Touchline, Winter Solstice, 2010

It has been an age since I wrote to you, my dear faithful friends. But is there anything new in that?  Ireland may appear to have floundered beneath the Atlantic waves economically, according to to those eejits who know the price of everything and the value of phug all. But  I, for one, welcome  the death of the Celtic Tiger.It is a joy to visit Ireland again. A long wandering to the Tiger and snow to his heels, as my father used to say. The old Ireland I loved seems to be returning; we have time again to talk to each other, to take stock; and if the Germans are foolish enough to bail us out, well, fair play to ‘em!  I’m thinking about designing a tee shirt with an ornate Greek round-back bouzouki at the back, the techicolour abalone around the sound-hole sparkling in the capricious moonlight; on the front, over your breasts (singular in some sexes;plural in others) will be a representation of “Benjy”, my trusty, first flat-back bouzouki (see pic on “The Boys of Fairhill”. I’m trying to find a suitable catch phrase-can you help me out here, fans and friends? to run something like: “Greeks and Irish: bailed out brothers in bouzouki land”. Something like that. Should any wise wag (and there are many!) come up with something (we can do the Greek and Irish translation on either side of the tshirt later), just email me on freestaterecords@gmail.com

I have me doubts about Facebook,do you see? I don’t like the shallow, juvenile amorphous communication it evinces and encourages.I also don’t like my correspondents to be rudely interrupted by advertisments. I may change my mind, but for now, I won’t bother me arse with it.

I won’t test the reader’s patience by railing at the Irish banks, the Builders’ Party (Fianna Fáil) and those who sold out the very heart and soul  of Éire; it’ll all turn on ‘em fast enough, wait and see.And the soul doesn’t die. I particularly wish minister Dick Roche a long wandering. May his sleep be tormented by the Hostages , Kings, cooks and potboys of the ancient city of Tara from about 200 BC to 600 AD for what he did to the Hill of Tara, to our greatest treasure! Imagine the Egyptians putting a Meccano set through the Pyramids! No trouble to these Irish Philistines.

The gigs and the writing are carrying me downwind in a reasonable force four southerly. Whatever it is about my adopted winter home in Dunedin, Florida, it seem to inclucate good songwriting habits and I’m happy with a few recent songs I wrote like “Haunted”, about being forever haunted by a past love and not being able to move on to someone else. I always wanted to write a “standard” like “Fever” and “Haunted” is my humble attempt. Another new song I’m looking forward to singing for you soon is “Full Fathom Five” a lament for  Asgard 2, the ill-fated brigantine which was left rotting at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay by the philistine brothers in the Irish government of the aforementioned minister Dick Roche. If this particular “Touchline” is a tad angrier than usual it’s because I am angry by many of the treacherous things the Powers That Be have visited on the Irish people. However, I can see , as I suggested,  the sproutings  of stong  communal ties  hitherto stifled by that bastar’in’ Tiger. For instance, I can see West Cork scallop boats fishing in Cork harbour again, a thing that wasn’t seen sight or light of for thirty year. And the wiser, poorer  people are once again buying the time-tested “uncool” traditional cuts of meat like “shoulder of lamb”, “shank”, etc and even mutton! which I have missed so much, is making a comeback. Nor is there any let- up to the re-discovered delights of cooking healthy, herb-eating wild rabbits, a tasty dish that couldn’t be better for you. For you see, anarchy is in the air! What do we need any o’ the Anointed for? Politicians, banks, prophets of doom, and yes, the media! The people, quite unbeknown to themselves are autonomous and are proving that they can  get on grand without  any of ‘em!

I was thrilled to learn that the muse is “after” visiting another member of the Crowley clann, the National Radio service; my brother Darby is writing some beautiful songs but none nicer than a moving triblute to Dublin docker Jimmy Gunnery who rescued young lads  incacerated for petty offences from the cluthes of  the Christian Brothers and other orders. Darby was so moved by an excellent, prize-winning radio documenary from RTE on the pathetic subject of “runners”: lads who tried to excape from these hell-holes, where bounties were offered to the local farmers for turning them in. We worked on a demo of the song with Darby’s son, Brian and some members of his rock band, The Vandles at the studio in Darby’s place. I was there as “guest producer” and played a bit on “Sandy Bell”, my thrusty old 1968 Martin and I can’t wait to return to lovely  Cill na Martra to finish the job.

