Oregon forest to delay a lumber company's operation and continues as she manages to infiltrate the firm. Wisely, Matson doesn't overdo the plot's drama: Julie's orbit in the group's universe is a relatively brief one - - but it's enough to make her, and us, think hard about (A) what we do in the name of love, and (B) how we measure our complicity in acts of injustice. The memoir, as we discover, is really only a few years removed from the events, but is now filtered through the lens of 9/11, which raises yet more troubling questions. For Julie, and no doubt for us.
=="Mary George of Allnorthover," by Lavinia Greenlaw - - Another sort of coming-of-age tale, about a nearly college-age girl approaching a new chapter in her life even as her small English village is coming to terms with the end of an era, beset by economic difficulties, the loss of familiar terrain to development and the advent of new cultural styles and mores. Mary also is becoming painfully aware of the circumstances behind her parents' separation, which has left them too angry and unhappy to provide her with much in the way of direction or attention, so these she seeks out from her various peers and friends - - who, of course, are often caught up in their own struggles.
*Having recently borrowed from the library a DVD collection of the first two seasons of "Homicide: Life on the Streets," I blissfully recall how much of a cherished slot in my TV schedule that show once was - - and that Melissa Leo is, to put it mildly, one hot lady detective.
*Musical acquisitions: Jake Armerding, "Caged Bird" and "Jake Armerding" - - It's pleasurably difficult to try to neatly categorize Armerding's style, as a writer, musician and, well, member of the human race. He can come across as a rather sardonic, rootless 20-something who can spin off some quite clever lines ("Some people say that the start of the day is the sunrise/I would agree, if it weren't for my false medication") and songs, namely "Little Boy Blue" and "Peace of Mind" - - which makes use of all the major cross-streets in Back Bay, in alphabetical order yet. But then he'll throw in classical literature references ("Ithaca"), and offer up unabashed spirituality and a candid, very believable vulnerability and gratitude, all to some absolutely lovely melodies: "Lullaby in E Minor" and "You Took Me In." His musical influences similarly range far and wide, from bluegrass to country to an acoustic urban pop. Seems like the kind of guy who can hold up his end of a conversation.
Sprrrrringggggg
*...except, of course, that it's New England spring, with 30-degree days and stiff north to northwest breezes.*Tons o'music, of course: Tommy Doyle's, which is turning into quite the hot session; O'Hanlon's, where the band du jour (including Flynn Cohen and Tina Lech) not only backed up John Roberts (!) for a couple of terrific songs, but even had a go at "Piano Man" with a guest ivory-tickler; the BC St. Patrick's Zamboni Room party, with the wonderful, wondrous Kathleen Conneely as the de facto compere; and then, as an observer, an outing to the Matt and Shannon Heaton Passim concert to mark the release of their new CD, "Blue Skies Above." Absolutely wonderful: When LW and I weren't laughing at their stories and stage patter, we were marveling at their dextrous playing, and in particular Shannon's empathetic but dignified singing.
*Finishing up this musical feast was a helluva St. Patrick's Day gig: playing with friendly acquaintance Laurel Martin at a swank dinner club in downtown Boston, some 35 floors above the ground.
We got there to set up our sound system around 4 p.m., and the view was crystal clear and incredible, to say the least. We were scheduled to start, technically, at 5:30, but after having hooked up the sound system -- and discovering that the speakers were picking up a radio broadcast, which necessitated some fiddling with the dials and other measures -- we sat down around 5:10 to tune up and go through a couple of sets to iron out a few kinks. We figured, "Hey, might as well just start."
Laurel - - with whom I'd played at a few sessions or in performances as part of a larger ensemble - - is not what you would call a firebrand fiddler. There's a delicate, almost reserved touch to her playing, and so it was truly incumbent upon me not to overstrum or unnecessarily complicate things. Really enjoyed taking her through some of the songs in my repertoire, like "Rambling Irishman," "To the Begging," "Bonny Light Horseman" and even stand-bys like "Banks of Red Roses." Meanwhile, I have a whole bunch of "new" tunes to dally with, on zouk and guitar - - and, thanks indirectly to Laurel, I no longer am squeamish about playing in C.
