tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-150244692024-03-19T04:13:34.337-07:00The Templeton ChroniclesEssays on my various enthusiasms and travel stories.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-30407591769262623942012-04-03T11:03:00.001-07:002012-04-03T11:05:37.996-07:00George Best: Cleared for Takeover.George Best was a major footballer beloved in Belfast in the eighties. After his death in 2004, he was honored when Belfast named an airport after him.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-16800574021977138752010-03-31T16:53:00.000-07:002010-04-02T17:38:15.930-07:00Your Exclusive AGOFR 2010 Calendar is Attached<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHKllvKYQV18BCm2Fxxjzwpmqo8z_SdD1XtSn40emfmScoT6Oz5L3V_zAUx-jkb1so1l9NCIy47ARhxGiq7uCB8RnNoKe4wSKDDGOd-cm1Ej0pxGmvVsudvUeoi9vepEF2xOs/s1600/Office.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHKllvKYQV18BCm2Fxxjzwpmqo8z_SdD1XtSn40emfmScoT6Oz5L3V_zAUx-jkb1so1l9NCIy47ARhxGiq7uCB8RnNoKe4wSKDDGOd-cm1Ej0pxGmvVsudvUeoi9vepEF2xOs/s200/Office.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454951279287594642" /></a><span style="font-style:italic;">(Email sent to friends on December 26, 2009)</span><br /><br />Ah...2009! What a year for the music! Who could have foretold on that fateful day so many years ago when I found that used copy of Aliens by a band with the most singular name of <a href="http://www.facebook.com/horslips">Horslips</a> in Temple Bar, Dublin where the future would lead? Who could have foreseen that I would one day be sitting in a sold-out house of a venue not even yet built and listening to that same band return triumphantly to form?<br /><br />But as the crowd of twelve-thousand whistled and stamped and cheered through that legendary chant of "Horslips! Horslips! Horslips!" (except for the guy two rows down for me who kept bellowing for "Sharon! Sharon! Sharon!") and the building intensity of the opening chord of the opening song exploded with the spotlight's corona into a fiery King of the Fairies, I suppose I couldn't help but wipe away a wee tear.<br /><br />"Ah," I said to myself, even as I uploaded the first of fifty pictures of the Night to Facebook and Twitter fans gathered online and following along in real-time around the world. "Truly, my work here is done."<br /><br />A bittersweet joy, yes, but sadly it is so.<br /><br />For it must be admitted that when it comes to Celtic music, yours truly (That's me. *waves* Right here. In the flannel nightgown and just finished with the <a href="http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/The_Waters_of_Mars">really scary episode of Dr Who with the Bowie reference</a>) prefers the Obscure, the Overlooked, and the Unloved.<br /><br />(Hence the reason I pass on Enya. One out of three is not enough.)<br /><br />And in the world of Celtic music, they don't come more Obscure, or Overlooked or Unlovable than <a href="http://www.myspace.com/theguireans">The Guireans</a>.<br /><br />It will always be one of my dearest honors to champion the music of Horslips to its much-deserved place of greatness in Irish rock music history. (And I know I follow in the footsteps of several lifelong fans who will always have my true admiration!) But how much <span style="font-style:italic;">more</span> fun it is to champion the music of The Guireans in the very teeth of their own low-res, self-referential, belligerent obstinacy! <br /><br />And then there's the quality of their music...<br /><br />Yes, it must be said that my efforts to promote the Guireans have probably only succeeded in increasing the number of people who now hate them.<br /><br />I do want to take a moment here and acknowledge the <a href="http://www.myspace.com/dunringles">Dun Ringles</a> of Stornoway, who would have been worthy successors for my fangirl devotion. Rather like their heroes in Horslips, The Dun Ringles had a triumphant Thirty Year Reunion of their own music scene (The famed Avante Gaelic Obscurist Folk Rock and note that crucial word "Obscurist" there. Yummy! And here they are with the YouTube sensation <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jThyzRVIdI">Airidhbruach</a>.) at this last summer's Sounds on the Grounds festival. But they release albums, perform gigs and may even possibly headline the next year's Bootstock Festival in Tain.<br /><br />So, you know, where's the fun in that? They're half-way to a cover story in Mojo.<br /><br />But it's the Guireans who continue to forge a solitary path of musical achievement that avoids those industry cliches of pitch, rhythm, tone, rehearsal or performance. Somehow they're convinced that fame beckons anyway and they've launched the first in what we all can hope is a one-off tradition with the <a href="http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendId=61521581&blogId=523230831">AGOFR 2010 Calendar</a>.<br /><br />Lovingly detailed with all the major holidays of the Outer Hebrides such as 30 Mar: Fleekeen Clapton’s Birthday, man: Public Holiday (J*e Ell*ot’s House); 2 Apr Latha na figuring out yesterday was Latha na Gogaireachd: (Airidhbhruach); 23 Sep Fleekeen Springsteen’s Birthday: Public Holiday (Thon MK II Escort in Perceval Square Car Park and featuring vignettes and folkloric scholarship of island life like:<br /><br /><blockquote><br />Until it was forced to close by clean air legislation, the miasma of decaying fish offal exuded by Stornoway's Herring Byproducts plant (also known as "Tigh nan Guts" or "The Gut Factory", gave the town a distinctive and inspiring character (see the Dun Ringles' "Fish and Education").<br /></blockquote><br /><br />or<br /><br /><blockquote><br />The spectacular Xmas Lights at David Iain's are one of Sandwick's seasonal wonders, with goggle-eyed motorists from as far as Branahuie and Plasterfield braving the chicanes and speed humps of North Street especially to see them.<br /></blockquote><br /><br />But there's no need for me to quote the entire calendar gem by priceless gem. Because it is attached here as my gift to you (requires some assembly. Refer to attached photo of calendar in office environment) and is now yours to enjoy and savor in the months to come! For as long as there are friends who will say "Yeah! You were right about the Dun Ringles! They were totally class. But that other band you sent....Not So Much," I will be a true and hopelessly devoted fan of the last practicing band of the once mighty genre of Avante Gaelic Obscurist Folk Rock.<br /><br />(PS, I've cc'd the Guireans here so you can personally contact them and request to never hear of their music or marketing efforts again. You can really rub the salt into the wounds by writing the Dun Ringles and and tell them how excellent it was that they made the recent Horslips concert in Belfast and wish them all the best for this year's upcoming festival season in Lewis. Be sure to cc the Guireans on that one for maximum salinity.)<br /><br />Happy Day After Christmas Which America Doesn't Have a Proper Name For!<br /><br />Miss Templeton<br /><br />(To which I received this reply)<br /><br />Huidh, Huidh, Mrs T<br /><br />On behalf of Plook Records CEO Coinneach, we wish to congratulate you on a top class piece of AGOFR marketing. Your message was targetted at a group who stand little chance of understanding or gaining any pleasure from the product (although admittedly that applies to pretty much everyone) and laced with sufficient factual inaccuracy to ensure that if anyone did - for some reason - experience a glimmer of interest and investigate AGOFR or the Guireans further, they would become totally bamboozled, think "fleek this for a game of soldiers" and quickly give up.<br /><br />Best of all was the following:<br /><br /><blockquote>I do want to take a moment here and acknowledge the Dun Ringles of Stornoway, who would have been worthy successors for my fangirl devotion. Rather like their heroes in Horslips, The Dun Ringles had a triumphant Thirty Year Reunion of their own music scene (The famed Avante Gaelic Obscurist Folk Rock and note that crucial word "Obscurist" there. Yummy! And here they are with the YouTube sensation Airidhbruach.) at this last summer's Sounds on the Grounds festival. But they release albums, perform gigs and may even possibly headline the next year's Bootstock Festival in Tain. </blockquote><br /><br />The Dun Ringles??? That there was the AGOFR Supergroup aka the "Lechends of AGOFR", which may have included some Dun Ringles but also members of the Guireans, Cyclefoot, Zing-Pop, Frogaidh Beag and many other AGOFR bands. The AGOFR Supergroup's YouTube Sensation "Airidhbhruach" is (ahem) a Guireans song. And the 30th anniversary was calculated not from the beginnings of them upstart newcomer Dun Ringles bleigeards (who have not even been 20 years on the go) but on the 1979 recording of the Guireans' first album. For it was with the Guireans and Zing-Pop that AGOFR began.<br /><br />The Dun Ringles are, as you know, signed to Tape Records, bitter rivals of the Guireans' label Plook Records. The AGOFR Supergroup is an uneasy (and no doubt temporary) marriage of convenience contrived by CJ Mitchell and our Coinneach, the respective and mutually antagonistic CEOs of Tape and Plook - kind of an AGOFR Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.<br /><br />As EVP Marketing North America for Plook Records, you have just bigged up your rival label's flagship artistes and given them credit for the only thing your own label's top talent has produced in 30 years that anybody liked. For this display of complete AGOFR marketing genius, Coinneach is proud to promote you to Plook's Executive VP Marketing for the entire Americas and Asia/Pacific Region. So get practicing your Spanish, Portuguese, Mandarin, Japanese, and Tagalog for 2010. Oh yus, and Pidgin as well... Coinneach reckons there's real sales potential in Papua New Guinea.<br /><br />The only minor criticism we would have is that you sent out the calendar in time for next year. It would have been a more classic AGOFR marketing masterstroke to forget about it until early February 2011 and send it out when it was all too late.<br /><br />Congratulations on your new appointment and we look forward to great things in 2010!<br /><br />Chearaidh an dradhars agus Bliadhna Mhath Ur when it comes<br /><br />The GuireansMiss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-89004306054858933792009-04-29T07:24:00.000-07:002010-04-02T09:10:13.772-07:00Cuchulain of Muirthemne at the Doggie Diner<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgE0yt4_5cdSxFQtSBNvCoPj4YUP1yst6qnGEWIToX5P_oJFfSnOFg2_R1yM7ZEfBF4B4QBdgXZkTESSfji3ZkxWryPnVau2so_orN_pDS4SMjMC93Q3Ap2dKm_y2jyBYuQDKi/s1600/doggie.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgE0yt4_5cdSxFQtSBNvCoPj4YUP1yst6qnGEWIToX5P_oJFfSnOFg2_R1yM7ZEfBF4B4QBdgXZkTESSfji3ZkxWryPnVau2so_orN_pDS4SMjMC93Q3Ap2dKm_y2jyBYuQDKi/s320/doggie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455548462522935810" /></a>The <a href="http://www.irishcentersf.org/library.html">Patrick J. Dowling Library</a>, out on 45th and Sloat, is open from 1:30 to 4:30 three days a week: Thursday, Friday and Saturday. In an exchange of emails late last month with Wendy King, the head librarian, I was told that it was a good idea to call before making any trip out to this local, volunteer-run resource of Irish literature and reference material.<br /><br />So a couple of Thursdays ago, after a petty business teleconference call, I was sitting at my desk with a scratchy throat irritated by April blooming allergens and nursing a less than enthusiastic attitude toward my Outlook in-box. Easter weekend was two items on a task list away.<br /><br />And that's when I had a sudden flash of intuition, picked up the phone and called. Wendy answered.<br /><br />I introduced myself as the person who wrote to the Library with a wish list of reference books for a summer project and that she was the one who kindly researched these for me and found some of them in her collection. Per her suggestion, I asked her if the Library was open at the moment, adding that I guessed it probably wouldn’t be on the following day of Good Friday.<br /><br />"Oh yes," she agreed. "We're here today. Not tomorrow. But we're here today. We should be open...Oh!...right now."<br /><br />Was that a guilty glance at a wristwatch on the other end of the line? A hurrying step to unlock cashboxes and swing open the front doors?<br /><br />"No worries," I said, "It's going to take me a while to get there. But I think I'll stop by today."<br /><br />Ten minutes later, I was signed out for the afternoon with a ½ day sick day and standing on the Muni underground waiting for the L Taraval train. Playing Bejeweled on the iPhone and calculating the afternoon time I had to find and copy the material I was looking for before I needed to travel back along the same line for the 4:25 ferry home.<br /><br />I had sent Wendy a list of titles that I was interested in by email. She responded immediately:<br /><br /><blockquote>Hi Lora Lee,<br /><br />I've checked out catalogs and see that the library has 6 of the 8 books on your list. I included their call numbers:<br /><br />• Celtic Heritage - Ancient Tradition in Ireland and Wales - Alwyn Rees and Brinley Rees (Thames & Hudson 1961) - 398.2 REE<br />• The Celts - The Thomas Davis Lectures - edited by Dr. Joseph Raftery (Mercier Press 1964) – 914.06 RAFT<br />• Irish Sagas - The Thomas Davis Lectures - Edited by Myles Dillon (Mercier Press 1968) - 398 DIL<br />• Irish Myths and Legends - Eoin Neeson (Mercier Press 1965) – 398 NEE<br />• We have both The First Book of Irish Myths and Legends and The Second Book of Irish Myths and Legends<br />• Saga and Myth in Ancient Ireland - Gerard Murphy (Government Publications/Mercier Press 1961) – 398 MUR<br />• Cuchulain Of Muirthemne - Lady Gregory (Colin Smythe 1970) – Cuchulain of Muirtherne: Story of the Men of the Red Branch of Ulster - 398.22 GREG<br />• Ancient Legends of Ireland - Lady Wilde (Speranza) (O'Gorman Ltd) – Don’t have<br />• The Middle Kingdom - The Faerie World of Ireland - Dermot Mac Manus (Colin Smythe 1973) – Don’t have<br /><br />The library is open Thursday, Friday and Saturday 1:30-4:30. It's a non-circulating library; books are not loaned out. We do have a photocopy machine -- copies are 15 cents each.</blockquote><br />And then the part about how I should call before visiting to ensure that the library was open that I mentioned before.<br /><br />Confession time now: A week before writing Wendy, I managed to bag copies of Irish Sagas and Irish Myths and Legends over at Alibris.com. Had received and read them both already on a recent trip back East. I was instantly charmed by the whole franchise, described here in the Irish Sagas intro: "Every autumn, winter, and spring since September 1953, Radio Éireann has been broadcasting half-hour lectures named in honour of Thomas Davis….to provide in popular form what is best in Irish scholarship and the sciences."<br /><br />The little books themselves are nothing more than printed transcripts of those lectures. Published by Mercier Press, Cork and Ireland. And they’re classic paperbacks too; perfectly sized for purse or pocket with that spare, modern abstract graphic style that instantly says “coffee house” and “college dorm” circa sometime in the sixties.