After a beautiful summer at home where I moved very happily  into my new house overlooking the Holy Ground in Cobh, Cork Harbour, I am back in the Land of the Free; Home of the  Brave, where, if I may say tentatively, things are starting to pick up a bit. There was a bountiful productive sojurn in California where Marla Fibish, the sorceress of the mandolin and yours put the finishing touches to  our instrumental album “The Morning Star” . I am thrilled an honoured to be performing with this great lady who has the best right hand since Christy Ring! We may be  corrected or  contradicted by someone out there, but we coyly suggest that  the “The Morning Star” is possibly the first album of Irish music performed exlusively on the double-strung, mandolin family instruments. We have included Marla’s beautiful signature if battle-worm Gibson A and  her sweet golden Gibson mandola. I used a unique bass bouzouki I designed with Dublin luthier Joe Foley and we call it a dordán. Faithful “Benjy” is prominent throughout and I dueted on second mandolin with Marla on some cuts including sets of Cork, Kerry and English polkas and two new jigs I composed while moved by the tropical beautiy of Florida: “The Dunedin Jig” and “Honeymoon Island”.And here also,you’ll find the sonorous baratonal murmurings of a gorgeous insturment called a  mando- cello. Ye’ll have to wait till early late Spring (April) for “ The Morning Star” when me an Marla tour Florida to promote it. All interested venues and parties in the Sunshine State should contact the sources listed on this site.

 In New York as I write, I feel so fortunate to be getting a taste of that unique Big Apple Yule. I felt like a king  on my way to the gig in Lily’s yesterday (12-18-10),the ochre sunshine hosing in lush rivulets of joy through the trees and traffic; the people dressed more like Russians than Yanks in the overwhelming Christmas buzz and Burl Ives singing “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas”. In Harlem earlier in the week to rehearse with Heather Martin Bixler, my NY fiddle-playing  musical partner, I was standing at a bus stop waiting for the M4 and this beautiful black woman kinda sidles up to me at the stop. “Where’s your hat, honey? You’re going to freeze, and your coat?” I re-assured her by producing another “layer” from my bag, a light but enduring plastic rain jacket from whose pockets I pulled a pair of  leggings, a cap, a scarf and a pair of gloves. I told her I was waiting till it got really bad before I donned em!

Harlem is a wonderous conurbation, I’ve had more sing-songs on that “One” train than in Miltown Malbay!

Guidhim gach rath oraibh go léir don Nollaig seo. Anseo, san Oileán Úir a chaithfead í, foraoir, ach beidh gob fliuch agus bolg lán agam I bhfocair mo cháirde Patsy Dunlea ó Churchfield, Corcaigh agus a chéile Connie. Le cuidiú Dé, bead ag tarraingt ar Éirinn arís go luath san ath-bhliain. Pé thall nó abhus a mbeidh sibh, tabhairaigí  aire agus bain sult aist, Jimmy Crowley 12-19-10

TOUCHLINE,SPRING, THE YEAR TEN.

Is iontach an rud é go bhfuil an tEarrach tagaithe arís. Is é Lá le Bríd an lá amáirach,féile chumasach i dtrimriall na bliana. Ghuimhim gach rath ar mo chairde uilig ar fuaid na cruinne agus go mbeirimid beo ag an am seo arís.

What a wonderful occasion is St. Bridget’s day, the first day of Spring in the old Irish cosmos and very welcome to those poor souls at home who have been grappling with black ice, burst pipes, treacherous surfaces and the flood that preceded.

I welcome the Spring and thus bring you a timely new “Touchline.” My life is ridiculously rich and eventful; I never take this for granted and am eternally grateful for it. As my faithful friends and fans have heard nought from me since May of the Year Nine, let me sketch the interim months as briefly as possible. May was a delightful month at home; I heard the cuckoo for hours at a time at my brother’s house in Cill na Martra near Baile Mhuirne in West Cork; indeed Darby my brother told me that if he wanders down the boreen near his home in the merry month of May and calls “cuckoo” himself, that harbinger of summer herself will answer him. To my amazement and ignorance, I believe ‘tis the male cuckoo does the calling and not the other way around, as I always thought. I had the good fortune for the summer to have the use of Máirtín’s sister Máire’s house in Raffeen village near Monkstown, Cork Harbour, as a friend of mine stayed at my farmhouse in Feothanach, on the Dingle Penninsula. It was nice to be back in the Cork area, near my family and near my sea-farin’ friends and their vessels in Crosshaven. In June we undertook our usual week of sailing, drinking and playing in a little fleet of sailboats along the west Cork coast and with my cousin Billy Daly’s cinematographical skills, I should, in the fullness of time, be able to put some photos up from “Ceol fé Sheol” (our Music Under Sail Week). It was an ineffable week of friendship, music and sailing that I’ll never forget Having no vessel of my own since “Salonika” and “Nora Lee” before her, I am resolved to acquire a sturdy barque just as soon as I re-settle in Cork harbour which may take some time yet.

