Just Like Me

One of our favorite parts of The WayGood World is being invited to play Outreach Programs for students.  From the University of Texas in Tyler, where we played for 400 students, to a small linoleum-lined cafeteria workshop with 20 grade-schoolers in East Chain, Minnesota, we are always faced with a fresh challenge and quite often astonished to hear the best quips.

Our Outreach Program in Dubuque, Iowa has taken on marathon proportions at times.  One year we played for 9000 students in just 10 days.  The most recent jaunt to Dubuque was for two middle schools where we presented an after-school workshop on songwriting that we call "Why Did We Write That?".

We were working on a song as we drove the three hours to the school.  Usually Marty drives while Brian plays the mandolin and holds a pad of paper at the same time.  When we get a good start, Brian turns his cell phone's recorder on and we can lay down a rough idea.    This rough idea was what we shared with the students at Madison School.  We pulled out our instruments and played it for the students to see what they thought.  They liked the song. We had thus established our credentials as "cool" songwriters.

Brian asked why these ten kids chose this particular after-school activity.  One young girl with red hair said that she wanted to write a song for her dad as a birthday gift.  Another girl, who sported an Abercrombie shirt, would write songs but had a hard time remembering what she had written.  And a shy girl,  who never stopped doodling on her song pad, quietly told us she would randomly open a dictionary to find an interesting word and then begin writing a song.  Finally, the only boy, who was pretty reticent being in a room full of girls, revealed he was a multi-instrumentalist who loved writing melodies but just couldn't write lyrics.  We had our team.

So we voted on what type of song to write.  The girl's birthday gift was chosen as the best project. In five minutes we had important facts about dad listed on the chalkboard.  He was a first child of four and this daughter was also the first of four.  He was the only boy in the family and his daughter had one brother as well.  They shared the same date but different months, both being born in the fall.   When they would have a daddy-daughter outing, they loved bowling, sledding, and going to movies together.   Marty would write these ideas on the board with a marker.  Later he found out he used a non-erasable marker and we had to spend 10 minutes cleaning the board.

The red-haired girl wanted the song to resemble a slow version of "Happy Birthday," so the young multi-instrumentalist was called on to strum a melodic variation on the guitar.   It came out like a cross between "Frere Jacques" and Mendelssohn's "Wedding March." The students all got excited as the song started taking shape.  We all approved the melody and began to assemble the information on the board to develop the lyrics.  A working title was chosen: Just Like Me.

Abercrombie shirt enthusiastically waved her hand.  "How about we have her ask her dad for new clothes?"

"But it's his birthday," said the shy girl, glancing up from her doodling.

"I DO ask Dad for new clothes on his birthday," said the red-haired girl matter of factly.

"OK, OK," said Brian, "reality is good.  Let's run with that as part of the song."

At the end of the hour we completed "Just Like Me" with two verses, a chorus and even a bridge!  With our multi-instrumentalist on guitar, Brian on mandolin, and Marty on bass, we had a full band.  The entire group loudly joined in the singing, each kid feeling the pride of ownership that comes from crafting a work of art.

We recorded the song on the cell phones and the students took the lyrics home to share with their families.

Right before we were to leave, Abercrombie enthusiastically waved her hand.

"Can we sing 'Just Like Me' in a British or Australian accent?" she asked.

This April, we will have our second Annual Switchback Songwriter's weekend at Four Mounds Conference Center in Dubuque.  We are bringing in a guest songwriter, Kevin Gordon, to share his experiences with songwriting.  We also will have our resident songwriter, Scott Momenthy, on hand to help coach individuals.  More information is on our website.

Last year, we had writers and guests (yes, you can be a spectator) come from as far as western Kansas to participate in this weekend of relaxation and creativity.  There were beginners and seasoned performers mixing in the endeavor.

Like that red-haired girl from Madison School, who gave her dad a wonderful birthday gift, everyone has a chance to leave this weekend with a personal treasure of original music. We hope all of them will be as proud of them as the kids who wrote "Just Like Me."  And maybe they'll sing it in an Australian accent.

~ Brian and Marty

WayGoodMusic.com

Marty's Ireland Journal - Day Four

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Day Four

Morning came really early and I got out of bed feeling a bit wobbly from jet lag, Jameson, and Guinness.  Brian stayed up later than I did last night so I don’t know how he looks so much more awake than I do, but somehow he does.  We had our Irish breakfast and all climbed into Michael Feeney’s car with Annie sitting on my lap and waved goodbye to the tour group who are heading up to Sligo and Donegal today.  We were taking our instruments to a military dedication for Tom Carey of Bekan, who was part of the U.S. Army and was killed in World War I.  Our friend Pat Gorman from Dixon, Illinois, has been working with Michael to help locate graves of American soldiers who did not receive plaques of honor from the U.S. government.  This grave was found through Pat’s research and Michael’s on-the-ground hunting for the actual grave site.  When Michael found it, it had been forgotten, covered with leaves and grass and needing an immediate sprucing up.  He and Ernie took it on, coming out to help power-wash the grave site and remove all the years of overgrowth.  Some relatives were found living not far from Bekan, and they had been invited to the cemetery.  One of them could remember visiting and seeing a folded American flag sitting in Tom Carey’s mother’s home.   