<br /><br />More confession time: Earlier in the month, a lunch-hour walk to the main branch of the San Francisco library, an art-techno opulent palace for the homeless that's a block over from my office, almost delivered a chance at the Neeson and Mac Manus. Neeson even showing up on the online catalog as 'on the shelf' at that very branch! But after gliding up the Buck Rogers meets Noel Coward elevators to the third floor and walking along the long row of folklore and fairy tale in the 390s, all I found was a misfiled volume of Native American ghost myths taking Neeson’s place in the stacks. (Mac Manus showed as 'sorting' which means I'll be heading back over sometime this next week.)<br /><br />Last part of confession time: I also had a remaindered copy of Cuchulain Of Muirthemne already in the house. It's even available as an iPhone app download, so how hard is that? Just pure laziness on my part to send Wendy the whole list, which was just a cut-n-paste of another email. It was only Rees, Raftery, and Neeson that I needed now.<br /><br />And what am I up to with all this hunting around for set of books on Irish myth; all of which were published before 1973?<br /><br />Well. I am so totally stoked you asked! Thanks!<br /><br />With lunchbreak minutes from my office day and scant hour or two in the weekend free-time, I am currently attempting to write a scholarly paper for presentation this June at the <a href="http://www.arts.ulst.ac.uk/research/celtic/ulster_cycle.htm">Third Annual International Conference on the Ulster Cycle</a>. The Conference will be held in late June at the University of Ulster, Coleraine, Northern Ireland. Medievalists specializing in Irish literature and history will be gathering from around the world to discuss the many facets of one of the oldest pieces of literature in Irish history which is an epic-length collection of stories that exists primarily through two manuscripts – both almost nothing more than glosses and summaries of older sources – transcribed by Christian monks in the 12th century. Rooted in an older oral tradition of almost unknown origins.<br /><br />And somehow in the middle of all this: me. With my as-yet unwritten paper with no journal publication offers. Furthermore, I’m listed somewhere in the conference system as an 'independent scholar' because I'm not now, nor likely to be, affiliated with any literary department of any university.<br /><br />The whole enterprise is a project so out of character for my time and place in life that I rarely mention it to anyone who knows me nine to five. I have requested the needed vacation days and I'm trying to fit the trip in with business commitments in either Berlin or San Diego. To grow a travel fund, I'm giving up morning lattes and sit-down weekday lunches and regularly eye Safeway's $5 Friday night specials and weekend coupon ads in the local paper.<br /><br />he L Taraval breaches the earth's crust at West Portal Station to become a slow moving streetcar travelling past tidy garden-proud Victorians along Ulloa Street. Then it swerves at 15th over to Taraval to climb up the avenues and down to the oceanfront through a variety of mid-20th century stucco storefronts of the Sunset District.<br /><br />It's all along Taraval that I'm admiring classic shop signs in Chinese and neon decorating the storefronts. A near perfect mix of neighborhood restaurants, bars, travel agencies, hair salons, dry-cleaners, liquor stores and the occasional Spanish language formalwear store with the bridal dresses and Quince Primavera ball gowns. These are the classic after-work conveniences of a local neighborhood and there’s not a major chain in sight. I love it.<br /><br />One block up, I see the citrus-hued awning of Rick's and wonder if this is that great restaurant in this neighborhood where I've met up with friends and had dinner at a couple of years back. In online reviews, Rick's stands out from the rest by combining the ambience of an English pub—admittedly: as interpreted by a Californian—with a monthly full-on Hawaiian luau feast. The usual brass rail and wood trim and fern-plant of a mid-eighties urban jungle lounge, if it is indeed the place I remember. You wonder how many women were tempted away from the live music and the crowded bar of Rick's to a nearby waterbed or futon or car backseat by the promise of a chance to listen to the new Donald Fagen album. How many relationships – from one-night stand to lifetime – got their start here on a Saturday night?<br /><br />But then, as the train passes, I see blank windows under the awning and dead shrubs in the planters. Brown paper across one of the glass plates. "After 29 years" and "closing its doors" are all I can read before I pass on to the next block and the next set of storefronts. And now I'm seriously bummed because this is one more gone. Three decades of small talk and singles mating dances and liquor swimming in and out of fashion papered over with a handwritten sign. Damn.<br /><br />The L Taraval had been crowded with young professionals when it was underground running along Market. But now thinning out as the streets climbed into the 30s. By the time it swung left on 47th for the last leg of the journey, I'm the last remaining passenger and I can feel the chill, salt air seeping in through the window cracks, turning the promise of an early spring afternoon into a leaden grey landscape. The ocean, two blocks away, visible at every cross-street intersection.<br /><br />And this isn't a placid bayside wharf of tourist traps and ferry crossings either, but the real, raw deal. The full, unfettered force of the Pacific eating away at shoreline. Wolf Larson country. Magnificent, impervious waves of white foam curl invitingly, but I even know about the rocks underneath that make them off-limits for surfing. And for those few brave souls who might be tempted to paddle out beyond the rocks: sharks – maybe even Pacific Great Whites – is what you get for your efforts.<br /><br />The whole neighborhood deserted in early afternoon. Anyone who lives in these homes and is still working was finishing up their workday somewhere else down the peninsula. And the local economy was just the classic, faded signs of a beach town out of season. A few older, two-story motor court hotels in oceanliner-deco style stucco and Easter Egg blues and pinks and greens. Midcentury semi-detached houses, stucco again but brave with faintly Spanish flourishes of grillwork and arabesque, offer up their little courtyards and backyards and balconies to the cold, damp weather. Topiary, sculpted into smoothed mounds by endless ocean winds, permanently humping against walls for warmth. Over on Sloat, a bar and grill with outdoor café style seating but no takers. And, finally, the city's Zoo.<br /><br />And a block over from the Zoo: The United Irish Cultural Center of San Francisco. Built in 1973 but designed with the aesthetics in an earlier decade. A mostly windowless structure covered with big, smooth boulder stone masonry on the ground floor and nondescript wood and paint on the second; both capped with a huge too-seventies Miracle Mile mansard roof for the third. This last sporting two lonely dormer windows decorated with Book of Kells style heraldry. The main door to the place covered with that sort of awning you find for the older urban restaurants with the big upholstered booths and stuffed leather covered menus with the silk tassel bookmarks. And I can personally vouch for this: one of the features of the place is a main dining room and restaurant that could do for an episode of Mad Men if the scriptwriters ever decide that Don Draper needs to visit Frisco.<br /><br />There's a separate entrance on the boulder-strewn ground floor that gets me to my destination. Shivering along past Sloat Nursery (a local chain that apparently takes its name from this very street), I see the door is open and there’s a small rack of books for sale outside. Yes! Open for business!<br /><br />Inside are three people: two women and one morose man who is hunched over the main desk's computer. Although he'll be there for most of my visit, he never says one word to me or to the other two women the whole time. So this is the last I'll be mentioning him.<br /><br />One of the women is clearly someone's grandmother, with fluffy white hair and a pastel pearl-button cardigan. She's bent over a P-Touch labeler, working her way through a pile of books next to her, but she looks up at me with polite curiosity as I enter. The other woman, younger, is standing over her. Assisting with the P-Touch process with energetic assurance. I make the guess that she's Wendy King and she is. She's happy to see me.<br /><br />"Did you bring the printout of the books you're interested in?" she asks. Right down to business!<br /><br />But I have already discovered, on the L-Taraval, that I have not. I printed it out after my call and then left it on the desk in my cube. I share this.<br /><br />"But it's okay. I have my iPhone!" I say and hold it up for display.<br /><br />With a slight hint of disapproval at my slovenly carelessness, Wendy reminds me how she'd gone through some effort to look up the call numbers of my books in her reply email.<br /><br />"Yes, but that's okay. I'll just use the iPhone to pull up your email." I say.<br />Wendy moves over to the desk. "I could look up the email here on the computer, if Gerald is finished..."<br /><br />Whereupon Gerald (okay, so, apparently he will be part of my story) hunches protectively over the keyboard, baring his upper teeth at us. I detect a territorial issue here. Now I'm trying to assure both Wendy and him.<br /><br />"No really, that's okay. I've got my own laptop too. I'll just set up the laptop and plug in the iPhone and pull up the email and we're good."<br /><br />Wendy moves from disapproval to concern. Gerald has dropped out again, presumably to go back to the horse-racing stats site he's browsing. Wendy continues, laying the groundwork for my eventual disappointment.<br /><br />"But we don't have Wi-Fi here," she says.<br /><br />"Okay, that's fine. I have the iPhone." I hold it up again for the home audience. "It's got its own...3G thing. I just need to run power to it through the laptop."<br /><br />I'm hoping I won't need to get into the explanation of why the iPhone batteries are dead, but they punked out on me right as I was reaching the West Portal station and Level 9 in Bejeweled Classic. Once again: just carelessness on my part.<br /><br />"So I'll just set up now." That's me again, looking along the baseboards now for a power outlet. And it's here Wendy plays her final card.<br /><br />"I'm so sorry. We only have the one working power outlet. We blew the other two out last month at the block party."<br /><br />She looks back at Gerald. Obviously, that would be the one working power outlet under his feet. The one serving the desk computer he's at and the small home-use copier behind him. He doesn't even look up. The sweet old lady at the P-Touch tucks her head down into her own private Idaho, concentrating on her own concerns.<br /><br />Standing there at this impasse, I realize that the transition from my office life to here has perhaps been a little too quick. Frenzied corporate energy must be snapping off me in sparks and I'm overloading what should have been a nice, quiet afternoon of compatible solitude for these three people. Maybe I should just go next door to the bar, plug in the laptop somewhere and grab a quick bite. I can even get coinage for the copier from the bar – another thing I forgot to do downtown.<br /><br />But the bar is closed.<br /><br />"So what I'll actually do," I explain to Wendy and the gang as I bustle back in to the place. "Is just set up the laptop to run on batteries here and then the rest of it like I said and I should be fine." Whereupon P-Touch slides her own work in close to her, courteously offering me the majority of her table's space for my work.<br /><br />Waiting for laptop to power up, I look around. I realize I've only been to this place once before. Killing time waiting for another event to start next door. It's roughly the size of the first floor of my 850 square foot condo. So: approximately 420 feet? Mostly square with one little alcove off to the left of the door and another alcove behind our garrulous Gerald. From the front door to the front corner, we have the main desk and a set of file cabinets and the aforementioned alcove. Then shelving along the wall to the back in a length that allows two aisles of freestanding shelves; one of them endcapped with a genuine wooden drawer library card catalog. No power outlet required! Then the long back wall covered in shelves running its length into the alcove where they U-turn back on us and finish off the fourth wall with a periodicals rack and a small reception table. A central space for a round working table with chairs and another longer table, stunningly beautiful, with a representation of the island of Ireland in inlayed wood decorating the surface. There was a card on the table mentioning the artist and donor and I should have made an effort to write that information down. But just trust me that it was a gorgeous table. Settling into it, I thought that the place looked a lot less disorganized than I remembered from before.<br /><br />Then my eyes narrow as I see some empty bookshelves.<br /><br />"You aren't thinning the collection are you?" It's a little more abrupt than I meant it to be, but I have suddenly flashed on the secondhand book sale I attended out here last year. And I make the connection: where did that stock come from? I move pretty quickly from suspicion to conviction. Bastards! And to think I once thought of leaving my own library to this place in my will!<br /><br />Wendy had returned to assisting P-Touch and conferring quietly with Gerald. But now she looks up at my question and smiles with proprietorial pride.<br /><br />"Oh no! We're just reorganizing. We've expand our shelving and we're moving things around. For instance, we've moved the Genealogy reference section to over there." She points to the alcove behind me. "And we're actually going through books that haven't had a chance to be displayed for a while and bringing them out into the collection. I've been going through boxes and boxes in storage. I'm amazed at some of the treasures we have here! Books signed by their authors. We have Maud Gonne's autobiography signed by Maud Gonne!"<br /><br />Yeah fine, whatever, but what about the book sale? That's what I'm thinking. I know the temptation...I'm organizing a yard sale of my own next weekend and the stairway is already lined with volumes on their way out the door. It's the shelf space real estate that always gets you. The husband tripping over one too many piles of books and making a federal case out of it. But Wendy keeps up with the reassurance.<br /><br />"When we find a duplicate, it will go to the book sale. But no, we're not reducing our collection."<br /><br />Now it becomes her turn for the questions. She asks me about this project of mine. I explain. In general terms, I describe the Ulster Cycle conference and indicate that I'll be one of the scholars presenting a paper. She enthuses and then “Now are you a teacher yourself then? Will this article be published?”<br /><br />So I have to confess that I'm not your average scholar. I explain that I work for a major publisher downtown, yes, but that this is all separate from that. I admit that most people who present papers usually have a journal that will publish that paper for them or are professors in that chosen field of study.<br /><br />This is embarrassing but I'm glad to go there. Because the other direction is explaining that my paper is actually a study of two separate rock bands who both, thirty years apart and independently of each other, did concept albums of this story of Maeve and Cuchulain and Ferdia and that puissant brown bull of Cuailnge and all. Like maybe the only journal that might actually publish my paper is really Classic Rock magazine or Rolling Stone or some dweeb fansite (my own, perhaps), but probably not whatever leading journal of Celtic Studies is out there.