While the gigs at home weren’t exactly as plentiful as sands in the Sahara, there were enough and welcome they were. I particularly remember having a lovely time at Carrick-on-Bannow in a quiet corner of south Wexford to celebrate the memory of a wonderful local musician, Phil Murphy. Phil’s wonderful personalized way of playing the harmonica has been inherited by his two sons, Pip and John, the former is landlord of a famous traditional pub in the village called Colpher’s. The breath of the Phil Murphy weekend is far wider however than just traditional Irish tunes and John varied eclectic taste displayed a wide mix of world music with some really fine young bands from America playing in the marquee behind the pub by night.

I opened the first year of my one-man show celebration of the ballad history of the people of Cork at the Firkin Crane Theatre, near Shandon Steeple in the heart of Cork’s nothside. This was a big move for me; a definite u-turn away from the pub gigs, which, to be fair, have sustained us all through tough times. However, if I’m to be taken serious as a creative artist on both sides of the Atlantic, get me to a theatre! We ran two nights a week right through the summer and it was a delight to work with Paul McCarthy and his wonderful team of technicians. We ran commensurate rare footage to accompany the songs and the intelligent, versatile set was very comfortable to work with. I met some great people after the shows most nights and they were profuse in their praise to my great delight.

I got a break in the middle of August to return to America and hook up with the band, “Captain Mackey’s Goatskin and Stringband” for the Irishfest at Milwaukee. It took nearly forty years for me to be invited to play here and I don’t know what it is about my current “cur chuige” or “modus operandi” that inspired those wise committee members and festival directors to engage me. I think I was reasonably interesting ten years ago: twenty years ago too-and they could have captured me in my prime thirty years ago! However, I guess it must have something to do with that fab new outfit of mine or the irresistible, indefatigable, irrepressible Máirtín de Cógáin.

Sailing was a regular feature of the summer and as well as Ceol fé Sheol, there was a delightful sail up the estuary to Ballydehob in West Cork with a fleet of traditional West Cork sailing fishing boats enjoying a tremendous revival. I had the good fortune to be crewing on Nigel Touse’s Hanora, the original flagship of the fleet and a boat that Nigel, a musician, thatcher and first-rate craftsman built with his own hands from the bare breastbones of the original Hanora. The fleet was very kindly invited for refreshments at actor Jeremy Iron’s castle en route and it was marvelous to visit one of the famous Irish castles of the South Coast, formerly owned by the famous Munster Clan, the McCarthys. This particular castle of Jeremy’s has withstood all sorts of sieges and bombardments from the Elizabethans onwards. I had a nice chat with Jeremy, who sails a lovely traditional sailboat, and he told me he has taken up the fiddle and finds it much more adaptable to Irish music than the guitar. The weather was kind to us and the fleet cut a pretty dash making right up to the quay with the tide.

I was guest at the Cape Clear International Storytelling Festival in September, my last engagement ere I returned to Amerikay. It is a professionally run event with amazingly well -conceived logistics for the transportational limitations of a small island in the Atlantic. I nearly moved to Cape Clear myself in the nineties; but circumstances moved me further westward to Feothanach, Co. Kerry. If Chuck Kruger has the southernmost house in Ireland, I dear say, with the exception of the western islands, I must have the westernmost. I found Cape to be a wonderful place; there was great respect from the fine international body of “tellers” and it was an honour for me to be chosen as the musician for the Year Nine.

September and October took us to the wonderful Jackson Festival in Mississippi, to Munroe in Louisiana, one of the friendliest festivals in America and to many duet gigs with Máirtín south of the Mason-Dixon line. I loved the Muskegon Irish festival in Michigan and it was a treat to be in the company of our guitarist, Don Penzien who as a Michigan man, proudly told us so much about local history and showed us the sights and sounds of this wonderful State. My friend, Mick Moloney, launched Captain Mackey’s debut album, Soldiers’ Songs: The Irish Abroad and Soldiering at Ireland House, part of the campus of New York University in Greenwich Village. Close friends and new friends amazed us with the concerted effort they made  to entertain all the guests, Donie Carroll, my dear friend talked about me as a young fella in Douglas, Cork, smoking the pipe at fifteen upstairs on the number 6 bus and playing the mouth organ-though not at the same time-to entertain the passengers. Donie introduced Mick Moloney who made a nice speech about what the band stood for; the importance of the song tradition which had become a little bit swamped by instrumental music, an unbalance that The Stringband  respectfully humbly hope to address.