I'd steeled myself for the possibility of having to fend off the "Danny Boy" requests, but only one person actually came up to ask for a song. He asked if we knew "The Soldier's Song." I replied that I had used to know it back as a kid (listening to a lot of Clancy Brothers) but hadn't sung it in years.
"Oh," he said. "Well, could you sing it in English, then?"
I had to gently explain I couldn't manage the song in Irish _or_ English. He seemed a little disappointed but was quite nice.
Basically, it all went very quickly. We took a break after about an hour for dinner, when we were briefly spelled by a bagpipe band; the maitre'd led us to a private conference room where the view was equally lovely. But I was rather chagrined to find out that the club had a no-booze-for-performers rule.
At the end, after we'd packed everything up and were heading for the door, a 50ish woman stepped to us and said how much she had enjoyed our playing, and that one of the reasons she'd come to the reception was she heard there was going to be live Irish music.
Home, courtesy of Laurel, then a few Harps while watching the NCAA hoops.
*Viewings:
=="Pretty Persuasion" - - More high school nasty, a la "Heathers," "Election" or "Mean Girls," with a dark-haired version of Evan Rachel Wood playing mother-abandoned Kimberly, who orchestrates, in many ways, a charge of sexual harassment against one of her teachers. The first part of the movie is anchored well by Wood's nuanced, muted delivery, but loses its way as it twists through Kimberly's plot and aftermath (the questionable use of flashbacks doesn't help).
=="The Day After Tomorrow" - - There's a duly-noted political tangent to this film, i.e., the potential impact of global warming, but Kyoto partisans probably don't want to leap on the merchandising bandwagon. Whatever the merits of the scientific theories underpinning the plot, it's a 1970s disaster movie all grown up, with some quite profound plot holes and leaps of faith. What would've been far more interesting, and provocative, is the scenario at the end of the film, when North America and Europe are devastated - - and it is "first world" refugees who crowd into the third world countries further south. Sequel?
=="Spirited Away" - - Hayao Miyazaki spins up a modern folk tale that, while hard to follow at times (unless perhaps one has a certain knowledge of Japanese art and culture), is entertaining nonetheless. Chihiro, a young girl en route to her new home, is ensnared in a strange netherworld of spirits and quasi-beings from which she must not only escape but also rescue her bewitched parents. Miyazaki very effectively helps us empathize with Chihiro as she contemplates her predicament, and gamely takes the steps to get out of it.
March, March, March, the boys are tramping
*YD and I endure a full four days of quietude, as LW and OD head south to scout out a couple of colleges. YD plans out her time pretty well - - outings with friends here, sleepover there - - but does end up spending one day at home, and with no Internet access to boot. When I offer her solace for her solitude, she replies, "Hey, Dad, that's what a vacation is, sometimes - - hanging around the house just doing nothing." Smart girl.*Trip, by the way, is successful as far it goes in that it reinforces concept of OD actually going to college, from our vantage point as well as hers.
*Attended house concert featuring The McKassons, a splendid brother-sister act from the Pacific Northwest who perform a very atmospheric, often emotive brand of Scottish music. Afterwards, some fun jamming with the two, as well as, oh drop a name shall we? Laura Risk. Hanneke Cassel. And a few of the ridiculously talented teen fiddlers as well.
This comes, mind you, two days after seeing Mick Moloney, Robbie O'Connell and John Doyle, along with exotic-looking fiddler Athena O'Lochlainn, put on a helluva show. The instrumental prowess was, to put it mildly, profound. But how 'bout the singing? Well, the three guys did "Annan Water" a cappella, and it was amazing.
In need of a session afterwards, I scurried off to the Old Irish Alehouse in Dedham for a couple of hours. Nice family atmosphere, good players, worth a return visit.
*Musical acquisitions:
==Jeremy Kittel, "Roaming" - - Former US National Scottish fiddle champion Kittel charges (roams?) through some 50 minutes of reels, jigs, airs and contemporary pieces, adding in traditional American and jazz influences to his Celtic style, aided by some excellent, intelligently arranged accompaniment, notably by guitarist John Behling. Good range of mood and temperament, such as the "Stairwell Time" set and the spunky "Oisin's Tune." "The Fire Hose Reel," his extensive avant-garde duet with pianist Irena Portenko, veers perilously close to self-indulgence, but the next, and last, track of the album - - a trio of reels ending with old-familiar "Frank's Reel" - - makes for a most satisfactory conclusion.