<br /><br />Indeed, the reading list that brought me here is actually the same list of titles that Eamon Carr, lyricist for one of the bands, had studied back in the day when he was writing the songs for his group Horslips. Essentially, these books are the source materials for the album's concept, lyrics, artwork notes and spirit. Colin Meloy, of the Decemberists, was inspired by a book as well: Thomas Kinsella's famed 1970 translation of the Cycle which, I've been told, Carr avoided to some degree. Reading his list has been tremendously exciting because they provide me with a glimpse of the actual tools an artist I admire used to create a work of great power and importance. Within the parameters of seventies glam- and prog-rock and popular culture and rock and roll and all, that is.<br /><br />Fortunately, despite my lack of university affiliation, this explanation restores my cred with Wendy. She's very interested now and asks where the paper will be presented. I mention the University of Ulster at Coleraine with a pre-emptive wince in Gerald's direction, expecting him to pounce on my mispronunciation of that name. This is a legitimate fear. For instance, I'd only learned a week before, during a phone interview with Horslips bassist Barry Devlin (who has also been extremely helpful on this project) that I'd been stressing the wrong syllable in "Kinsella" all this time. I have been practicing a list of all unfamiliar terms I’ll need to know by June ever since.<br /><br />The laptop is still running through startup scripts. Waiting for it, I run an eye along the nearest shelf and I spot the Neeson titles. There! How hard was that? Didn't even need the iPhone. A couple of shelves up: the Rees! Alright then!<br /><br />Wendy had mentioned in the email that there are two Neeson volumes. Flipping through to the table of contents of one and then the other, I quickly realize my target is Volume One and the chapter marked “The Combat at the Ford.” It's about twenty pages, but I quickly calculate that I'll get two-per-coin in the copier. Ten total. Fifteen cents a go. Six for a dollar with change. And I got at least two dollars in quarters. I'm rolling now! Stacking my coins like Vegas chips, I head over to the copier. But it's Wendy again.<br /><br />"You found something? Great! But let me know if the toner needs replacing. It's been running low." Then she's eyeing my coins. "Oh, just keep count and we'll charge for the final total. It's not a machine that takes coins."<br /><br />That's even better! I can now rack up a high charge and pay with greenbacks. I skirt around Gerald to the copier and get ready to place the book face down on the glass. Rock and roll!<br /><br />But when I open the little book to the aforementioned chapter start page, I feel its binding glue snap like a KitKat bar. And I suddenly realize that this pristine paperback has made a remarkable journey from Mercier Press (Dublin or Cork) in 1965 to someone's private shelf wherever to here now where it has sat, whole and cared-for, since possibly 1973 even. Only to finally have its spine carelessly broken in 2009 because I'm too compressed for time to sit down and quietly read it, make notes and return it to the shelves.<br /><br />Guilt much?<br /><br />Not for Wendy.<br /><br />"You'll need to really press down on it if you want a good copy," she advises.<br /><br />And she's right. On my first page, the type runs down the center of the copied page into illegibility, like water running off a table. I give that spread a second go, applying a little more pressure.<br /><br />"You'll have to press down harder still," she says, critically surveying my efforts. But that poor book! I can't do this. I push back.<br /><br />"No, no. It's good. I can read it. Look: 'So, messengers were sent to Ferdia to bring him to Maeve's tent, for she said that she would see him herself to persuade him. But Ferdia denied, declined and refused these messengers, and refused to go with them, for he knew very well what Maeve wanted of him.'" I rattle off the wavering, distorted text from the page. "See? I got it. I'm money."<br /><br />She backs off at that, but by copy page eight we've got another problem.<br /><br />"Say, Wendy? Did you say you were about to replace the toner here?"<br /><br />She comes over. The most recent page is a shadow of the first few.<br /><br />"Can you still read it?" she asks anxiously.<br /><br />I admit I can, but then the next page is even fainter still. It's dropping out on the right side of the screen first. Fortunately, Neeson's little volume is orientated toward the left side of the plate so most of the image I'm copying appears over on the side that still comes through. Wendy and I are side by side now watching each impression as it comes out. And somehow on the last page, the toner rallies and I'm done with Neeson. Whew!<br /><br />Pushing my luck (and taking advantage to check in with the iPhone who has now joined our regularly televised program already in progress) I come back to the copier with the Rees volume on Celtic Heritage. In my opinion, it's only four pages on the Tain that I need here. The copier, rested, gives me a great page one. But then a waffle weave pattern of legibility shows up by page two. I catch Wendy's eye.<br /><br />"Yeah, I think we need to do that toner thing now." I say.<br /><br />She comes over and looks at the page. She looks up at me, almost pleading.<br /><br />"Can you read that one? Can you try one more?"<br /><br />I admit I can and I do. The third page is even fainter still. I look over expectantly at Wendy. Where's the new toner cartridge, I want to ask. Just give it to me and I'll swap it out. Easy-peasy. Do it all the time at the office. But she stares me down.<br /><br />"We really run everything we've got to the last possible moment of use around here," she finally admits.<br /><br />Yeah okay.<br /><br />I run the numbers through my mind, silently. The UICC was built in 1973 by a prosperous generation abandoning San Francisco's central urban core to BART and the Vietnamese. That particular crowd would now be conserving whatever's left of its energy for its own private needs. And we can guess that their children are paying off mortgages and car payments and building their own children's college funds somewhere down the Peninsula. And then generation after that is going to Daly City High School and downloading Flogging Molly songs off iTunes.<br /><br />Membership-fund attrition is what I'm talking about at here. And as soon as this recession clears, some sharp-eyed developer (and there's always a sharp-eyed developer in this town) is going to come along and see an oceanfront neighborhood renaissance in the form of luxury condos where this place once stood. The mere fact it didn't become a Medieval Times theme restaurant sometime in the early 90s is already a triumph against the odds.<br /><br />I close my eyes and add it to my personal litany: newsstands, newspapers, amusement arcades, tiki bars, San Jose psychedelic bands denied their place in rock history, independent record stores, Market Street bookshops, the unique character of longtime urban neighborhoods, honeybees, immigrant-founded community centers and now this: a small, volunteer-run library operating with a single power outlet and a failing printer cartridge and hanging off the edge of America.<br /><br />Okay you know what, people? Someone's going to have to start meeting me halfway here, because I can't save you all.<br /><br />I make the last page of Rees (which held only one upper left-handed side paragraph I truly needed because I can study up on the Ossianic cycle some other time) and back away from the copier. I look at Wendy and make my offer.<br /><br />"If I wanted to help out, you know, with your Library here...I'm thinking it would be better for me to donate something like printer toner, right?" I just say it like that. "You know. Instead of donating books?"<br /><br />"There are many ways to help out," Wendy responds. "By paying for these copies, you are contributing to our budget. By buying from our booksales, you help. And if you do donate books and they duplicate something in the collection, you help again by adding to the booksale."<br /><br />So there's nothing for it now but to step outside into the cold to see what's on the secondhand cart that can qualify for a pity-buy. And that's when I spot one of the other icons in the neighborhood: the old <a href="http://doggiediner.com/">Doggie Diner</a> sign that the City of San Francisco has installed on a metal pole on Sloat.<br /><br />There's <a href="http://www.mistersf.com/new/index.html?newdoggie.htm">a story</a> here too:<br /><blockquote>The Doggie Diner sign is San Francisco's favorite beleaguered would-be landmark. In March 2000, the Board of Supervisors responded to a rally by members of the Ocean Beach Historical Society and others to save the kitschy sign after owner Sloat Garden Center went public with intentions to remove it from the spot it has occupied since the early '70s. The Board declined to make the fiberglass sign an official City landmark but agreed to assume ownership of it and to keep it in its original location outside the Carousel Restaurant until at least 2005. Barely more than a year under the care of City officials, the sign was knocked over during a gust of wind and fell onto Sloat Boulevard, mangling the pooch's nose. Horrified fans of the sign expressed disappointment that the city did not act sooner to repair the rusty 20-ft. pole on which the sign sat, despite their frequent requests and the availability of volunteer assistance from Painters Union Local 4. The Doggie Diner sign was repaired by the City and returned to its location on Sloat Boulevard on June 30, 2001. The sparkling refurbished sign is said to be very close to its original appearance. The huge head was one of many that once dotted the Bay Area at Doggie Diner fast food hot dog joints more than thirty years ago. For fans of the pup its appeal needs no explanation, rousing a sense of play and harking - or barking - back to carefree days of childhood.</blockquote><br />I had so forgotten that Doggie Diner sign! He smirks down at me, like he's trying to catch my eye and tell me something.<br /><br />Here's what he says.<br /><blockquote>Well just check out little Miss You with all your gloom and doom in a laptop carrying bag! This is nothing more than a foggy Thursday afternoon in Ocean Beach. Early Spring San Francisco with fog! Damn, maybe we'd better call KTVU with that breaking news story, huh?<br /><br />And then there's this collapse of the authentic urban community kick you're on. Get <span style="font-style:italic;">over</span> yourself! What do you know about the Cultural Center? You thought the Novato I.D.E.S. Hall was a boarded-up property headed for foreclosure until Chuck Graham invited you to that Festa of the Holy Spirit in 2006 and everyone in the world and their grandmother was there bidding on the auction before the disco dance and muscling in on a second helping of sopa. Yeah let me tell you, Miss Thing, you should see THIS place when the Rose of Tralee dinner happens in May. You think you can find street parking around here? Forget about it!<br /><br />And finally, what's all this angst about things needing to last forever anyway? They don't! Here's another newsflash for you: forces of oblivion gather around us all. Believe it. But for those things that bring us joy or define our better selves or gather us as a community...when they're worth remembering, there's always someone working on a way to pass them along. You can just bet on that, sister! They write it down or put up a statue or make painting or a song or collect a bunch of it together or find whatever way they need to find to give it some other kind of chance at making it a little further along down the line. And, sure yeah, maybe those forces of oblivion claim more than we can all save, just like ocean waves eating away at a coastline, but it happens and it just makes the things we save all the more valued and loved. So buck up!</blockquote><br />It's a lot of wisdom for a fiberglass doghead wearing a chef's hat to impart, but he manages it. I'm cheered.<br /><br />Coming back inside to pay for my copies and my pick from the secondhand cart, (It's a collection of James Joyce's poetry...it's not what he's best known for, but you know: another fifty cents for the effort here...) I find that Gerald has now fecked off to parts unknown. Maybe the bar next door has opened for business for the after work crowd. The sweet old lady is still hard at work at the P-Touch; however, and Wendy, now sitting at the main desk, takes my money and counts the change with bustling efficiency.<br /><br />"I gotta say this has been a great help today," I tell her. "This is a great library. Are there others like this that you know of?"<br /><br />Wendy tells me that there are at least two she's in contact with. "There's a big one in Chicago. They've bought an old school as their building. And there's one in New York City. The Irish-American Library. I'm not sure about Boston. But there's probably one in Boston. You would think."<br /><br />I contribute my two cents. "Sure. That makes sense about Chicago. I know there's a huge trad music archive there. <a href="http://www.irishmusicarchive.com/">The Ward Music Archives</a>. I'm on their fanpage on Facebook."<br /><br />"Now where are you going to give this paper again?" Wendy is asking as I stuff the last of my things back into the laptop bag. I repeat the part about the University of Ulster at Coleraine. She hands me her business card.<br /><br />"Will you tell them about us?" she asks. "That's how we can continue. When people know about us and support our efforts. Take as many business cards as you need. Just be sure to mention us to anyone interested if you can."<br /><br />And I promised her that I would.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-69881146537388365692009-04-11T13:27:00.000-07:002010-04-12T15:32:54.198-07:00Vieux Carre in the Rare Old Times<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ofdmg7nJ1g013psNj47p9nmkO0Vv7DL2GZkdf3bcEw9YPBJy5gIuTXfQTnEuXBWCPOqHPZosXnoJ3SqO6BWiVXqYArVvtMziDQ03ZKwLU2IkS4gL_idbnnUI73gEvmya_yuO/s1600/neworleans.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:2 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ofdmg7nJ1g013psNj47p9nmkO0Vv7DL2GZkdf3bcEw9YPBJy5gIuTXfQTnEuXBWCPOqHPZosXnoJ3SqO6BWiVXqYArVvtMziDQ03ZKwLU2IkS4gL_idbnnUI73gEvmya_yuO/s320/neworleans.jpg" hspace= "5" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458979470320564354" /></a>Yeah, I have a Danny Boy story.<br /><br />For this, we must journey back to Mardi Gras week, 2004, New Orleans Louisiana. It's an 'on the cheap' trip with us staying at the house of our close friends Steve and Maureen Pisani. My husband Jef and I have been told that, along with good friends Dorene and Steve, we're practically guardians of Brian, their son. In the event of...which <span style="font-style:italic;">hasn’t</span> happened I might add! And won't either!! But on that day Steve and Maureen were downstairs asking my husband to be a part of their son's future, I was upstairs teaching Brian how to sing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eniw_S8JaJM">Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta</a> and we watched skateboard videos on the Internet. So you can tell I'm the right choice for the task.