Máirtín and me took a few long hikes out west in November; one to California and one to Arizona. I drove to New Orleans, stopping in Jackson at Val and Don’s house, a very hospitable establishment and later at my good friend Noel Reid’s house in New Orleans, doing a few solo house concerts to keep me going and pay me way, including a lovely night at my adopted State’s capital of Tallahassee. Arizona, when we reached there and met up, was even beyond the fertile imagination of those artists who decorate the covers of Western novels. Indeed, one of the places we played, at Flagstaff, was called the –wait for it! -the Zane Grey ballroom! Tumbling tumbleweeds, pyramidical cacti, nameless birds of the desert, it was all there in raging Technicolor as we drove, in Mairtin’s father-in-law Ali’s jeep through this sensational terrain convenient to Death Valley, no less.

Returning to delightful Dunedin, Florida, where the weather was warm and wonderful, I relished in being in one place for at least a week and set to work on the Big Book, as I call the first volume of my collection of Cork Urban ballads. Flying to New York some weeks later, I had the pleasure to work with Heather Bixley who can transcribe my singing of these ballads into music notation just as soon as they pass through my teeth. I can do it; but I’m too slow. Not only that, but all the nuances, the inflections that a traditional singer never assesses, she can likewise commit to paper. I spent a few lovely days working in Harlem with Heather, we teamed up for a few sessions in the evenings and once again, I stayed with my dear friends, Donie Carroll and Teresa Ward in Sunnyside, Queens. I’ve become very fond of New York, there is no finer, more inspiring city, as yet that I’ve had the good fortune to enjoy. I played a bit of bouzouki, sang the odd harmony and produced one of the tracks on Donie Carroll’s debut solo album which will turn few ears, I can tell you. He has found a lovely vocal territory encompassing Music hall, ballad, even lounge and some poignant First World War popular songs learned from his father Paddy Carroll, a great friend of my Da’s.

Went home for the Christmas once again; my mother, Olive, is ninety and I want to spent as many of the Christmases that I can with her. Despite dreadful weather, I had a great time. Went up to visit my friend Ado Morris in Spanish Point, Co Clare and we took the perilous, icy journey across the Burrnen to join Johnny Moynihan for a session at Kinvara.

Ma left the Nursing Home in her native parish of Douglas, just south of Cork City and made the long journey with my sister Geri to Thomastown, Co Kilkenny for the Christmas celebrations. I nearly made it, but came unstuck in black ice near their home in Chapel Hill, near Thomastown after a gig in Dungarvan, Co Waterford. The Wild Rover, as I call my trusty old Land Rover, despite all the warnings of cat weather from the met people only laughed at them and made her way through the ice and snow of the Leinster heartland towns like Mulliinivat, but as under the Lee of  The Commeraghs I felt in my heart of hearts I was pushing my luck. Thank God for mobile phones! As the Wild Rover skeeted dangerously independent of brakes and engine, in a particularly portentous diagonal sweep towards the ivy-clad stone walls of County Killenny, I prayed that she has least would find a soft bed in the rushes, I somehow got the vehicle to stop; found a heavy stone or two and clamped ‘em behind the wheels and called John O’ Sullivan, my brother in law I was only one mile from his house. Soon I saw his welcome figure, torch in hand, trudging through the snow. Very gingerly he escorted me the long way home. I was a gorgeous Christmas in John and Ger’s, with Ma in high spirits and the “two maidens”, as I call my niece Aileen and Samantha, John’s daughter, being particularly engaging company. Then I had a lovely sojourn at my Kerry farmhouse on the Dingle Peninsula, which warmed up nicely despite the Artic conditions. I played a few gigs with my old pal, accordion player John Benny at his famous pub in Dingle and apparently Corca Dhuibhne, as we call the Dingle Penninsula in Irish was the warmest place in Ireland in January; I was able to take a walk most days on the mountains and Brandon was like the Matterhorn, eclipsed by snow; maybe skiing Mount Brandon is the future of Kerry Winter Tourism!