==Flynn Cohen, "Mellow Yell" - - (Note: Personal-acquaintance quotient high, objectivity likely tainted) After releasing a debut album of Irish instrumental music, Flynn shows off his considerable bluegrass/old-timey chops, not only on his nimble flat-picking but his underrated vocals, joined by an estimable collection of friends and associates, including John McGann, Eric Merrill, Jake Armerding and Crooked Still's Aoife O'Donovan, Rushad Eggleston and Greg Liszt. There is a host of engaging, upbeat songs - - Kristin Andreassen's simple, joyful "Shiny Penny," and Mark Simos' "Angelita" and ( a bluegrass sequel to "She Loves You"?) "She's Coming Back to You" - - as well as the haunting traditional ballad "Hangman." The instrumentals cover an equally fascinating range, from the sensitively rendered "Thumbring" to the impossibly fast "Mellow Yell."
Feb One-Six
*OD returns from her service trip, her heart and mind predictably, and understandably, spread out somewhere between here and Central America. Snippets of details and anecdotes are shared - - of elementary school-age runaways, unusual but enjoyable housing accommodations, shared fellowship - - but clearly, this will take a while to process.The trip to the airport is like something out of a cruel screenwriter's fantasy: unrelenting traffic outside the terminal, which necessitates frequent trips 'round the interior roadway loop; OD's luggage arriving late (eventually by quite some hours); and, to top it off, one of my contact lens decides to shift off my pupil, leaving me with one good eye.
But I did get to be the first to inform OD thusly: "By the way, while you were gone, the vice president of our country shot someone."
*A few days later, LW and I treat ourselves to Laura Cortese's CD release concert at Passim, where less than a week before I had done my first volunteer stint. Absolutely sublime and full o'love, this night, as Laura unveiled the evolution in her musical persona, combining Celtic, pop, alt-rock and alt-country in a most convincing way.
Then the moment came when she introduces her dynamic bass player, Zack Hickman, as a none-too-shabby pianist. Zack obligingly plays a breezily jazzy intro, and Laura stately sings "Happy Birthday." Yes, guess whose benefit this was for. It was easily the classiest arrangement of "Happy Birthday" ever sung to me, and for entertainment value it beat by a solid mile the rendition by the messenger gorilla bearing a gift of a case of Molson.
LW and I hung around for the after-party, which included a guitar-and-banjo exploration of 1970s and 80s hits ("Eye of the Tiger," "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," "Just What I Needed" and "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover") and a lengthy session of "Rat" - - one of those rapid-fire rhythm and response games. Somehow, we actually make it to 1:30 a.m. or thereabouts before succumbing to common sense. And how gratifying, truly, to know we are valued members of this folk community.
*A staggering lapse on my part: How, how could I have let pass unmentioned the championship ascendancy of my "other" favorite NFL team, the Steelers? And this after having watched Joe Greene and comrades crush the very will and spirit of Fran Tarkenton and Co., Terry Bradshaw and Lynn Swann lay waste to the Dallas secondary, and John Stallworth strike a pose for one of the best Sports Illustrated covers ever. Consider this an attempt at restitution.
*Viewing: "Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World" - - Peter Weir captures much of the historical detail-laden essence of Patrick O'Brian's novels on the adventures of Napoleonic era British sea captain Jack Aubrey and his constant friend, and foil, the ship's doctor Stephen Maturin. Russell Crowe evokes the bundle of complexities that seem to make for the (almost) ideal commander: honor, expediency, empathy, bloody-mindedness...to name a few.
*Musical acquisition: "Gaelic Roots," with various musicians - - Important for its historical value as well as musical quality, this collection of recordings made at the 1993 and 1995 Boston College Gaelic Roots festivals includes performers like (deep breath here) Sean Potts, Paddy Keenan, Seamus Egan, Jackie Daly, Liz Carroll, Joe Derrane, Mark Simos, Tony Cuffe, Buddy MacMaster and a host of other notable Irish/Scots/French-Canadian/Cape Breton and other Gaelic/Celtic maestros. Hard to pick out highlights, really, but if one has to, Eileen Ivers' duet with Simos and John McGann's astonishing solo mandolin reel medley come to mind.