<br /><br />I mention this background business only to show how these people and I are practically family. Also with us are Dorene Giacopini, second generation Sicilian-American, who works for California State Gov’t and, rounding out the party, everyone’s friend Owen, the role play gaming/computer geek who was worth many millions before the dot.com crash. (Now only worth *just* a few million. Guess that Oracle stock was a safe bet.)<br /><br />Other members of the cast include Maureen's extended family of friends and relatives of the greater Metairie suburban area. And the dregs of every frat house in Mississippi in town for the week. And also asst'd prostitutes; freaked-out evangelicals; overweight tourists; and vampire goths. And Uncle Bobby! (We'd spent an earlier vacation with the Pisanis in Key West, where -- rather ironically -- Uncle Bobby had the last of his heterosexual relationships with a couple of waitresses and a snowbird or two. This was the year his son made it to Jesuit college, and Uncle Bobby had just divorced the wife of many years. Less than six months after that, he re-emerged as a 'confirmed bachelor' in classic Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil style. This year was his debut at one of the more exclusive same-sex balls.)<br /><br />It was all madness. And things get noticeably more intense as the big day looms. On Monday, we'd spent the day with a morning history walk through the Quarter for propriety's sake, but were drinking pretty steadily by 11:00 a.m. on. I remember people throwing free airline-size bottles of tequila from a balcony and I had pocketed a tidy supply. The goal was to find and maintain a responsibly mellow buzz without toppling into full oblivion.<br /><br />The main event of the evening was the Orpheus parade, introduced only recently by Harry Connick, Jr. Absolutely beautiful floats and stunning presentations. (I was now a jaded connoisseur of the things after my fourth parade or so). And by then, we'd all managed the art of getting the people on the float to chuck their beads, cups, medallions or whatever they had at us.<br /><br />Not with the tacky method most assume is expected. It was really more about persistence and some other weird alchemy between you and the masked person on the float. It is marketing at its rawest.<br /><br />I did also discover that a small child with a winning smile works well too. Get out there in the street and hustle it, Brian!<br /><br />All of this is to say that by 9:00 p.m., we are quite drunk and dripping with beads from our necks, our arms, our belts, and hauling overloaded, sagging bags of more. Owen, in particular, looked like some kind of hybrid between the Holbein portrait of <a href="http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/BRGPOD/135311.jpg">Henry VIII</a> and a network publicity still of Mr. T. <br /><br />And that’s about the time Maureen's friend says "Do you want to go to <a href="http://www.dannyoflaherty.com/">Danny O'Flaherty's Irish Channel Bar</a> now?"<br /><br />Did I want to go to Danny O'Flaherty's Irish Channel Bar? Of <span style="font-style:italic;">COURSE</span>, I want to go to Danny O'Flaherty's Irish Channel Bar! Not only did it fulfill the requirements of my yearlong strategy of avoiding amateur nights by displacing the holiday theme (as in: spending St Patrick's Day at a Chinese restaurant, Cinco De Mayo at Moylan's, Chinese New Year at Las Guitarras), but also because I'd been hearing about Danny O'Flaherty ever since I'd arrived.<br /><br />(Now these are all real people in this story. There are probably connections and degrees of separation that I can't begin to fathom. My full and complete apologies for anything inappropriate in what follows. But does that stop me? Not. One. Bit.)<br /><br />From what I'd been told, Danny O'Flaherty was pretty special. I gathered that he and Maureen's friend had had 'a thing' some time before. I also gathered that, as a local woman, she wasn't alone in this distinction. She offered to be our guide and introduction to the evening.<br /><br />Also, Maureen's house was about three blocks from the old Channel that made the City possible. It was dug by <a href="http://www.cityofno.com/pg-99-49-irish-channel.aspx">Irish immigrant labor in the 1830s</a> (because the African-American labor was considered a more expensive commodity) and then filled and paved over in 1950. Sometime along in 1990, I was told, Mr. O'Flaherty paid the big bucks for a very cool memorial to those workers of the previous century. We’d see it out in the middle of the green space of the old channel every day on our morning walks. It took a few days to actually get out to it to read the plaque, because whenever you left the sidewalk, your feet would sink into a soft mass of grass, mud, and rapidly rising lake-fed water.<br /><br />So <span style="font-style:italic;">yes</span>! By all means. Let's go to O'Flaherty's!<br /><br />A long, hallway entrance dividing a bar space from a larger room. "Dinner?" said the man taking our door-fee. "It's buffet service only. And you'd be in the Ballad Room. If you are here to 'party' you can just go straight into the bar.* Dining Only in the Ballad Room. Danny's performing tonight."<br /><br />(*The bar was called the Informer. Danny is very proud of his <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=pri-nlcq_UsC&dq=Liam+O%27Flaherty+Informer&source=gbs_navlinks_s">Literary Connections</a>.)<br /><br />We looked at our local Virgil for the night. She nodded toward the Ballad Room. "Remember," she whispered, "You are here to <span style="font-style:italic;">listen</span>. Danny doesn't like rowdy behavior in the Ballad Room."<br /><br />Yeah, okay. I'll remind you: it's Mardi Gras week. All over the City people were pushing themselves into the last 24 hours of riotous, carnal abandon. Whereas we were sheepishly flattening our hair into respectability and looking for the font of Holy Water to bless ourselves with before entering the Ballad Room.<br /><br />Where there were approximately nine other patrons. And on stage: the one and only Daniel O'Flaherty. Accompanied by a youngish man on keyboards that I -- please remember I'd been drinking tequila for at least eight hours! -- that I cruelly nicknamed Bono Baggins within the first five minutes.<br /><br />But we settled down with our very excellent plates of jambalaya. Which goes quite nicely with Jameson. (Whether Jameson goes with Tequila is another question...but there’s Ash Wednesday to find that one out, isn’t there?) And Danny graced us all with his musical presence. Maureen's friend casting submissive, doe-eyed glances at the stage whenever his gaze raked past our table.<br /><br />So it was maybe four songs and most of the first shot of Jameson, into the set that he then gave us "In the Rare Old Times," a song by Pete St. John that I knew, yes, but only through the ramped-up punk and unintelligible version from LA band Flogging Molly. (2002)<br /><br />But here it was slowed down and the keywords I recognized "Dublin... cooper... house... Peggy... child of Mary... black as coal... in the rare old times..." were now unfolding themselves into a fully developed narrative. One that was cutting through my tequila buzz like an extremely bright sunrise on a severe hangover.<br /><br />"My God," I remember saying to my husband. "When you slow it down and can hear the lyrics, this song is really <span style="font-style:italic;">f*ck*ng</span> depressing!"<br /><br />And God forgive me but for some reason the only thing I could do with that epiphany was to start giggling. Which immediately brought our table to the attention of Mr O'Flaherty, who broke off mid-verse:<br /><br />"This is the <span style="font-style:italic;">LAST</span> year I'm going to work this town during Mardi Gras," he snapped. "All these out-of-towners. They don't know how to listen to good music. They have no respect for our City."<br /><br />Everyone at the table (and the two or three other people in the room) gave me a look of pure disdain. The uncouth Yank in their midst. I was sobering up fast and ducked my head in some semblance of apology.<br /><br />The set resumes and we order another round. By now, the place is starting to fill up a little bit with other patrons -- all of them clearly making the last stop of the night from some other event. An hour after his initial chastisement of me, Danny is back in a mellow mood. A couple across the room in formal dress (he in a tux; she in a full ballroom dancer chiffon evening gown) are now digging the vibe. They're clearly establishing a cozy rapport with Danny by the time the lady orders another round.<br /><br />By now, Danny is the genial, expansive host. (Only slightly making a point of ignoring my table as the pit of unshaved Yahoos it clearly is...) "Any requests from the audience?" he asks, spreading arms to encompass all sixteen of us. Chiffon Evening Gown takes the floor with a whiskey and cigarette accent that tells me she's been by that free-air Tequila balcony too.<br /><br />"You know what I want to hear?" she slurs. "There's a song you can sing for me. There's a song. A special song. Back in Chicago, this was the song..."<br /><br />Now I'm not normally psychic by nature, but something warned me in those last moments. That mention of Chicago, maybe. I should have started some distraction right then and there. Evening Gown gestures to her husband for confirmation:<br /><br />"You know the song I want, don't you, honey? C'me-on, you know the song. I know everyone asks for it, but I just want to hear it tonight."<br /><br />And that's when she requests "Danny Boy."<br /><br />At that point, the title of 'Worst. Patron. Ever.' passed from me to her. You could feel the electric charge as it flew across the room. And O'Flaherty went ballistic. A full ten-minute lecture on anything and everything followed. A complete history of all of it. At one point Dorene (second-generation SICILIAN, I remind you!) leaned over and said "You people really hold on to stuff, don't you?"<br /><br />Meanwhile I was beginning to match the dress of this hapless couple with the dignitaries I'd seen on the main float of the evening's parade. "Jesus, Dorene!" I whispered. "They were on the main Orpheus float! They're total New Orleans aristocracy. O'Flaherty better not need a building permit from City Hall anytime soon!"<br /><br />The flustered lady, by now fully humiliated, exits to the restroom. I go into group conciliation mode. "Nancy Spain!" I start yelling, trying to get to my feet and attract O'Flaherty's attention. "Let's hear Nancy Spain!"<br /><br />Bono Baggins (whom I've kinda bonded with by this point by realizing he's a decent musician trying to hold on to a difficult gig) smiles over at that. "That's good. He likes Christy Moore," says Bono. "Imagine my surprise at this news," I want to tell him back. Instead: a brainstorm "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ad8RVexRUoQ">Lakes of Pontchartrain!</a> PLEASE play Lakes of Pontchartrain."<br /><br />Danny, probably coming to his senses on when and where it's appropriate to lecture patrons [hint: maybe not during Mardi Gras week], inquires somewhat kindly of the missing lady. When she returns to collect her accessories, he hastily goes into the "<a href="http://new.music.yahoo.com/de-dannan/tracks/anthem-for-ireland--181718861">Land of Joy</a>" variant of the song she requested. The couple stays for that one and then make their dignified exit. After that we get Lakes of Pontchartrain.<br /><br />Maureen's friend never speaks directly to me for the rest of the visit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX9bwoiXoWXAU-Eo_jWSp92AL3KjPw8zsilY6Gy_p-5_KQpo9YG8ZbwHEXwo9q4ukGssGmc_CctXw1G7xhPuTyfLYlf2Guy0xgpQqL1jYIzAAj8uoLc2tyhMg2P10yHrO4LLyd/s1600/cat_hybrid200.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX9bwoiXoWXAU-Eo_jWSp92AL3KjPw8zsilY6Gy_p-5_KQpo9YG8ZbwHEXwo9q4ukGssGmc_CctXw1G7xhPuTyfLYlf2Guy0xgpQqL1jYIzAAj8uoLc2tyhMg2P10yHrO4LLyd/s200/cat_hybrid200.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458985800072967714" /></a>But we all went back the next two nights and had a great time with <a href="http://www.littlebluemen.com/beth.asp">Beth Patterson</a>, who did a viciously humorous imitation of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet in a song about the Titanic, in the cozier and more informal nook of the Informer. Bought some of her CDs and eventually flew home.<br /><br />It was a great trip. Give it up, y'all. For New Orleans.<br /><br />The Irish Channel Bar did not survive <a href="http://www.usnews.com/articles/news/politics/2008/12/11/hurricane-katrina-left-a-mark-on-george-w-bushs-presidency.html">Katrina</a>.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-86405018992361330492008-01-15T15:22:00.001-08:002008-11-25T18:29:19.829-08:00Best [Rediscovery] of 2007 (3) "With your head held high and your scarlet lies, you came down to me from the open skies..."<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br />First </span><br /></div><br /><br />you hear a contrail echo in the sky. A distant flight. Then celestial chords. On heaven's own synthesizer. They are spread apart...even, paced, a majestically slow sequence; as if across a greater space. A void. Remote beauty. Cold. A major key’s inevitable descent down the scale. It could be the soundtrack for the stately elegance of humanity's great things collapsing in slow-motion. The booster rocket drops away, the capsule escapes the bonds of gravity for only a moment and then tragedy's televised burst of flame for eternal replay. Little rills of sequenced notes running alongside this; remoras swimming in a great white's rippling wake.<br /><br />It's that quaint twentieth-century fear: civilization's eventual decay. That timeless teen-age preoccupation: the adult world is not going to be what I need it to be.<br /><br />And then: a voice.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: courier new;font-family:courier;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Just on the border of your waking mind,<br />there lies another time</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Where darkness and light are one.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And as you tread the halls of sanity</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You feel so glad to be</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Unable to go beyond.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I have a message from another time”</span></span><br /><br />What is it about the vocoder? Ensnaring the sound of human speech in some mechanized parody of self? More importantly, what is it about the teenage male and robots? All those Transformers and RoboCops and Terminators and other clanking, lumbering, destructive, unlovable things? But when the robot is of a feminine gender...here's where you'll find the under-the-mattress dreams of pulp and porn: Cherry 2000, Blade Runner, Maria of Metropolis, Tin Lizzy. The design of desire.<br /><br />Maybe some social psychologist can help me figure this one out.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: courier new;font-family:verdana;" >“I have a message from another time”</span><br /><br />1981 is not the year for concept album rock. Sure, Pink Floyd has rolled like a juggernaut into the new decade with their double-disc misogynistic bit of boomer self-pity. But it's the movie holding this one together, along with countless Laserium shows in all those science museums turned party zones for the night. (And what teenager isn't going to buy a song with a chorus in piss-poor grammar stating "We don't need no education?" How long did A&R kick that one around in marketing?)