A delightful cruise in the Caribbean with Máirtín was welcome in late January, the Year Ten as an antidote to Hibernia. In the company of some enchanting fellow bards like Paddy Reilly, Mary Black, The Elders and a host of others, we sang away the winter blues around the sunny Wild Caribee, as Jerry O Neill calls it in his fine eponymous song.

And that brings me to the present, my dear friends, back waiting for St Bridget’s day tomorrow, (Feb 1) in delightful Dunedin in the Sunshine State.

Slán tamall, Jimmy.

TOUCHLINE MAY, THE YEAR NINE.

Whilst the months that elapsed since the last “Touchline” may not have been the happiest in my life, for all kinds of reasons, there were roses too amongst the thorns. A winter month in Ireland is always is blessing, despite the weather, because the weather in America is far from perfect too unless like myself, you are one of the lucky people living in Delightful Dunedin, Florida where it’s always summer. A clatter of Yanks, myself included, descended upon Cork City for the marriage of my colleague, my handsome apprentice Máirtín de Cógáin and his lovely bride Mitra. Having received de luxe hospitality and support in America during the current transition years especially from the patron saint of New York, Donie Carroll, Fr Mick Carroll (no relation) and the wonderful people from the band Legacy, to wit, Valerie Plested and Don Penzien, I said, Crowley boy, the shoe is on the other foot, horse! I must go all out to host and toast these Yanks in the beautiful city of Cork. Well, ladies and gentlemen! Such sport we had! For devilment I took Don and Val, Scottie (Scott Cole) and his wife Aimee and the redoubtable Noel Reid from New Orleans and the irrepressible Doyle Jeter and his wife Yvette who have spoiled us all with kindness and patience and support anytime we play at their friendly festival and bar at Munroe Louisiana, I took them to the quaintest of places in the Beautiful City. We went to the Old Butter Exchange in the Northside, met poets and topers, politicians and talkers, the highlight was John McCarthy who kidnapped us and brought us off to tea somewhere where we discussed Socrates, Kant and James Connolly not to mention Biffo, our ballad -singing Taoiseach or Prime Minister, who in fact is a fine traditional singer. There was a magical night in Clonakilty with John Spillane, Doyle being a gig fan of John’s We went to breakfast at the Uptown Grill, my favourite diner in Cork; had sessions with the local musicians at the Corner House and it took us about two hours to “do Pana” (walk Patrick Street) because like Americans, Corkonians are nosey too and they do be wondering how things are going for me “over”.

The wedding was fierce traditional with all kinds of sets, waltzes and polkas and marvelous music and food- I’m sure it’s still going on! Next day, Jan 1, we went out sailing on a delightful cruise in Cork Harbour on my friend Curly’s yacht Annie. We took the Yanks out to the mouth of the harbour to give them their first sketch of the broad Atlantic and to watch for dolphins. We then tacked and ran for East Ferry under all plain sail, pointing out the poignant icons of Irish history like Spike Island, the Holy Ground, The Cove of Cork, St Coleman’s cathedral in Cobh which duly came abeam of us. We tied up at the little jetty in East Ferry, safe and sound without shudder or scrape and repaired to the famous “Dirty Murphy’s “ pub for a session of music and porter that lasted four or five hours. It’s a fine clean establishment, well loved by sailors, but it’s older names endures in the vernacular. I’m still “on the wagon” and enjoying every minute of it and I had as good a time as if I had a gallon of porter. ‘Twas fine and darkish for our return journey to Crosshaven, but that’s part of the magic. I hung on for a month in Ireland visiting all the family members, having the craic with my son James and visiting Olive, my mother at the nursing home and generally making up for the months away. Despite all the doom and gloom recessions etc, it wasn’t a bad month at all where gigs were concerned.

Back in Amerikay beginning of February, my dear friend Mick Moloney paid me a visit in the Sunshine State and we laughed a lot and played a lot of music together. We did a few nice concerts together which included a magical night at the state capitol of Tallahassee and Mick has taken up the bouzouki and is already giving me a good run for my money! , The next exciting Spring event was the launching of our new band, Captain Mackey’s Goatskin and Stringband which included me and Máirtín de Cógáin and we “borrowed “ Val Plested’s fiddling skills from the band Legacy and likewise her sweetheart Don Penzien on guitar. March was a nice busy month and we cut a tour of the beautiful South playing in Memphis, Jackson, Lake Charles and many more places, all necessary to work the new band in .It was a pleasure and a great comfort to have the creativity, the friendship and the fun that exudes from Val and Don on the road and I look forward to our gig at the Milwaukee festival in August. In between I have been working flat out trying to finish the first volume ofSongs from the Beautiful City: Urban Cork Ethnography collected by yours truly. Val has consented to score the dots; I’m not bad at it but I’m butt slow and another pair of ears won’t hurt the project.

