June
I had journeyed up to Boston, to Suffolk Downs for the day to enjoy a day long Irish festival, the Guinness Fleadh. It was a mostly fun but interesting experience.
It got more interesting toward the end. A good chunk of the crowd were bros around my age, from either Southie, Charlestown, Dorchester, or out in the suburbs. Plenty of that “wickid pissah” accent to go around. As you can imagine, a lot of drinking was done that day. Plot twist, though: being sponsored by Guinness, the only drinking options were Guinness and the nowhere near as heavy but still much heavier than the panther piss these dudes were used to. On a warm June day. All day. Hell, even I, who had some, um, issues with controlling my alcoholic intake, had the sense to know this was a situation to back off.
I went back to research it and there were a total of 18 acts, many of which I had forgotten their existence, at least their existence there that day. To be fair, it has been almost 25 years and things get foggy. Also, there were multiple stages going so certainly during the day there were choices to be made.
Of course Irish festival, Boston, you’d naturally assume the Dropkick Murphys would be there. And well, does water make things wet? Although in ‘99, the Murphs were more of an up and comer than a destination act at that point.
And there were acts from Ireland that played, like the Saw Doctors, and The Pogues’ Shane MacGowan was there with his band at the time, the Popes. The scheduled headliner was Van Morrison, who bailed at the last minute-literally. We heard about it on the radio as we were driving to Boston.
But there were plenty of other acts there that you would (rightly) not think of when you thought “Irish music”. For example, blues legend John Lee Hooker played as set. So did a couple of acts that were bigger names across the pond, Richard Thompson and John Martyn. More contemporary acts, too (well at the time), like Shawn Mullins and Hootie & the Blowfish (who busted out an amazing cover of STP’s “Interstate Love Song” that I certainly never saw coming).
The scheduled number 2 act that suddenly became the headliner was Elvis Costello. Normally, that would be a good thing. But this was smack in the middle of the Burt Bacharach collaboration phase, the song in Austin Powers, etc. And no, he did not come to town with Bacharach, that would have been cool. But it was just Elvis accompanied by a piano player. But this player had a style similar to...do you remember Don Music from Sesame Street who who always screw up and then bang his head repeatedly on the keys? Now to be fair there is only one reason I remember Don Music and it was because I tired to emulate him on the Conn organ in the living room (that we had, and nobody ever played unless I was hitting buttons and screwing with it), broke a key on the organ, and got in trouble for it. At that point, it was late, we were tired and surrounded by dudebros who were finally learning the hard way why you don’t pound Guinnesses all day outside in the summer like they’re Bud Lights. And we just collectively could not take it. I would have never expected “walked out halfway through Elvis Costello” to ever be on my personal timeline, but there it was.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, there was this one band who caught our attention. We hadn’t intended to specifically see them but we were walking past one of the stages (I remember there were I think 3 altogether? Again, memory, fuzzy) and it was definitely a harder rock, more of a punk sound, but also with brass, and bagpipes, and “Holy shit are they covering Bob Marley?!?!”
Beeline!
That, kids, was my introduction to an Irish punk band out of New York City called Black 47.
They’d been in operation for about a decade at that point, and would still be together for bout another 15 years after that. There was technically only one Irish guy in the band, co-founder Larry Kirwan, who is a jack of many trades really. He’s also a novelist, a writer, and at least at one time was a DJ on satellite radio.
The name Black 47 is a reference to 1847 in Ireland, the worst year of the potato famine, marked by a mass exodus, and much death and suffering for those who couldn’t escape. Many made their way to the U.S. where they ended up being near the bottom of the barrel and subject to bigotry and abuse. Because of course, why make life better for everyone when you can just create scapegoats instead and bullshit people into believing that punching down equals freedom? The more things change the more they stay the same. Anyway, that’s why Black 47.
They had a pretty interesting knack for being able to pull in fans on both political extremes with their music. Their lyrics spoke openly of socialist ideas (hell, they have a song called “James Connolly” for chrissakes).
They really connected to the plights of unseen and ignored workers and also of the struggle for reunification of Ireland and Irish Nationalism (hell, they have a song called “Bobby Sands MP” for chrissakes).
Oh, and they reworked the lyrics of “Danny Boy” to reflect the experience of a gay man (language warning in the storytelling-slur used in conversation , and violence depicted).
The band took some flack in a couple of ways, one is because they played as an Irish band while only having one guy from Ireland. The other is because of what they wrote about, they were considered the “musical wing of the IRA”. So they were simultaneously “too Irish” while also being “not Irish enough”, which I guess means they’re doing something right.
Also, there’s a lesson to be had here about how you can be empathetic to assorted struggles and also do so in a way that is inclusive, open, and aiming for equality and the greatest good for the greatest number. Look those that pass as “leaders” will never choose to get that because there is too much sweet, sweet, bribe money-I mean campaign donations to be had to consider such a thing, but we’re not obligated to blindly follow these shitbags, we can choose to stop buying their crap, we can choose to deprogram, and we can choose to create worlds ourselves that offer as much of this as we can. But we actually have to learn how to talk, really talk to each other first without regurgitating the bullshit fed to us by the news and social media first.
(Enough Rich, they’re here for story time, not your damn soapbox)
Anyway, back to the music part, Black 47 had a hard time getting a foothold into the NYC scene as they formed because they sounded like absolutely nothing else that was out there and people really didn’t know what the hell to do with them. But of course, if you have enough talent, determination, and luck on your side, eventually shit can fall into place. And eventually they did find their place. They wouldn’t reach the heights these guys of course did, but you can make a case that if there’s no Black 47 to pave the way, there wouldn’t be a Flogging Molly or a Dropkick Murphys, certainly not as big as either got.