Now In Our 49th Year
*Birthday passes calmly, relatively uneventfully, and I have my own personal celebration courtesy of the Tommy Doyle session. Really like the dynamic, at least so far: No one really "runs" it, per se, although there are enough strong personalities to seize command if need be. So, if a certain grizzled middle-aged guitarist wants to do a song, there's no hint of an institutional disdain. Even the Scots-Irish dichotomy doesn't appear to be an issue, yet. Just hope partisans of both traditions find enough common ground, and tunes.*Leftover from the State of the Union: Couldn't some enterprising comedy ensemble have cobbled together a faux Robert Palmer video, complete with the mini-skirted, mascara-drenched haughty all-model back-up band and a Dubya lookalike singing, "Gonna have to face it/We're addicted to oil"?
*Book completed: "With Your Crooked Heart," by Helen Dunmore - - The focus of this novel is a years-long triangle involving the ungracefully-aging, alcoholic Louise, her driven ex-husband Paul and Paul's aimless ne'er-do-well younger brother Johnnie. At some continually shifting location outside this triangle is its very human product, 10-year-old Anna, independent and reflective well beyond her age. The evolution of this complicated, ultimately destructive relationship is revealed in flashbacks and shifting narrative voices, and no one comes off looking particularly well. But Dunmore doesn't hit stride until later on, when she juxtaposes an ill-considered flight of fancy by Johnnie and Louise with Anna's precocious expression of free will. In the end, as the triangle is suddenly and violently destroyed, we're left to consider the possibility that Anna may be able to fashion her life around a different, and far better, geometric construct.
*Viewings:
=="The Magalene Sisters" - - Based-in-fact chronicle of three young Irishwomen banished, on both cruel and rather flimsy pretexts, to the infamous Magdalene "reform schools" operated by Catholic nuns. Since it essentially follows the prison movie template - - learn the ropes, the power relationships, adapt or be crushed - - the film's success is dependent on its three leads, and this is a definite strength: brokenhearted Rose, clinging to some hope that she'll be part of her out-of-wedlock child's life; Margaret, forced to develop both a backbone and a certain deviousness that we're confident will serve her well should she return to her family; and, perhaps most intriguing, Bernadette, who appears to be all hard edges and pragmatism but reveals an occasional tender side. A documentary "extra" on the DVD, meanwhile, offers more of an historical background to the story - - and some rather harrowing commentary.
=="Lost in Translation" - - If airports are a kind of diplomatic-legal limbo, as was the case in "The Terminal," hotels - - for all their hospitality - - smack of a similar unworldliness for foreign travelers, like Bob (Bill Murray) and Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson), both visiting Tokyo under less-than-ideal circumstances. Bob is a past-his-prime movie star in town to shoot a whiskey commercial, which at least does get him away (but not completely) from his detail-obsessed wife. Charlotte is accompanying her barely present photographer husband of two years, who's consumed with his assignments, leaving her to sit around in her underwear glumly contemplating the Tokyo cityscape. As Bob and Charlotte become acquainted with one another, they give one another strength and encouragement to explore their environment, and themselves. What's gratifying is that this is accomplished with nary a hint of obligatory sexual tension.
Februarily We Roll Along
*A quiet week in the household, given the absence of OD (from whom we receive some intermittent, and comforting, communication about the progress of her service trip).I'm continuing to think about a CD project, and I'm leaning toward this approach: record as much basic (i.e., just involving me) stuff as I can; revisit a few tracks later on with some guest musicians; select about five to seven "best" and package it as best I can; keep everything else for possible use on audition CDs as needed. Great. Next on the list: time, money.
*Went to The Skellig for the first time in ages, with George Keith anchoring the session. A fine old time - - if only I could've heard it through all the ambient customer noise, which was more profound than usual.
*Read a feature a little while back about a middle-aged college professor, husband and father, and his efforts to deal with his terminal disease, with particular focus on his relationships with family, friends and students. The familiar elements are there: candid, frank acknowledgement of impending mortality, a certain expediency in managing his time and affairs, dark humor mingling with appreciation for the remaining days. Well-meant, uplifting to be sure, but I sometimes find myself reading these kinds of stories with a blend of both curiosity and annoyance. Are there not cases where the terminally ill person reacts poorly, goes into that good night full of bitterness, fear and overarching regret and sadness, to the point of alienating his/her loved ones? Or does that well-documented process of acceptance truly assuage all? I think it's almost as difficult for us to contemplate our response to the reality of terminal illness as it is the disease and its finality.