The Muses have visited me and some firm songwriting possibilities have thankfully been recorded. I believe in the concept of the ancient Greeks: that the Muses have a time to visit us and woe betides the artist who reneges or is too lazy or stupid to feel the surge or divine the inspiration. I hope, please God, to have another album of me own songs soon, like “Tall Ships”, reflecting my American experience as well.

There was another little jaunt around the Frozen Northland, as I call Lake Woebegone, Michigan, Minnesota and generally M for misery “up there” in the winter. But no, I’m being too hard on those “M’ places! I took off with a folk circus for about two weeks in Michigan, which is a gorgeous place, in the jovial company of Val, Don, Ziggy and Susan from the band Stone Cross, and bless you all, although there wasn’t enough of ye, who turned up to support our Folk Circus. Here again is yet another wonderful blessing: for me to be able to see secret parts of America where tourists seldom go, meet the real people, the guys out of work from the wounded automobile industry and fellow musicians like Brian Miller, Jim Perkins from Finbarr’s Wren and Jamie-Sue Seal who kindly organized the tour which included several TV and radio appearances. I was mesmerized, transfixed, captivated, enthralled by Elderly Instruments in Lansing, Michigan, where Val and Don and myself taught bouzouki, mandolin, guitar and fiddle workshops. It is a sweet shop with lashings of gorgeous stringed instruments that would make your mouth water! Mellow, ruddy Gibson A4’s; twirling, serpentine A5’s and Val played a dreadful trick on me! When I took Mary Coffee, my gorgeous coffee and cream 1917 Gibson A4 mand0lin out for the workshop, wasn’t there an Elderly tag hanging off the neck with a fair price! It looked like I might have stolen the instrument or worse still: maybe Mary Coffee was sold in error to some Bluegrasser! Justin Murphy who completes the band Legacy, the second best flute player in America (the best is now dead), joined us and Val and he were hilarious doing all kinds of accents: they have the Dublin cant down to a tee with all the colloquialism. An ineffable talent, I had a pain in my stomach from laughing at them and oh! to have the wherewithal to “take people off.” I’d never stop, and to quote Con Fada, “twould be the price of me!

There were some magical restive days staying with Don’s cousins Mark and Cyndi on their lovely lakeshore cottage in Northern Michigan. Mark is a fine guitarist and he showed me some bossa nova rhythms and chords, my fancy and fascination for a long time. We were wined and dined and killed with kindness and Michigan cooking.

Then it all suddenly ended and ‘the lads’ headed back to Mississippi and Florida and I headed over to Minnesota to rejoin my handsome apprentice Mairtin de Cogain and his wife Mitra for a few gigs and house concerts and to stay in their new home in Rochester. Mairtin took me to some quaint diners in St. Paul and Minneapolis, where they shot a scene from the movie version of A Prairie Home Companion, which, with the possible exception of Sunday Miscellany on RTE radio, is probably the best radio show in the world. I was still exhausted after the Circus jobby- I’m far too old for all this caper and I should be doing a bit of quiet fly-fishing now on some tranquil stretch of the river Lee at this hour of me life and quit me gallivanting! But as Andy Irvine says, “Never Tire of the Road”, and the road is rejuvenating.

I’m back in Dunedin where the sea is like wine. In a couple of days I’ll be home in my beloved Beautiful City of Cork for the “season” but returning for Milwaukee Irish Festival and a Captain Mackey’s Goatskin and Stringband tour thereafter. Keep a weather eye on the site, folks, we’ll do our best to keep it up to date. Will let you know about the date for the official launch of our album,” Soldiers’ Songs: The Irish Abroad and Soldiering” in New York in October.

Met some flash pussycats over the last few months: hard to beat Finnegan, a gorgeous, good-natured ragdoll of a tom owned by Ziggy and Susan of Stone Cross. Finnegan was as happy and as amiable as ever I’ve seen a cat; he positively smiled, I tell you, when you tickled his tummy or played with him. -and remember: there are grouchy, ornery cats too, but Finnegan isn’t one of ‘em. I’ll feature him some time in our Cat’s Gallery.