<br /><br />Canny casting of New Wave lion Bob Geldof as "Pink" doesn't hurt either, and he delivers an exceptionally good performance as a self-involved rock star tortured by phone calls home to the wife who *spoiler alert* has this Alan Rickman sound-alike warming her sheets while our boy Pink passes his time in the States with his own 'dirty woman' complete with her American accent; a particularly dim groupie who seems to be unable to process the startling fact that a musician might own more than one guitar.<br /><br />It's eerie, actually, how good Geldof does this role.<br /><br />But a nation's worth of laserium nightshows only goes so far in this brave, new decade and the rock concept album is just another skeletal triceratops in the unlit Hall of Geology next door.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >“I have a message from another time”</span><br /><br />Also, 1981 is the year that cable television will alter the music industry’s landscape forever because it’s the year that...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >“I have a message from another time”</span><br /><br />By all standards, Xanadu should have been one of the greats. Starring red-hot Olivia Newton John, looking even better than she did during her term at Rydell High only two summers before. Music from one of the leading stadium/prog-rock bands so well known that all that sufficed to advertise their presence in town was an emblem of a jukebox-hued, chrome-fitted spaceship on the concert poster. Beautiful, bronzed, buff Los Angeles setting. A healthy, athletic cast ready for the 80s. New dance craze touted as disco's latest; disco’s best. Missing only the golden touch of producer Robert Stigwood, who previously defined an earlier decade with a single camera shot tracking John Travolta's hardware store-bound ass. Is that where it went wrong?<br /><br />But, look, you really need to remember that Stigwood had misfired himself a summer or two before with his own voluptuous cinematic mess of Beatle songs and Bee Gee hairstyles. And if Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band was the warning shot across concept rock's bow, Xanadu was the poorly mounted cannon that left its carriage on a long, lethal, careening path across all decks. Dragging broken main mast and tangled rigging on its final pitch overboard. Taking nearly all of the passengers and crew to the bottom with it.<br /><br />How does a respectable rock band crawl back to shore from that?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >“I have a message from another time”</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">and</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br />Now</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />THERE’S</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:360;"><span style="font-size:180%;">A</span><br /></span></div><br />sudden freefall back into gravity's pull, asteroid swiftness, a fiery weight burning off in the thickening atmosphere...and none of this celestial chord business either. You get four solid notes. Three notes climbing and then a jump to the fifth in the sequence. Once. Then Twice. A third time. On the fourth repetition, the open sequence closes with a drop from that fifth to the fourth in the set. Once more on the full five to be sure it has your attention. Somewhere along the way you also get drums. Guitars. Rock and Roll.<br /><br />The last of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_%28Electric_Light_Orchestra_album%29">great concept rock albums</a> is underway.<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pfo0Js2DolU&rel=1"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pfo0Js2DolU&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-90911972907088595212008-01-03T17:48:00.000-08:002008-01-03T18:01:10.355-08:00Best of 2007 (2) "You've got no eyelids and sweet Ella loves me so..."Heathrow Airport, once you've made it past the ticketing counter, baggage check and overturned anthill that is the security gate, has its charms. For one thing: alcohol is sold at several venues, including a passably accurate Irish bar, 24/7. The same cannot be said for the airport in Atlanta, as I discovered to my chagrin this last summer. <br /><br />But, with hours to spare before the trans-atlantic flight home, a round of impulse buys at that HMV kiosk. Email written shortly after on one of the many little "five-online-minutes-for-one-pound/two-Euro" Internet stations:<br /><br /><blockquote>I'm certainly in the Heathrow terminal bound for San Francisco. Just across from me a group of college-age kids are sharing an acoustic guitar and singing whatever comes into their mind. One of them with beard and bandanna just did the old Four Non-Blonds anthem from the early nineties "What's Going On" ("Twenty five years and my life is still/Trying to get up that great big hill of hope...")-- which I'll admit to liking even after saturation airplay back in the day.<br /> <br />I can't believe I just described the early nineties as 'back in the day!'<br /> <br />Allowed myself a brief shopping spree in the terminal kiosk of HMV records and here's what I scored<br /> <br />--The Fratellis - Costello Music ("Indecently Rousing" says the Independent on the sticker promo and that's good enough for me!)<br />--Fields - Everything Last Winter ("2007 will surely be theirs" enthuses NME)<br /> <br />Both of these purchased on instinct based on album artwork that they might be worth checking out<br /> <br />and then:<br /> <br />--Sting - Songs from the Labyrinth featuring the music of Elizabethan songwriter John Dowland<br /> <br />From the moment I saw it, I said "But of COURSE Sting would have to do a John Dowland album!" Not that I'm much of an expert there, but Maddy Prior and the Carneval Band did something with Dowland some time ago and it was such a lugubrious track on the otherwise sprightly CD I had to research further. Read up on him in Wikipedia. And now: perfect. Sting. John Dowland. What more could a publicist want?<br /> <br />Off to grab one last pint. The only nice thing about airports is that all proper times for civilization are abandoned and people can breakfast whenever they want, drink cocktails whenever they want, and sleep whenever they want!</blockquote><br /><br />Sting? The Fields? Yeah, I think I listened to those CDs a couple of times.<br /><br />But the Fratellis? Oh yes...<br /><br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gqAJrIYjCLM&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gqAJrIYjCLM&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br /><center>And it's alright, she'll be sucking fingers all night<br />Wearing those shoes, oh any excuse to go to the gang fight<br />And oh she's alright, everybody says she's uptight<br />Sick in the head, first in the bed<br />So easy to be Friday's wonder</center><br /><br />That's what I'm talking about...Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-91437181299180118222007-12-31T20:34:00.000-08:002007-12-31T20:35:47.217-08:00"Lady in velvet recedes in the nights of good-bye"<object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fRarrQtViUs&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fRarrQtViUs&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-12450686812273812312007-12-14T16:50:00.000-08:002008-11-22T10:56:35.567-08:00Best of 2007 (1) "So wait for the stone on your window...your window..."Everybody's heard the story. <a href="http://horslipsmusic.blogspot.com/2007/06/accidental-fan-decemberists.html">The Decemberists were a indie band</a> from Portland, Oregon that had the nerve to do a concept album based on the ancient Irish epic The Tain. That was late 2004 and I, ever the intrepid Horslips fan I, went to see these upstarts at the Great American Music Hall.<br /><br />And walked away with four of their early efforts.<br /><br />But like Peter before the crowing cock, I denied them within the Horslips circle of fans and quietly muffled my own opinions that a great epic can have many versions and perhaps even needed one from an American band struggling to give voice to alternative viewpoints in the shadow of the early years of Iraq.<br /><br />2007 found the <a href="http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/page/news/2005/12/12">Decemberists on a major label</a>, with sell-out gigs at the Village in Dublin and at the Warfield in San Francisco, and <a href="http://starbucksgossip.typepad.com/_/2007/03/decemberists_gu.html">on sale at the counters of Starbucks</a> across the nation. That an album featuring the deeply chilling ballad "Shankill Butchers" could sit side by side with biscotti and half-dipped dark-chocolate madeleines of the Frappacinos and half-caf mochas of the world should surely be one of the year's signature moments.<br /><br />I had the opportunity to hear Colin Meloy sing an acoustic version of this on KFOGs morning show. Romeo and Juliet in South Central. Same as it ever was...<br /><br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/D0PN_o2_eqY&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/D0PN_o2_eqY&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-90867377198091185092007-12-07T14:02:00.000-08:002007-12-07T14:23:16.098-08:00"He kept a shop in London town,Of fancy clients and good renown..."A recent splash ad on MySpace tells me there's <a href="http://www.sweeneytoddmovie.com/">a new Johnny Depp</a> movie in the offing. A Tim Burton/Johnny Depp venture, which should be about as good as it gets. And perfect for the holidays too: a musical in a nineteenth century London setting. That's Dickens Town, by golly! City of chimney sweeps and cherubic pickpockets and parlor games at the nephew’s and Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, casting a universal benediction on us all. Or, even later along in the century, a child’s deceptive haven of waistcoated rabbits visiting from Oxford and mischievous pixie fairies who live in the Park. Where nannies float down from the coal-soot skies and little lost boys in search of their shadows tap on the nursery windowpane. <br /><br />But, of course, Mr. Depp is not giving us a new Ebenezer or Mr. Banks or Captain Hook (though the last IS a thought...just sayin'). Instead, his own gallery of risky performances will now include the doomed story of Benjamin Barker, Fleet Street barber convicted of a false crime and sent to Australia. But escaped, and returning home and searching for wife long lost and child long grown.<br /><br />London London London. Damn me. London.<br /><br />My first trip over in July 2002, I spent two days on my own in London. World Cup Weekend it was. Using Travelocity, I originally booked some delightful sounding place, but co-workers reading the postal code on my reservation form told me I was well away from City center. So a hasty reshuffling landed me the only reasonable vacancy, something near the Gloucester Station on Cromwell Road (yeah, not forgetting that soon). Later I realized from reading <a href="http://www.virago.co.uk/display.asp?isb=9781844083213&TAG=&CID=&PGE=&LANG=en">Mrs. Palfrey</a>, a novel by Elizabeth Taylor (No. Not THAT Elizabeth Taylor. The other one.), that I might have been staying in what was more akin to pensioners housing offering a semblance of self-sufficiency in the City and a tenuous toe-hold on middle class respectability. Which would explain the enormous pile of empty gin bottles collecting on the back stoop. But it was cheap and within (what I, urban hill-climber that I am, considered) walking distance to Harrods.<br /><br />After checking in early in the mid-morning, I headed off in a quest of food and City fun. Slight confusion as the streets twisted and turned about and I was seeing less commercial and more residential and a directional sign saying "Shepherd's Bush" and, drawing on my history of the Who, I knew I was headed in the wrong direction. Back again and finding the Gloucester Station shopping area, I went inside to the first lunch counter I saw and ordered a meat pie. When it arrived, all steamy and flaking, I crooned down to it: "Mrs. Mooney has a pie shop. Does a business, but I've noticed something weird. Lately all her neighbors' cats have disappeared. Wouldn't do in my shop! Just the thought of it is enough to make you sick. And I'm tellin' you...them pussy cats is quick!" And the waitperson behind the counter hustled me out into the street.<br /><br />Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd...<br /><br />Stephen Sondheim's masterpiece. Listen ye, Andrew Lloyd Weber, and grovel before it.<br /><br />What doesn't this musical have? Escaped convict, vengeance, lust, barber chairs and medicine shows, cannibalism, madhouses and lunatics, sailors and holiday seaside songs, beggar women whores, corrupt government officials, true love and tragedy. And meat pies. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKEilONL9KA&feature=related">God, that’s good</a>.<br /><br />Still, I'll confess that I'm more than a little worried about Helena Bonham Carter here. We're not seeing much of her in the preview and we're hearing less. Mind you, I saw the great Lansbury her very own self bring the doting, daffy and quite dangerous Mrs. Lovett to life on the stage in '79. And this after weeks of listening to the original Broadway cast recording of the whole thing so that I would know each bawdy pun and wheedling caress of her voice by heart and can type all this from memory even now.* A canny businesswoman, first and always: "What's my secret? Frankly dear, forgive me candor. Family secret. All to do with herbs. (And mind, now: pronounce that 'H') Things like bein' careful with your coriander. That’s what makes the gravy grander!" A tender mother's heart of tatted doilies and seaside mementos denied its rightful place in the safe haven of home and family: "Nothing's going to harm you, Toby, not while I'm around." A spurned and desperate lover: "Your Lucy! A crazy hag picking bones and rotten spuds out of alley ashcans? Would you wanted to know she ended like that? Yes, I lied because I love you. I've been TWICE the wife she was! Could that THING have cared for you like me...?" <br /><br />Oh it's a GREAT role. Ms. Carter better be up to it!<br /><br />But I'm not in London this December. That's breaking a personal record, though we have hopes for January. Still, if I'm not there, the Duke de Mondo is and I’m trying my level best to not be consumed with a deep, resentful envy as a result. Which makes it all the harder to say that his new blog <a href="http://londoninbrokenc.blogspot.com/2007/11/dream-217-its-eating-me.html">London in Broken C</a> is every bit as good as anything he's written in the past. As with <a href="http://www.mondoirlando.com/dublin_raw_index.html">his Dublin of Sinead and the Savage Purple</a> and hometown Belfast, another world-famous metropolis has found in the Duke an able chronicler for the new millennium of all of its wild attractions, its inexplicable eccentricities and its ageless sorrows. <br /><br /><br />*I'm onboard the Mendocino at this very moment, so there's no Google on hand to double-check. Of course, I could only post this later when next online, but I swear: straight from memory.