As for Black 47 being the glue to this piece…
August
I opened up my Providence Phoenix (RIP), which had great stuff to read about you wouldn’t read in the corporate media, but just as importantly it would tell you about everyone and everything that was going to be playing in the area. Plus, it was free. I grabbed one and was reading at work and I saw that Black 47 was going to be playing a joint at Matunuck Beach called the Ocean Mist.
I didn’t know much about that area other than it was in southern Rhode Island, sort of on the way to Connecticut. Rhode Island being Rhode Island, unless it involved Providence at rush hour or the beaches during the day, there’s no place in RI that cannot be reached in under an hour (don’t let the locals who think a 20 minute drive is an epic road trip convince you otherwise).
Anyway, I saw this and made it a point that when I got home I would call the buddy I went to Fleadh with, because I knew he’d be game.
I didn’t need to, there was already a message from him on the answering machine when I got home (yes kids, it was 1999. I didn’t get my first cell phone until maybe early the next year.)
So I went and scored tickets at the nearby Strawberries (which was on life support but still a thing then, and back then there were shows that did not involve dealing with Ticketmaster, this was one of them.) I probably could have just paid the stupid cover at the door but if I’m not overplanning am I really alive?
When we finally found the Ocean Mist (because the Mapquest directions I printed were not my friend), we found it to be a very interesting place. It was down on the beach, so you had the summer tourists. You had those coming down specifically for the show, although not all that many. And then you had the locals. Their regulars.
The locals lived to screw with the out-of-towners. Whether they came to see a show or they were tourists, they were all marks to be messed with and taken advantage of.
Truth is, there’s a part of me that respects it, because often in spaces like that the out-of-towners can sometimes be pretty shitty and snooty to the locals. Being from a town where the population explodes in the summer, bringing plenty who prefer to look down on the locals as though they are petty peasants here only to serve them...I get it.
I picked up on it right away when I went to the bar to get the first round. As I’m there, I lean toward an unoccupied stool to get the bartender’s attention.
I could see that there was what appeared to be half-finished plates and a drink, so I knew not to sit. Even unintentionally in spaces like this it might be asking for trouble.
Once I got the bartender’s attention and gave her my order I pulled back a bit to wait. Then I hear behind me:
“Oh, shit, so close!”
Somehow I knew that was intended for me, so I turned around to see what I was about to find myself into.
This skinny dude with a mullet that lagged about ten years behind shouts out to me “if your feet left the ground, you were buying my food!” My Captain Obvious skills informed me that I was speaking to the owner of the half-eaten plates.
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah, it’s how it works here, steal somebody’s seat at the bar and you pay their tab!” Mullet guy says, looking over at the bartender seeking an affirmation. She looked back and at me and nods, simultaneously being in on it and giving that little glint in her eye that confirmed that they were messing with me.
I respect game when I see it. I was never going to pay this guy’s tab, but I did spot him his next round. I guarantee at some point that night he got someone on that.
Speaking of being gotten, my friend had, as he often did, made his way to the pool tables, which in a weird twist were actually fairly close to the stage. Well off stage right so that they weren’t a complete recipe for calamity but still pretty close. Although there weren’t very many people up close to the stage (again, that rush to the record store proving to be unnecessary energy). He was (and may still be, sadly haven’t seen him in decades, between moves and life I lost contact and he-smartly-never appeared on social media to my knowledge) quite good at pool and would often run a table for most of the night. Which usually left me, who on my best day sucks at pool, free to wander around and depending on my space, either people watch or make friends.
This night I found myself watching him get beat pretty regularly by a couple of other locals. This was weird and I had the sense to start watching the table when he would tap back in.
I noticed that these tables were quite old, and in pretty shitty shape...which may be why they didn’t seem to care so much about them being in a weird space in a bar that has bands on the regular? As I kept watching, I saw that these guys were able to bank shots repeatedly and when my friend tried to do the same either the cue would die out too early along the bumpers or take off quicker than they should.
It was clear that at the very least these bumpers were beaten to shit and these guys knew exactly where the spots were on the table and how to navigate them. If there wasn’t something else a little more shady happening. No proof of that, but it was clear that they had created a significant advantage for themselves and my buddy was literally just handing over his money. Once I pointed that out, he decided to finish playing, which worked out perfectly as it was right about when Black 47 was about to take the stage.
It was a great show and we had a great time. I wish there were more people there for the band but sometimes it is what it is, I guess.
Being part Irish, even on days that aren’t March 17, of course there’s going to be a soft spot for all this stuff. You give me rock music and throw in bagpipes, you’re in the running to be my new best friend. Just sayin’.
To be specific, they played with uilleann pipes. Irish (well, partial translation) for “pipes of the elbow” due to how they inflate. I was today years old when I learned that there were different types of bagpipes and these are apparently the national bagpipe of Ireland. The more you know.
Anyway, this band that a lot of people probably never heard of were the glue between two of the highlights of my summer of 1999, and I woke up this morning determined to write a whole crapload about that.
I hope you enjoyed the story time, and some of the soundtrack. Enjoy the weekend and remember paid subs kick back on again this Monday. For now a couple more from Black 47 to play us out, see you soon and thanks for reading.