The Cat of the Month is a Dublin jackeen of a cat called Tiger but he has a well-deserved Latin title, Testicalus Maximus- or something dreadful like that. Met him when I picked up an instrument case at Mike Mullen’s workshop in Dublin last January. Mike is a fantastic craftsman and has protected the instruments of the musicians of Ireland with quality casemaking. My “steerina” as I call the “twin perambulator” that he designed for my bouzouki and guitar (together) is the talk of America and turns more heads than a leggy blonde.

I’ll see ye, to quote Andy Moore, “all of a sudden.”

SONGS OF CORK: ECHO SERIES 339: LAND AHOY

The fleet of Ceol faoi Shéol (Music Under Sail) reached Crosshaven safely and in time for that sweet village’s Traditional Boat Festival last weekend. I’m not sure if there is a nicer way of spending a week’s holiday than amongst sea-faring, musical friends with the gift of the gab and a passion for the people and the pubs along the fabled coast Cork. This June beano is now as fixed in our cosmos as the North Star; and while cynical coves will scoff at our simplicity as we trudge down the gangplank towards the pub, a gadget, perhaps, or a fiddle under your oxter; I am reminded of what the great East Galway practitioner of Irish music, Joe Burke, told me some years back. Joe said that around Loughrea in the fifties you’d have to hide your melodeon in case the people would be laughing at you; tinkers’ music, they called it, which is doubly disrespectful, as our traveling community is amongst the most authentic tradition bearer. Now, Joe tells me, traditional musicians have to conceal their instruments such is the incredible interest in the music.

Amongst the coterie of musicians and singers on board the mother ship, Ron Kavana, as he spells his name, stood out like a beacon of contemporary light, candescent, vital, yet all of his songs while treating of present-day events like reconciliation in the North or between Ireland and England are firmly fixed upon traditional navigation. I was delighted to include two of Ron’s songs on my new album Soldiers’ Songs with Máirtín de Cógáin and our new band, “C aptain Mackey’s Goatskin and Stringband”, both on the fortunes of Irish soldiers caught in the vortex of history. Kavana can reach back and sing the unsung, champion the tenor of their lives and more importantly, assuage their lonesome, wandering souls, because, as I read somewhere, the dead long to be remembered.

I’m delighted Ron has deigned to compose a new sea shanty about our humble coastal navigations; thought he has pitched his song far higher and to far loftier latitudes than those of Carberrry’s Hundred Isles and turned us all miraculously into blue water sailors, which some of our dauntless navy certainly are, like our redoubtable Rear-Admiral Dave Hennessy.

Last week’s ballad which Ron also kindly contributed to the column was handed to me as we rounded the Fastnet, on the back of a Players cigarette box (navy cut, of course); today’s was shouted into my ears as we tacked across Clonakilty Bay.
In the old days of sail, the shanty was a means of keeping the sailors in tandem and in time as they reached aloft or turned the capstan or straightened the yards. Because like most good things in life, communal team work is nearly always the most enjoyable, productive and noble. They intone it well in the Mother Tongue: i dteannta a chéile a mhairimid (in each other’s company we live best).
Monkstown Traditional Sail Festival is on this weekend and I’ll see ye all at their delightful,cosy Sailing Club on Sunday afternoon for a selection of maritime songs.

From Oileán Cléire we have come,
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
Across the broad Atlantic foam,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.

Chorus after each quatrain:
Land ahoy, land ahoy,
Land ahoy, me bonnie boys;
We’ll soon be with the girls we love,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.

The season’s o’er, the music’s done;
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
The Holy Ground we’ll soon walk on,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.

Is that the Head of Old Kinsale?
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
Soon into Queenstown we will sail.
Land ahoy, me sailor boys

There’s Captain Tanner at the wheel,
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
And Seanie Driscoll playing a reel
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.

Tonight we’ll sail right up the Lee,
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
Captain Dave, the crew and me,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.

Let Ado strum that old guitar,
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
And play The Coast of Malibar,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.

Is that the cove of Cork I see?
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
We’ll sup tonight with our family,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.

We’ll Trim the Velvet, Speed the Plow
Land ahoy, land ahoy,
Play all the tunes we know somehow,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.

Perhaps we’ll shed a tear or two,
Land ahoy, land ahoy,
For shipmates taken from our crew,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys

SONGS OF CORK:ECHO SERIES 338: CITY OF SONG.