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-68857539326810170672007-12-05T06:00:00.000-08:002007-12-05T08:31:01.602-08:00ByeSpace? (2) "I am a Rock, I am an Island..."And I am a Vampire (Catholic Schoolgirl class); right-brained; attending the world's largest Octoberfest; in possession of an IQ 15 points lower than my friend Mal McGinley of Antrim; in a torrid 'poking' contest with photographer Sean Hennessy; a member in good standing of the HUGE Horslips and Horslypse fanclub; and rating local restaurants and my exhaustive CD collection.<br /><br />Yes, I am on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=713173211">Facebook</a>.<br /><br />Sometime in October, Birmingham-based guitarist Joe Forde enticed me over to Facebook, the social networking site eclipsing ole MySpace in the buzz. By November, something else was eclipsing Facebook, (It's <a href="http://www.linkedin.com/">LinkedIn</a> my coworkers affirm and I'm there too, but strictly for professional reasons. No Zombie Games need apply.) but I found myself enjoying it anyway. Until the constant round of <a href="http://www.facebook.com/applications/">apps</a> started piling up and I thought "What am I to my friends? Some 'chump' (that's a vampire victim in the game, actually) who's gonna sit down and participate in every little interactive piece of stickiness that a Silicon Valley nerd came up with on their lunch hour?<br /><br />Facebook Fatigue hit approximately 26.5 days after signing up. I needed to go somewhere quiet to rest. And so, back to MySpace. Where the honest hustle of flash animated ads of Britney Spears being shaved by that creepy looking doctor felt almost like instant nostalgia. I logged on. THESE were my real friends!<br /><br />And bloody hell! I had over 480 of them! Who ARE these people? <a href="http://online.wsj.com/public/article/SB119518271549595364.html">A recent article in the Wall Street Journal states that we all have a ceiling on the personal contacts we can manage to maintain in our lives</a>. That number: 150.<br /><br />I had nearly 500 in the Horslips profile alone. 220 in my poetry/lit profile. And nearly 1500 in the Irish pub and ballad profile. Quoting Joni Mitchell:<br /><br />"I do my best<br />And I do good business<br />There's a lot of people asking for my time<br />They're trying to get ahead<br />They're trying to be a good friend of mine"<br /><br />And trust me: after the first few weeks in '06 of making friends with friends, I vetted each request carefully with the following guidelines:<br /><br /><ol, list-style:disc><br /><ol><br /><li>if you are a voluptuous blonde with an 'i' ending first name (Candi, Brandi, Bambi, etc), you better have at least The Waterboys listed as one of your favorite bands<br /><li>if you are a young, sculpted, dark-haired lad with puppy-dog eyes and a Mediterranean tan, it doesn't necessarily have to be The Waterboys. Big Country will suffice.<br /></ol><br /><br />Seriously, I did use the following as warning signs to quickly cull some of requests:<br /><br /><ol, list-style:disc><br /><ol><br /><li>obvious political banners/mottoes/messages.<br /><li>band that falls completely outside of the genres I've indicated interest in.<br /><li>band with more than 1,000 friends (harsh because I had 1,300 friends myself by this point on the pub profile -- but remember: I'm not the one out there building a mass mailing list).<br /><li>band that isn't based in Ireland/Scotland/England/Wales or the great pub cities of America. Recently added Germany and Netherlands as "I'll give your song a longer listen" countries because I am digging some of the great stuff from those scenes!<br /><li>excessive use of glitter gifs in profile/avatars.<br /><li>Ponies and seascapes are a warning sign too.<br /><li>anyone who hasn't bothered to edit their profile beyond the basic "Tom of MySpace" look.<br /><li>anyone who hasn't bothered to kick Tom out of their Top Eight friends.<br /><li>anyone who mentions "real estate" "vitamins" "investment" in their 'About Me' section.<br /><li>guns or balaclavas in profile/avatars. Click. (But do LOVE the new Artic Monkeys song!)<br /><li>red font on black background is not Goth. It is just hard to read. Click.<br /><li>same thing goes for the jpeg that's too small to tile as wallpaper attractively. Click.<br /><li>the American flag is inspiring, true, and we all love eagles. But. In. Moderation. Click!!<br /><li>I'm sorry, was that Loreena McKennitt I saw listed in your influences? SO click.<br /><li>Yes, I'm proud to be Irish and/or American too, but I don't seem to need to mention it quite so often!<br /><li>okay, you know, everyone else's MySpace page only took two seconds to load. What was the freakin' hold-up with yours? Believe me, it wasn't worth the wait.<br />(Here's the actual page that generated this part of my rant: <a href="http://www.myspace.com/blueflashinglightemup">blueflashinglightmeup</a>)<br /></ol><br /><br />This is not to say that I haven't made firm, fast friends with some people who broke these rules. For example, The Guireans of Sandwick, Isle of Lewis have done f*ck all for style and presentation on their MySpace page, but they are head and shoulders above any other friend I made for inventiveness, originality and true artistic achievement:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/theguireans">The Guireans</a><br /><br />Yet even with this stringent guideline, I still find myself up to the neck in chain letter bulletins and self-advertising comments. And now is the time I'm expected to go around and wish Holiday greetings to the lot.<br /><br />480 friends? <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/First-400-Mrs-Astors-Gilded/dp/0847822850">Caroline Astor managed with just 400</a> and she had a big house. It was time to start cleaning mine.<br /><br />(Stay Tuned)Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-37784329074652196452007-10-12T16:53:00.000-07:002010-03-31T17:16:19.452-07:00Hot for Preacher (3) - Chapter One: I am Born<div style="text-align: left;"><i>And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.</i><br /><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/108/42/2.html#S8">2 Luke, 8:10, Bartleby.com</a></div><br /><br /><blockquote>Coll: Something's wrong with this baby.<br />Gib: I'll say: he looks like our sheep!<br />Coll: Let me see, Gib! (Mak and Jill try to escape)<br />Daw: I see thieves trying to sneak away!<br />Gib: That was clever. I've never seen anything like it.<br />Coll: What a fraud!<br />Daw: Yes, men, wasn't it? Let's tie her up and bind her fast. A false scold when she's caught hangs at last. Look how they swaddled his four feet in the middle?<br />I've never seen a horned baby in a cradle before. I know him by his ear-mark. He's ours.<br /><a href="http://www.calvin.edu/academic/engl/215/ssp.htm">The Wakefield Second Shepherd's Play</a>, a medieval retelling of the Nativity and some other stuff, translation by Karen Saupe.</blockquote><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Paul was a cranky baby. He cried most of the day. Peace only settled on the new house after he went to bed where, exhausted from the trauma of his waking hours, he slept long and soundly. Iris tried all known methods to still the noise coming from the cot. Her sister Ruth would come over to lend a hand. Onagh Byrne, a sympathetic neighbour from two doors along, was also enlisted to help pacify Paul. Norman, who was now a sensible eight-year-old, often walked his young brother around the block to give Iris a break.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">David Lee Roth was born on October 10, 1953, in Bloomington, Indiana, where his achievement-oriented father, Nathan, went to medical school.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Iris was sure something was wrong. <i>Nobody</i> would cry like that just for attention. When he was two, Iris took Paul to Dr. Lee Kidney, a noted specialist at Crumlin Children's Hospital.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">David was an energetic kid, but he was plagued by allergies and fought with health problems that forced him to wear leg braces from almost the time he could walk until age four. Then he was shipped off to therapy for the better part of a decade. At nine years old, he began three intensive years of clinical treatment for hyperactivity. He had a few healthy outlets--Roth's parents called his dinner-hour routines "Monkey Hour," when he acted out cartoons and sang revved-up vaudeville songs for dinner guests.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Dr. Kidney couldn't find anything wrong with his young patient but suggested he stay in the hospital for a week for observation. The good news, seven days later, was that Paul was healthy and normal.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Everyone else was simply having trouble playing their part in his continuous mental picture show, a fast, animated flipbook of <i>MAD</i> magazine and <i>Playboy</i>.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The bad news was that he was unlikely to stop seeking attention.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">...his roots were knotted tightly around the Old World--his grandparents were Ukrainian Jews who traded the mountains and steppes of Eastern Europe for the sweltering cornfields of the Midwest. In fact, all four of his grandparents spoke Russian. "My great-granddaddy died dancing," he later joked with a TV interviewer, "at the end of a rope."</div>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-9476973827094285292007-09-28T03:40:00.001-07:002007-09-28T03:54:24.562-07:00Hot for Preacher (2) - A Brief News Update<a href="http://www.nme.com/news/u2/31420">Bono Awarded Liberty Medal</a><br /><br /><blockquote>U2 frontman Bono has been awarded the Liberty Medal in Philadelphia. The award is given annually and recognises leadership in the pursuit of freedom.<br /><br />...<br /><br />After being awarded with the medal, Bono paid tribute to the US, saying: "In the American body politic there's no poetry like the poetry of the Declaration Of Independence and the Constitution.</blockquote><br /><br />Actually, I happen to be pretty fond of <a href="http://www.baseball-almanac.com/poetry/po_case.shtml">Casey at the Bat</a>. And there's still bars up in Sitka where a spirited recitation of <a href="http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/yukon02.html">The Cremation of Sam McGee</a> will set you up with free rounds of Yukon Jack for the night. (Technically, that one's Canadian, but none other than Seamus Heaney has cited it as a childhood favorite.)<br /><br />Speaking of Canada:<br /><br /><a href="http://winnipegsun.com/Entertainment/Music/2007/09/28/4533111-sun.html">Hail to Van Halen</a><br /><br /><blockquote> Van Halen's two-hour-and-10-minute performance kicked off with a triple-shot of great classic rock -- their cover of The Kinks' You Really Got Me, I'm the One, which the band stopped mid-song to rapturous applause -- "It only took us 20 years to get this far," said Roth -- and Runnin' With the Devil.<br /><br />In between, there were such classics -- all from the Roth-fronted years of 1978-84 -- as Romeo Delight, Beautiful Girls, Dance the Night Away, Everybody Wants Some, their cover of Roy Orbison's Pretty Woman, I'll Wait, And the Cradle Will Rock, Hot For Teacher, Little Guitars, Jamie's Cryin', Panama, and Ain't Talkin' Bout Love.<br /><br />Truthfully, it was hard to maintain the energy of that trio of opening songs, but the band definitely aimed to please with a hits-heavy set list and backed by impressive green laser lights, an enormous video backdrop and confetti raining down on the audience by the very end.<br /><br />"I can't tell you all how excited we are to be here tonight," said Roth.</blockquote><br /><br />By the way. It's 'brown' M&Ms. The green ones were valued at my high school for their supposed aphrodisiacal qualities, which probably led to my confusion. And, having read to that point in the story, I've learned that the brown M&M clause was a cold and calculated business trick, further encouraging my growing respect from the little old rockers from Pasadena.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-30847155431866644432007-09-24T16:05:00.000-07:002007-09-24T16:37:09.461-07:00Hot for Preacher (1) -- Mano a Mano con BonoEver since Grace Cathedral ruined my grand finale<sup>1</sup> for last December's email carol of The Twelve Days of Bono, I've felt that there's been some unfinished business betwixt myself and Mr. Hewson.<br /><br />I knew that I needed something new to focus my somewhat unexamined, but always emailed, feelings for the man and the band who continue to haunt my life in strange and unexpected ways. (Most recently by <a href="http://horslipsmusic.blogspot.com/2007/06/and-winner-isnot-bono.html">very nearly providing Hillary Clinton with her '08 campaign song</a>.) Maybe even something like that worked like a kind of penance or atonement for all those cheap jokes and unpurchased albums.<br /><br />And although I hadn't a clue as to what form that it might take, I knew there would be a Sign. A Path. I had Faith that Providence would Provide. (Providence seems to be good at that. Hence, perhaps, that name it's got. 'Providence.') A Way would be made Clear. I would also Need to get my Caps Lock Key FIXEd.<br /><br />Or I'd just find a really cheap, used copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Unforgettable-Fire-Eamon-Dunphy/dp/0446389749">Eamon Dunphy's Unforgettable Fire</a> at the record store where I probably bought the bulk of any U2 vinyl I ever owned. And I'd think "Yeah, that'll work. I'll read Unforgettable Fire and write snide rants to my friends who will quietly block my email address and alert the appropriate authorities. It'll be like a book club meeting that goes on and on and there's nothing you can do about it."<br /><br />Reader, I bought it!<br /><br />And after a couple depressing thoughts on the twenty year old copyright date, I started in. And there we are, onstage in 1985, at Wembley. It's Live Aid, clearly the greatest stadium concert with [as the book says] "the greatest rock 'n' roll bill of all time." And off we go:<br /><br /><blockquote><br />It all hung on Bono. At moments of acute need like this it was as if he was the vessel into which all their fears and hopes, ideas and emotions dissolved. In him and through him the pool of accumulated sadness, joy, anger and yearning swelled and began to flow -- from Edge's guitar, through Larry's drums and Adam's bass the music gathered force, bursting out through Bono whose task it was to give it words, meaning, substance on a day like this. He was the medium for their message. When Bono prayed that day, as he always did backstage, he asked for strength...</blockquote><br /><br />Right there. That's when the needle scratched across the vinyl of my attention span. Praying backstage. At a ROCK concert? And am I the first to catch that "through him, with him, in him" echo in the second sentence? Yet I keep reading. A page later, we have Bob Geldof and Paul McGuinness crying like reunited brothers in each others' arms.<br /><br />Oh dear. It's going to be a looooong book.<br /><br />I understand atonement and all, but shouldn't a rock-n-roll biography have something a little more ...ah...carnal about it? Like underage blonds in hotel suites, roadies with bicycle chain belts and tattoos, mirrors and razors, M&Ms painstakingly sorted by flunkies backstage, wads of under-the-table cash exchanging hands, suits from the record label harshing the buzz...all that sort of thing? At the least, a certain snarky, smart-ass tone capturing the hustle and balls of it all?