*Viewing: "The Wicker Man" - - Oh my. Cult film in many senses of the word. Edward Woodward is piously Christian police sergeant called to investigate disappearance of young girl on a remote Scottish island, which turns out to be a hotbed of mysterious customs, rituals and beliefs derived from paganism. As a folkie, though, it's hard to take with a straight face some of the "interpretations" of traditional music and dance presented here: the "landlord's daughter" song in which pub patrons demonstrate a remarkable penchant for spontaneous vocal arrangements; a maypole dance - - performed to an incredibly melodramatic reworking of "The Rattling Bog" - - featuring a kids' chorus line that moves with all the grace of wounded caterpillars; and of course the siren song allegedly sung by Britt Ekland as she (and occasionally her reasonable facsimile thereof) executes a nude pas de deux with her bedroom wall. (Tell me that those musicians wouldn't be summarily tossed out on their collective ear if they tried playing that at a proper session.) And the dancing, nude-body-suited virgins!
Still, one could have a nice academic discussion on the co-opting and recasting of folk tradition in a closed, privately owned community, as Summerisle is depicted. And it's hard not to empathize with Woodward ("Bloody pagans!") as he moves closer to the truth, and his loss of all professional demeanor as he learns his fate is profound and compelling.
Later That Same January
*Slow, semi-stressful build-up to OD's departure for a Central American service trip ends with a 4 a.m. trip to the airport, hugs and kisses, and obligatory parental admonition to not do anything stupid. Have fun, work hard (very hard) and become very enlightened, m'dear.*Musical activities this go-round include first O'Hanlon's trip of the year, and a highly enjoyable session with Mssrs. Flynn Cohen (guitar) and Chris Stephens (box). Tunes are played, songs are sung, and girls are discussed. It's also the occasion for the second, and lengthier, try-out of the bouzouki pick-up, which works just fine, thanks. The debut of aforementioned device takes place, fittingly enough, at a brand new open mic in a local arts center, where I offer "The Barleygrain for Me" and a medley of "Sweetness of Mary/Tushkar/Train Journey North." Actually, the night is a success on more than a few fronts, not the least being the level of talent on display. While I can't say I like everything I hear, the musicians all demonstrate a most acceptable level of competency and command of their instruments and material. Mercifully, no failed attempts at James Taylor, Tracy Chapman or Nanci Griffith at all.
*Not to even sound like a cynical attempt at humor here, but doesn't it figure that the first confirmed case of bird flu in the Middle East would land among the Kurds? A NY Times article reported how a Kurd community, as a precaution, was ordered to slaughter its chicken population (and with their own hands, leaving them vulnerable to the disease) - - which of course was their primary, if not only, source of income and sustenance.
*Musical acquisitions: "Hazy Daze" and "The Lucky Few" by Equation - - An under-the-radar folk-rock ensemble that has had considerable talent pass through its ranks: Kate Rusby, Kathryn Roberts, Cara Dillon, as well as the Lakeman brothers, Sam, Sean and Seth. Roberts and Sean Lakeman have been the mainstays, but the departure of Seth - - whose vocal range and timbre complemented Roberts' to a T - - after "Lucky Few" was a considerable blow indeed. Still, the essential sound of the group remains constant in these albums: songs with a soft yet relentless introspectiveness, a sense of caution and restraint against getting caught too deeply in the moment or in one's emotions: "Sad the Girl," "What Did You Do Today?," "Myself"; interestingly, their adaptation of the traditional song "Sheffield Park," which brings an almost startling immediacy to Roberts' vocals, dovetails perfectly with their originals. Thought dormant for now, their Web site holds out the hope for a live album.
Beatific BCMFest
Yes, yes.First, it was off to the Boston Urban Ceilidh, relocated (permanently? more or less?) to Springstep this time. YD not all that enthused at the outset, but damned if she didn't enjoy herself, at least a little. Me? Oh, no fear. At one point during the Scottish ceilidh portion of the program, I danced in a set o'teens: men all turn and face up the set, women circle around them back to place; men do likewise; top couple sashays down the set, returns to bottom of set, all swing. Naturally, both genders tried to upstage one another on the circle-rounds - - I'll see your disco move and raise you a moonwalk; Oh yeah? Well, here's our Walk of the Pharaohs. Great fun.
