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.