<br /><br />For example, here in Ian Christie's new book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Everybody-Wants-Some-Halen-Saga/dp/0470039108">Everybody Wants Some: The Van Halen Saga</a>, published by Wiley. (Oh yes it is!) Does the legend of Eddie, Alex, Michael and Dave start with prayers and hugs? Let's take a look:<br /><br /><blockquote>Like the stories of other great Americans from Henry Ford to Walt Disney to Fievel the Mouse, the saga of Van Halen begins in an ancient land, far from the United States and its constant supply of hot water and electricity. As a narrator would say in the old movies: Among the windmills, tulips, and wooden shoes of lovely Amsterdam, Holland, there lived a kindly musician named Jan van Halen.</blockquote><br /><br />Now that's not too bad on the snark-o-meter, but to be fair and balanced we need to give it a full page of text as we did for the other. And so to:<br /><br /><blockquote>As they traveled all around Holland and sometimes across the border to Germany, the boys saw the practical aspects of a musical career firsthand, and on some of the more rustic and ribald nights they discovered the perks--Alex reported losing his virginity at age nine after one of his dad's gigs.</blockquote><br /><br />Hot DAMN! You can almost hear that clicking sound of green M&Ms being sorted now.<br /><br />And so I've decided that I will read BOTH books. At once. As in together. Randomly. Flipping from one to the other whenever the mood strikes. Confusing names, places, venues, genres until I forget whether it's Bono or Alex who trips over a cable and twists his ankle at the Anaheim Stadium in '78. Whether its Paul McGuinness or David Lee Roth who gets sent down from Trinity College, Dublin. It's a Lit-Crit Mash-up! Prayers AND M&Ms backstage! Let there be ROCK!<br /><br />I am running a little bit hot tonight, now that you mention it. I can barely see the road from the heat coming off. So I reach down between my legs and I still haven't found what I'm looking for...<br /><br /><sup>1.</sup> <span style="font-size:85%;">How did they get wind that I was planning to attend the much vaunted U2charist with two of the City's leading members of the leather community and a young, brash, rising star in the drag performance firmament, that's what I want to know.</span>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-54105404719331562832007-09-14T06:48:00.000-07:002007-09-14T06:55:30.564-07:00Husband says "Best CD you played in the car stereo in a long time."It's not often that one of my music choices on the Saturday shopping drive earns an instant response from the housemate, but Lady's Bridge, an album from Sheffield artist <a href="http://www.richardhawley.co.uk/">Richard Hawley</a>, managed it. Eamon Carr reviews:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.independent.ie/entertainment/music/hawley-grail-1060921.html">Hawley Grail</a><br /><br /><blockquote>..."I'd be a shit rock band. On all my records the influences I draw on are well before 1969. I still listen to Marty Robbins, one of the best singers that ever lived.<br /><br />"I don't hear that very much in a lot of modern music that I hear. People seem to be scared to expose themselves to what they're feeling."<br /><br />For a man who's quite relaxed and not bolshy or argumentative, Hawley has fixed ideas on what makes interesting music. "If I'd been in a pub band playing blues or whatever I'd be happy," he says. "When you earn your living out of music there's a honesty to it that I like. I refuse to compromise. When I write songs the first person I have to please is myself," he says.<br /><br />The songs on Lady's Bridge pass the test. It's the most compact treatment of loss and lonliness since Frank Sinatra recorded In The Wee Small Hours in 1954 or Roy Orbison, the Sultan of Sorrow, performed surgery on heartache in the 1960s. Echoes of that bruised baritone haunt Lady's Bridge...</blockquote><br /><br />Whole review at the link.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-55726145234895670152007-09-06T19:36:00.000-07:002007-09-06T19:38:09.524-07:00"if i knew the way, i would take you home"<object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lVdTQ3OPtGY"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lVdTQ3OPtGY" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-49231602872331409552007-09-06T18:28:00.001-07:002007-09-06T18:35:30.842-07:00Found while looking for something else<img src="http://comebackhorslips.com/illustrations/seacastle.jpg"><br /><br />On the other side, also in my writing: "Charlemagne! How do you spell relief? R-O-L-A-N-D-S" which is clearly a play on the old <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rolaids">Rolaids advertisement</a>. Proof that I was destined for marketing all along. <br /><br />The paper opens up to a flier that asks, on the other side, "Would You Be Interested in Tutoring? The Learning Center Has Tutoring Opportunities..." All the 'o's are shaded in and there's another sketch of a Greek goddess in profile in the margins. Her proportions are slightly off.<br /><br />Well, it's like Tom Leher said "Bright college days, oh, carefree days that fly, To thee we sing with our glasses raised on high..."<br /><br />I do like the oars coming out of the wheel-wells on the bus though!Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-29285323582933891112007-09-06T06:11:00.000-07:002007-09-06T06:14:37.003-07:00As seen on Doc 40, but not in the UKThe critically acclaimed album Trouble Pilgrim -- the first Radiators from Space album in many a year -- is due for an upcoming UK release. But it won't be featuring the album artwork that the band wanted it to have.<br /><br />The controversial cover (shown below) provides a glimpse into one of those mid-century American moments of synchronicity that Don Delillo would savor: James Dean and Ronald Reagan co-starring in some forgotten TV drama of dubious artistic quality.<br /><br /><img src="http://www.comebackhorslips.com/illustrations/rads_deanreagan_cover.jpg"><br /><br />Read what Mick Farren has to say about it over at <a href="http://doc40.blogspot.com/2007/08/ronald-reagan-is-haunting-doc40.html">Doc 40</a>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-70861694984359320052007-09-03T07:37:00.000-07:002010-11-25T06:40:58.132-08:00"Fuld og skæv og bange vakled’ jeg til Mollys kammer"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.smvblog.com/nonita/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/g03668-300x298.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 164px; height: 162px;" src="http://www.smvblog.com/nonita/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/g03668-300x298.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" >Originally written in late 2002 with some updating over the years. Smart-ass tone is vintage to the period.</span><br /><br />In permanent rotation on my playlist is one variant or another of that Celtic classic known as Whiskey in the Jar. This is the song with the highwayman relieving a uniformed officer of a substantial amount of cash and returning, with cash in hand, to a woman who betrays him to his erstwhile victim. The song with the 'wack fo the daddy oh" chorus. The song covered by the Clancy Brothers, the Dubliners, the Pogues, Tempest and every bar band from here to Buffalo New York.<br /><br />Now, in the world of folk music, there is no such thing as the ‘correct’ version of a song, but there is certainly such thing as a ‘favorite version’ or ‘the kick-ass version’ or perhaps even ‘the only f*ck*ng goddamn version worth playing.’ And in that category, there is for me only one version of Whiskey in the Jar.<br /><br />And that would be the song with the nasty sawed-off guitar riff that tears through the lyrics EXACTLY in the way a primer-coated late-model Camaro, filled with empty cans of Bud and a bunch of teenage thugs ditching shop class, tears through a high school parking lot.<br /><br />The song that CD Universe lists as “heavy metal.” The song ably covered by Metallica. The song with Molly instead of Jenny.<br /><br />Yes, the song by Thin Lizzy.<br /><br />It is not just a question of style. Thin Lizzy’s version of Whiskey in the Jar just tells a better story than the one you are likely to hear from the local bar band. Plot, pacing, characterization – line for line Thin Lizzy’s Whiskey in the Jar delivers a cynical classic of greed and betrayal. All other ‘Whiskeys’ – particularly the ‘Jenny’ labels –are just inferior rotgut blends. It’s Jameson vs Yukon Jack.<br /><br />But let’s examine in detail…<br /><br />First, there’s the encounter on the highway, which manages to suggest both premeditation and opportunism – an ambiguity of motives and consequences that persists throughout Thin Lizzy’s version:<br /><br /><blockquote>As I was goin' over the Cork and Kerry mountains<br />I saw Captain Farrell and his money he was countin'<br />I first produced my pistol and then produced my rapier</blockquote>With some geographic confusion aside, most versions get immediately to this point. Even the one where Sergeant Pepper has been promoted out of his post as band leader:<br /><br /><blockquote>As I was a-walkin' 'round<br />Kilgary Mountain<br />I met with Captain Pepper<br />as his money he was countin'<br />I rattled my pistols and<br />I drew forth my saber.</blockquote>Actually, I always thought one rattled sabers and drew forth pistols, but threatening weapons have been produced and that’s the important thing. As for ‘walking ‘round a mountain’ it just seems like it would take some time.<br /><br />Then most versions -- the ‘Jenny’ versions<sup>1</sup> -- just get silly:<br /><br /><blockquote>As I was a going over<br />Gillgarry Mountain,<br />I spied Colonel Farrell and<br />his money he was countin'.<br />First I drew me pistol<br />and then I drew me rapier,<br />Sayin' stand and deliver<br />for I am your bold deceiver.</blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">"For I am your bold deceiver?"</span> What kind of hold-up line is that? What the hell is a "bold deceiver"? Frankly, it sounds like something Amanda Wingfield would buy for her glass figurine-collecting daughter Laura in the first draft of a Tennessee Williams play: "Now, Laura dear, be sure to pin those bold deceivers securely in your bodice, so your gentlemen callers don’t discover our little secret..."<br /><br />Yeah, maybe when Colonel Mustard is finished giggling he’ll hand over the loot, but for the moment he’s being robbed by <a href="http://www.kontinuum.cz/index.php?location=/databaze/epizody.php?action=detail%3Cand%3ESerie=TOS%3Cand%3Epolozka_id=21%3Cand%3E">Trelane, the childish alien with Liberace’s wardrobe in Star Trek: Original Series</a>. Whereas,<br /><br /><blockquote>I first produced my pistol and then produced my rapier<br />I said stand and deliver or the devil he may take ya </blockquote>makes a far more effective threat.<br /><br />Then there’s the chorus; the “Musha ring um du rum da” part which I have no complaints with in any version<sup>2</sup>. But let me point out that Thin Lizzy injects more menace into “Musha ring dum a doo dum a da” than you’d expect. They’ve got your “Whack fol my daddy-o” swinging.<br /><br />The second verse introduces our third character. In most versions, she’s named Jenny:<br /><br /><blockquote>He counted out his money and it made a pretty penny,<br />I put it in me pocket to take home to darling' Jenny.<br />She sighed and swore she loved me and never would deceive me,<br />But the devil take the women for they always lie so easy. </blockquote>Nice pun there on ‘lie so easy.” Yes, I expect they do, especially when a pile of gold coins is on the table. But this is Jenny, the heroine of the lesser Whiskeys and it’s just an obvious rhyme with penny. There’s another traditional version with a rhyme that introduces us to Molly:<br /><br /><blockquote>The shinin' golden coins<br />did look so bright and jolly<br />I took 'em with me home and<br />I gave 'em to my Molly<br />She promised and she vowed that<br />she never would deceive me<br />But the devil's in the women and<br />they never can be easy</blockquote>Although Molly’s shortcomings will soon be undeniable, it’s not worth a sweeping generalization of the failures of womankind. And, besides, the pun on easy is gone, which is a shame. Molly and/or Jenny couldn’t be easier if it was Girls Gone Wild on Bourbon Street and you’re the lucky sod holding the video camera.<br /><br />So it’s with a rocker’s sneer at the requirements of rhyme and rhythm that Thin Lizzy gives us another story:<br /><br /><blockquote>I took all of his money and it was a pretty penny<br />I took all of his money, yeah, I brought it home to Molly<br />She swore that she'd love me, never would she leave me<br />But the devil take that woman, for you know she tricked me easy </blockquote>Which is a good thing, because the word “jolly” has no business in a rock song, unless it is followed by the word “roger.” And “roger” is a dicey word in any genre, so it’s best to avoid the whole business altogether.<br /><br />Thin Lizzy’s Molly is a secret unto herself. She’s warm and loving; she’s full of tricks. And, in the lesser versions, as Jenny she may have cause for complaint:<br /><br /><blockquote>I went into me chamber<br />all for to take a slumber<br />To dream of gold and girls<br />and of course it was no wonder.<br />Me Jenny took me charges<br />and she filled them up with water,</blockquote>Now, there’s just too much Freudian imagery for me to analyze here, especially when we reach the crisis of the story:<br /><br /><blockquote>Next morning early before I rose to travel,<br />There came a band of footmen and likewise Colonel Farrell.<br />I goes to draw me pistol for she'd stole away me rapier,<br />but a prisoner I was taken I couldn't shoot the water.</blockquote> Yeah, my friend had that problem too, but Viagra<sup>3</sup> cleared it up.<br /><br />I’m not sure why Jenny is so quick to betray our narrator, but perhaps an hour invested in taking care of her needs before dreaming of “gold and girls” might have saved his worthless hide.<br /><br />Now in the Thin Lizzy version, the moment of discovery packs a little more tension and a lot more drama:<br /><br /><blockquote>Being drunk and weary I went to Molly's chamber<br />Takin' money with me and I never knew the danger<br />For about six or maybe seven, yeah, in walked Captain Farrell</blockquote>No ‘next’ morning here. And no unnecessary cast of thousands with footmen and such. Drunk and weary, maybe, but also in Molly’s chamber with money. And losing track of time. This is a man who knows a little bit about savoring the spoils of victory, and perhaps even coming back for seconds. And then, ‘in walked Captain Farrell…’ Now, maybe I’m a romantic, but I always see this moment as the bad luck of evil co-incidence and poor scheduling on Molly’s part. I don’t think Captain Farrell, or Molly, or our hapless narrator; expect to see the intersection of their three lives at this very moment. Maybe Molly has been providing the hospitality of her chamber to both highwayman and captain without incident for years, but on this fateful night she’s gotten her Palm Pilot entries mixed up. Though the sense of shock and three way betrayal is strong, not a moment of hesitation (or watered-down pistols) on our hero’s part:<br /><br /><blockquote>I jumped up, fired my pistols and I shot him with both barrels</blockquote>Well okay! Vaya con Dios, Captain Farrell. And doesn't that teach you not to flash your paycheck while wandering around alone in the countryside of Cork and Kerry? And, sadly, Molly’s active role in the song is pretty much done at this point too. But with the Captain dead and our hero in serious trouble, she’s certainly up one bag of gold with no questions asked. Let's hope she used the swag to book passage for Boston and finance a Day School for Young Ladies of Good Massachusetts Families with herself as headmistress. That’s certainly what I’d do, at any rate.