The next day, leaving behind seriously exhausted LW and cab it to Harvard Square for the (insert fanfare here) grand debut of Triple Play. Our venue is aesthetically striking but quite warm, which doesn't do our instruments much good.
But we tune up best we can and press on. Unfortunately, I clunk the transition from "Baker's Reel" to "Suffer the Child" when - - after how many months of practice? - - I can't quite get the capo placed properly in time. But other than a few bum notes here and there, it goes quite well thereafter. Our jig set with guest-fiddler Natty and, in particular, Le French-Canadien set with hoofer supreme Gillian hit the heights; and dare I say, the "Begging/Humours of Tulla" medley also proves to be a crowd-pleaser.
Good as it was, the fact that Mum, Step-mom and Sister and Brother-in-law all were in the audience - - along with friends and neighbors Sheldon, who kindly presented me with a recording of the event, Harriet and George; and various partisans of Great Meadows Morris and Sword.
Family and I enjoy a late lunch, and then I catch the last half-hour or so of "Unbeaten Path," a by-turns whimsical, avant-garde and ebullient marriage of Irish music with traditional/contemporary dance forms. Following that, out of surrogate-parent loyalty and affection, I watch the Great Meadows extravaganza, and marvel that the stage holds up.
Later, I am reunited with LW, OD and YD (after a spot of unscheduled door duty, some of which is spent chatting amiably with Lissa Schneckenburger) for the festival's finale concert, "Crossing Borders." A marvelous interplay of music and dance traditions from the British Isles and North America, ingeniously stitched together by pianist-accordionist Susie Petrov, who led an all-star band of (mainly) local musicians and singers. Added to the mix: Revels mainstay and all-around dance genius Judy Erickson and Our Gillian, representing the wonderful meshing of generations BCMFest continually encourages.
One of my personal favorites in the concert was a piece devoted to “Princess Royal.” The ensemble, collectively or in smaller combinations, offered several different incarnations of it, from a robust nautical song to an Irish instrumental and, at one point, even as an English morris dance duet jig.
Afterwards we drop YD at home and proceed to the after-party, where for three hours we immerse ourselves in bursts of (mainly) Scots tune sessions and hold the odd conversation. Finally, we inch our way home in a rapidly worsening ice and snow storm.
Photos to follow. Check back.
Twelve (or more) Days, Turning of the Year
*The now traditional holiday interregnum was, , when you get down to it, quite lovely really. We all four seemed resolved not to get too caught up in the ambient frenzy; kind of difficult in any case what with OD's work schedule. So LW and I did our plotting, scheming and shopping (including the obligatory Building 19 run), and somehow by Christmas Eve the tree and trimmings were up, the take-out was on the table, White Russians in the glass and "A Christmas Story" in the VCR. We practically slept in for The Day itself, arising well past 8:30; stocking and gift opening was very sweet, low-key and over quite soon.Actually, my Christmas really came in the following week, when I got a decent microphone for the minidisk player and, ah ha, a K&K pick-up for the bouzouki. I did give it a test run on my small amp, but the true reckoning will come shortly at BCMFest.
Lots of eminently satisfying musical experiences this period: a couple of trips to the Tommy Doyle's session in Harvard Square - - at which friend and occasional bandmate Heather was present, hooray - - and to the Revels after-parties at The Border Cafe, as well as practices with Triple Play.
*Meanwhile, LW and I found ourselves getting addicted - - thanks to the Minuteman Library video collection - - to "Six Feet Under," with its very appealing cast and splendidly mixed blend of dark humor and tender vulnerability.
*Rather less enjoyable was the foray into bills, invoices, bank statements and the like as we laboriously plowed through the college financial aid application process. Not for the faint of heart, nor for those with delusions of either sufficient wealth or self-evident need.
*Easy enough, of course, to grouse about such things when you're not living in a West Virginia mining community. There will be, and no doubt should be, much criticism and second-guessing about not only the rescue effort but the tragically botched communication about the Sago miners' supposed survival. Still, the spokesman's explanation - - "Who do you tell not to celebrate?" - - is discomfiting as it is appropriate.