We are on the whale’s path, on that watery road that has no ending. Our fleet is not insubstantial being the sum of four stout, sturdy vessels still outward bound as I write. This is no ordinary flotilla; being the singular association of sea-faring musicians who flourish in each other ‘s company when the cuckoo’s song is nearly run and now known around the coast of Cork as Ceol faoi Sheol (music under sail). My own official holidays, this is the week the thought of which has sustained me through lonesome times in America; like when I ran into that snowstorm in Michigan or I was pulled over by the Texsas Rangers or when lightening flashed like dancing dragons and blanched the sky, I’d say to myself, Hang in there, Crowley, in a four weeks you’ll be off the Galley Head with a fleet of faithful tars heading for Mary Casey’s cosy tavern overlooking Glandor Harbour; the yellow moon pulling a yellow swathe towards herself in the firmament across the placid sea.

After a cosy “home” night at the Moonduster, Crosshaven last Wedensday the fleet weighed early on Thursday morning heading out the harbour under all plain sail, a propitious wind filling our canvas. Soon the Old Head is weathered, a fair wind off the land and with a fine academic commentary from my cousin “Bosun” Bill Daly who knows the topography and archaeology of this coast to the finer details. His intonation waxes slow and languid as he drones on about sunken ships off lonesome Rainey’s Bay, poor Chinese slaves who were once wrecked and imprisoned in sheds along the coast; distressed American steamers during World War One and more recent adventures or friends and associates.We make that lovely board towards Courtmacsherry where Billy Fleming’s cosy Anchor Bar is our first port of call for the session. A cashless, communist association, Seol fe Sheol bargains thus with benign coastal landlords: “How would you like to have the cream of musicians all jamming away together in your pub and there’s no transmission of cash even!” I can tell you, many publicans in retrospect would fare fiscally far fairer if a normal fee were stipulated ; because the barells of stout, the unquinshable thirst of those strumming mariners is inexorable .

We have an extraordinary team of chanters and traditional musicians which includes the reboubtable Admiral of the fleet Dave Hennessy, the best melodeon player between here and Shreveport, Louisiana. There’s his lovely wife Katrina on the timber flute, Gerry Harrington from Kenmare on a sweet Kerry fiddle that Padraig O’ Keefe would salute, the most subtle banjo player in Christendom , Seanie Driscoll, Captain Tanner, also on that instrument, the lovely Jessica on the flute and who graces us with sweet sean nos steps of dancing each night and the singers are the redoubtable Dick Hogan from Tipperary, perhaps the best comic singer in Ireland who springs into action each night to the delight of the people. Among other friends like Dr. Dave Nagle who joined us on Sherkin and played lovely fiddle and national steel guitar , our company is rounded off by songwriter Ron Kavana from the town of Fermoy.Ron’s songs (they are many and varied and not confined to the Beautiful City) are beautiful, poignant, didactic and spiritual.

Here is one that is specially suited to our column,written out by himself on the back of a fag box off the Fastnet, being in a plaintive 3-4 and all to do with the things we love about Cork . Can I thank, while I’m at it, all those publicans who hosted this motley crew along the coast for the last week or so, no sailor had to be cautioned or punished in any way, so behaviour was , I hope, not too bad. Thank you Jodie and Joe at the Moonduster in Crosshaven, Billy Fleming at the Anchor bar, Courtmac, Mary Casey in Glandore,William and Valerie and the Corner House, Skibbereen,Mark Murphy at the hotel, Sherkin Island,the people of Hackett’s bar, Schull and young Youen Jacob in Baltimore, for these are the pubs and publicans that will prevail when the westerlies of this recession subdue lesser vessels.

Pairc Ui Chaoimh on the Sundays,
I remember with pride
From the Ferryboat Inn
We crossed the river we’d ride;
The fans sang, We don’t care
If we win , loose or draw,
The Red and White blowin’
In the cold winter squall.

Dear old town by the Lee,
There’s no place I could be
So carefree and happy
As when I’m on your streets;
I can still feel the glow, boys,
Of days long ago, boys,
When you’d hear the Dunne Brothers
Outside Roches’ Stores.

Chorus:

Corcaigh! Corcaigh! Corcaigh abu!
It’s not just when we’re winning
That we sing of you.
A city of beauty, a city of song,
Just fire up the chorus
And we’ll all sing along.

The Danes built your first walls
To keep us at bay;
From the banks and the boglands
We drove them away;
The Tans tried to burn you down
Not too long ago
But never could conquer
Your bold rebel soul.

Well the spires of St. Finbarr’s
Stand regal and tall
While the sweet Bells of Shandon
To prayer call on all
As from high on St.Luke’s
I gaze fondly down
On the waters flowing gently,
Your island surround.

Repeat chorus.