<br /><br />In the ‘Jenny’ versions, matters go their dreary course:<br /><br /><blockquote>They put me into jail<br />with a judge all a writin'<br />For robbing Colonel Farrell<br />on Gilgarry Mountain.<br />But they didn't take me fists<br />so I knocked the jailer down,<br />And bid a farewell to<br />this tight fisted town.<br />I'd like to find me brother<br />the one that's in the army,<br />I don't know where he's stationed<br />in Cork or in Killarney.<br />Together we'd go roving<br />o'r the mountains of Killkenney,<br />And I swear he'd treat me<br />better than me darling' sporting Jenny.</blockquote>Well, pal, which locality is it? Cork or Killarney? Where I live, the County Jail gives you only ONE phonecall on the gov’t dime, so you’d better know what you’re about. And why is the brother going to be especially motivated to abandon three hots and a cot to go roving o’r the mountains with his jailbird sibling who’s also expecting him to be a substitute for ‘darling sporting Jenny?’<br /><br />Trust me, there’s no substitute for what Jenny/Molly can deliver.<sup>4</sup><br /><br />And, besides, introducing the brother at this point just messes with the neat triangle of characterization established so far. Furthermore, knocking down the jailer after arrest is no way as exciting as unloading a double-barreled blast on the Captain himself at the moment of discovery.<br /><br />So. Far, far better is the dramatic power of the stripped down final verse in the Thin Lizzy version. Savage electric guitars dropping away, the story shifts from past glory to present miseries:<br /><br /><blockquote>Now some men like the fishin' and some men like the fowlin'<br />And some men like to hear, to hear the cannon ball a roarin'<br />Me I like sleepin' especially in my Molly's chamber<br />But here I am in prison, here I am with a ball and chain yeah </blockquote>And there it is – a tale of gold, love, murder and the vengeance of the law in four neat verses. No post-arrest escapes, no brother. And this is the only version I’ve found that brings Molly back for the finale, and that wistful tone of regret for her chamber strengthens my argument that Molly was guilty of nothing more than loving too much (or too many…) but no grudges are held.<br /><br /><blockquote>Musha ring dum a doo dum a da<br />Whack fol my daddy-o<br />Whack fol my daddy-o<br />There's whiskey in the jar-o </blockquote><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /><sup>1</sup>It has recently come to my attention that the Dubliners sing the "Jenny" variant of this song, which has probably led other bands down that road.<br /><br />However, I would submit that the Dubliners could sing "Sunshine and Lollipops" or "I'm Just a Girl Who Can't Say No" or “Genie in a Bottle" or any such song with any such lyrics and still be one bad-ass band.<br /><br /><sup>2</sup>Just try singing it with boys after three pints. Huh buddy? Where’s your self-respect now?<br /><br /><sup>3</sup>[2007 edit] I’ve since learned that Viagra was invented in Cork, Ireland. Yes, it does have a kind of ‘coals to Newcastle’ feeling, doesn’t it? I imagine the lab conversation as follows: “Say, you know what I think? I think this world could use more langers. Big, proud and ready-for-action langers!” “Funny you bring that up. I’ve been working on this pill…” *The two scientists then beta-test the pill.* “BRILLIANT!”<br /><br /><sup>4</sup>[2007 edit:] Unless you are ex-Senator Craig [R], Idaho. Nice job supporting those American family values, Senator! </span>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-4352981366857084872007-08-31T09:15:00.000-07:002007-08-31T09:25:51.421-07:00"Gimme a 'D!' Gimme a 'U!' Gimme a 'C!'..."Yes, the famous Country Joe McDonald DUCK cheer. Heard many a time over the years. Latest incarnation this morning on <a href="http://www.kfog.com/morningshow/default.asp">KFOG</a>, live from the historic Poster Room at the <a href="http://www.livenation.com/venue/getVenue/venueId/1259">Fillmore</a>.<br /><br /><img src="http://www.myraltis.eclipse.co.uk/griffin/hendrix1.jpg"><br /><br />(This image and other Rick Griffin artwork on display at <a href="http://www.myraltis.co.uk/rickgriffin/index.htm">www.myraltis.eclipse.co.uk/griffin</a>)Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-75402817378536235152007-08-22T10:17:00.000-07:002007-08-22T10:28:49.463-07:00"Is it out of line if I was to be bold and say 'Would you be mine'?"Bought on a complete impulse at the HMV kiosk at Heathrow ("Indecently Rousing" said the Independent on the sticker promo). Then discovered I could listen to it as a featured CD on the inflight entertainment. Back home, listened again lots of times in the car. The sort of play where you let the song finish out before turning off the engine. And then on office iTunes. <br /><br />This one here is my favorite song of the moment. In that top forty way where you need to hear the song every hour or so. It's endless summer.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Q5fpsln6cUg"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Q5fpsln6cUg" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br />Then finally had the presence of mind to check out <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fratellis">The Fratellis</a> over at Wikipedia. Turns out: Glasgow. <br /><br />Told the husband "I know I was intending to wait til you could come with me, but I can't fight it much longer. Next time over, I'm going to Scotland."Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-57362827187484068892007-08-14T13:07:00.000-07:002007-08-14T13:20:41.955-07:00Merv Griffin and his DoormanIf you've seen the Buena Vista Social Club, you'll know a story of once-famous musicians in Cuba rediscovered by Ry Cooder on his own musical journey. The resulting movie and recordings brought a second fame to such capable musicians as Ibriham Ferrer and Manuel Galbon, Orlando "Cachato" Lopez, "Guajiro Mirabal, Jesus "Aguaje" Ramos and Roberto Fonseca.<br /><br />Something like that has happened before. In New York City. And the rediscovered music was the traditional Irish form of singing known as sean nos. Here's how that happened (as told on the <a href="http://www.irishrochester.org/SINGERS%20WEB/biographies.html">Irish Rochester.org website</a>):<br /><br /><blockquote>Merv Griffin is best known as the producer of such popular game shows as Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. In the 1960s he was the host of his own late afternoon talk show, always on the lookout for new and interesting guests. One day when he was vacationing in Ireland, he entered O'Donoghue's Pub in Dublin and was startled to see a familiar face on the wall. That's my doorman! the celebrity exclaimed in surprise. That, said the patient publican to the ignorant Yank, is Ireland's greatest traditional singer! They were both right. Joe Heaney (October 1, 1919-May 1, 1984) was acknowledged then (and is still so regarded) as the greatest exponent of Irish sean nos singing, but unlike Sarah Makem (see below) he had to leave Ireland to receive the popular recognition that was his due. The first prize winner at the Dublin Oireachtas in 1942 and again in 1955, musical partner of Willie Clancy, Seamus Ennis, and Mick Moloney (among many others), and a recording artist for Gael Linn records, he was a regular participant in the traditional music scene of the late 1950s and early 1960s.<br /><br />...<br /><br />If, as the Bible says, "A prophet is not without honor except in his own country and in his own house," Joe was more warmly received in America. In 1965 he appeared at the Newport Jazz Festival and the following St. Patrick's Day appeared on Merv Griffin's television show. In 1980 he was appointed an adjunct professor in Irish folklore at Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut and was later appointed to a similar position at the University of Washington in Seattle. He was a regular performer at concerts and festivals across the country. Finally, in July 1982 he was presented with the National Heritage Award for Excellence in Folk Arts by the National Endowment for the Arts. Ever a modest man, Joe never took himself or his art too seriously. "Where I come from," he said, "they all sing like that."</blockquote><br /><br />I've been to O'Donoghue's myself a time or two and sat under that very photo in 2004 and reeled this same story off to my husband and friends. And I certainly recommend the double CD set <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Road-Connemara-Joe-Heaney/dp/B00004Z3V5">The Road from Connemara</a>.<br /><br />So let's raise a glass to Merv Griffin who was lucky enough to know Joe Heaney and to America who was lucky enough to see Joe at Newport and on TV, thanks to Mr Griffin.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-33160699037523163842007-07-31T08:20:00.000-07:002007-07-31T19:31:29.721-07:00It's Tourist Season in San Francisco!Just yesterday on the Ferry sat next to a group of Married Cousins from Over There who were happily pawing through their bag of the day's acquisitions: Alcatraz Penitentiary Swim Team t-shirts for the whole extended family.<br /><br />Meanwhile, I've discovered a treasure trove of photos over at the San Francisco Public Library's online archives. Here's another visitor to our fair City from back in 1919! (Tall guy in back, sorta looks like Alan Rickman. Not the statue.)<br /><br /><img src="http://www.sfmuseum.org/photos16/devalera.jpg"><br /><br />There's another great photo of the same guy out in front of a Grateful Dead concert at Winterland (still open back then) holding the requisite "<a href="http://arts.ucsc.edu/GDead/aGDL/mira.html">I need a miracle</a>" sign. The Library said he was on a business trip, talking with Silicon Valley venture capitalists for some funding for a start-up.Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-4734667494301685382007-07-28T09:17:00.000-07:002007-07-28T09:23:38.629-07:00Strange Sounds from the MySpace GroundsThe new Dun Ringles CD has arrived! Only 100 copies of this exceptionally pure prog-rock sound from Stornoway in the Outer Hebrides will be made available for the general public. <br /><br />I was out of my blogging habits when I first met the <a href="http://www.myspace.com/dunringles">Dun Ringles</a> (and their much more avante friends <a href="http://www.myspace.com/theguireans">The Guireans</a>), so I'll have to quickly summarize by quoting liberally from their MySpace Page:<br /><br /><blockquote><b>Band Members</b> - Jason; Lead Guitar, bass, drum progs, keyboards,mandolin, backing vocals Robin;Keyboards, mandolin, accordion, backing vocals Wattie; lead vocals, bass, backing vocals Jon;lead guitar,mandolin, fiddle, backing vocals<br /><p><b>Influences</b> - Peatstacks Tractors Salmon Poaching Jethro Tull Horslips Cardiacs Crowded House Jori and Innes Isles FM The Comhairle Queen Deep Purple Blackmores Night The Valtos Outdoor Centre The Castle Grounds<p><br />Keeping the flame of Avante Gaelic Obscurist Folk Rock alive in the Outer Hebrides. Two sets of brothers( jason and jon/robin and wattie) fused together by an irrate record company and not allowed out to play until they have played Madison Square Garden at least twice and sold more than 2 copies of Redun from Fonn. Writing idiosyncratic songs about life in the Western Isles is all they do, spending long hours in candle-lit garrets and sipping from bottles of Absinthe whilst wearing fingerless gloves and muttering to themselves like some old geezer from a Dickens novel. Written seven or eight albums worth of songs and amassed a small but fanatical fan base (which also has a branch on Norway!!!!!!!! thanks Irene) whislt trying to keep the wolf from the door. If you want to know about Peatman, the illusive Funky Peatstack, Hump-backed lobsters and many characters of a Stornowegian slant, then this is the band for you.</blockquote>Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-84934831029080796602007-07-21T11:42:00.000-07:002007-07-21T15:48:06.408-07:00The Unfortunate Cup of Tea"She was a cattleman's daughter, but all the horse men knew her."<br /><br />Lately, my husband has lured me into a weekend hobby that is giving the Internet a run for its money. A hobby so compelling that it has me looking at horses with a whole new level of respect.<br /><br />What's involved here are six plots of land in our community garden: two are ours in perpetuity and then I'm exercising squatters' rights on the other four for the purpose of growing pumpkins. (Being a slightly later season crop, this was an ideal use for the plots left unclaimed after mid-April.) I have one main field of jacks and sugar-pies, complete with a fierce "Road Warrior" style scarecrow, a left-over prop from a college production of Macbeth, and a sign proclaiming it The Great Pumpkin Patch. Nasturtiums and purple bush bean plants here and there for the color (and as an open invitation to ever-helpful bees.)<br /><br />Spilling over from this thriving metropolis of autumn delights is the run-down suburb of transplants and stragglers. Over to the right from that, a new community of sugar-pies planted too late for All Hallow's Eve but sufficient for turkey and football a month later. <br /><br />But far in the back, in the field we used to dump our rocks and dead soil, is a solemn triad of hills, each only holding two plants a piece. These are the monster pumpkins. We've lost one of the six, and we'll be lucky to bring the five remaining plants -- each allowed only one fruit -- to harvest. These are the pumpkins that can weigh as much as 100 pounds a piece. These are the pumpkins who taught me that horses are a farmer's best friend.<br /><br />A neighbor, looking at the seed packet as we planted, said "You'll want some manure tea for these."<br /><br />And so it was that we were shown the large plastic bucket in her patch where she brewed her daily batch of mineral-rich water for plants with "tea-bags" courtesy of her horse in a West Marin stable.<br /><br />Yesterday, she brought in a fresh round of 'leaves' and gave them to me. It was the coolest gift I'd had in a long time! (I'd made tentative arrangements with my hair-dresser, who also has a horse, to go out to the stable where she kept it and get myself started there. But this is even better: one horse, lovingly fed on the best.)<br /><br />Today, we brought in our own pots and cozies (buckets from the paint store, the feedbag cut in two and bungee cords.) I divided up the goods and wetted them down. There was an immediate buzz in the vicinity as all the flies sensed the opening of a high-end four star restaurant in the neighborhood (organic too!) so we hustled on the feedbags and left our buckets to brew in the hot summer sun.<br /><br />Now I can turn my attention to the gophers...Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15024469.post-2547507252248323572007-07-19T17:41:00.000-07:002007-07-19T19:51:17.013-07:00"Someone told me long agoThere's a calm before the storm"I know. It's been coming for some time.<br /><br /><img src="http://comebackhorslips.com/illustrations/tourism.jpg"><br /><br />See. This is why I go in the winter. No expectations: no disappointments!Miss Templetonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01180851775819540758noreply@blogger.com2