The  day was very cold with a stiff wind blowing from the East, but the sun managed to break through the clouds in time for the ceremony to begin.  Standing there was Ron Howko, an American veteran who fought in Vietnam and is now the post commander of the John Barry VFW post in County Mayo. (Yes, there are enough veterans of Irish descent and Americans living in Ireland that there are VFW posts here.)  In addition, there were four other veterans who had fought in World War II all the way through Vietnam.  They were here, each decked out in medals and wearing the distinctive military hat of the the VFW.  A representative of the British Army was also on hand as well as a member of the Irish Defense Forces.  A piper played a lament after the American National Anthem.  I stood there with Brian, hands over our hearts, and sang the anthem.  It is one thing to sing it on American soil, but quite another to be the representatives of America singing the the anthem.

It hit me that Michael Feeney had not only brought honor to people who live in Northern Ireland and the Republic, but he also had conveyed the understanding that no matter how they served and where they lived, they are still all Irishmen and women.  I felt a chill go up my spine as Ron Howko read the history of Tom Carey and how he served his adopted country and died.  Ron went on to talk about the great love that America has for Ireland and the debt it owes this nation for sending so many of its people to our country.  How many of these people willingly gave their lives for this new nation that offered them a decent chance at having a good life!  It was a sacrifice that Tom Carey made without ever having the chance to get married and have children of his own.   At several points during his talk, Ron paused, getting choked up with emotion.  I looked at the other veterans and understood from their faces that knowledge they each have to carry after being in war and seeing comrades die.  It was something that thankfully I never had to experience.

Ron called the soldiers to attention, and they slowly folded up the American flag.  Brian and I walked over with Ernie and solemnly rolled back the black cloth that was covering the bronze plaque.  After a short talk by Michael Feeney, we proceeded to play Falling Water River.  My cousin Liam suggested that it would be a fitting piece, and I told the crowd there about the song and how my own grandfather was very much like Tom Carey, that he came over in 1916 to America and was immediately made part of the U.S. Army Military Police.  He luckily didn’t see action but easily could have and just as easily could have been in a grave over in Ireland.
We took some pictures with the various branches of military and then headed off to Liam and Kay’s home which was not too far away for tea and cakes.  Later we spent time at Seamus’ home in Claremorris and had a nice dinner before saying our farewells and heading to Castlebar for the second evening’s performance.

The show was quite special in that the band felt much more relaxed.  During the performance, Brian, Nick, and I headed to the front of the stage and played an acoustic version of Climb That Mountain.  And the dancers really did a fantastic job!  Colleen Kosier, the director of the studio, explained to the audience how clogging was named that by Queen Elizabeth.  The dance is truly a mixture of Scottish, English, Irish, African, and American Indian dances…all coming together in the mountains of Appalachia in the early 17th century.  Hearing this, I think the audience was able to appreciate even more the girls’ dance steps.  I was very proud that they could now claim that they have performed internationally!

After the concert, we headed back to the hotel to round up all the folks to head back to Westport.  I walked into one part of the pub, and there were a good number of our tour, surrounded by the most ancient of Irish customs—Saturday night dancing.  There were teenagers dressed to the limit…the limit of taste perhaps and all heading onto the dance floor.  The music was terrifically booming, and I had to grin, as nothing had changed in the over 20 years I have been visiting Ireland.  What made the whole scenario great was that just down  from the gaggle of giggling girls and gawking guys were two elderly ladies, dressed in nice skirts and sweaters, each holding a glass of cider in their hands and looking around with sort of a bemused expression.  It was something that has always made Ireland special, that Saturday night is not just limited to the young, but an opportunity for everyone in the community to head down to the pub and socialize, even if the traditional music has been replaced with the thumping and bumping of hip-hop.

The Ringmaster

Next month we will be returning to St. Edmund Parish in Oak Park, Illinois for what has become an annual concert.  The parish holds great memories for us, especially the early days when we would play an Irish pub in Naperville, Illinois or even Milwaukee and get home around 3 a.m.   Our clothes would reek of second-hand smoke and it wasn’t unusual for us to stumble into St. Edmund wearing the previous night’s outfits so we would be on time for the 9 a.m. Mass.  Kathy Halfpenny, the director, would nod to us as we hurriedly opened our cases. The choir would comment on the smell of beer and Marlboro cigarettes wafting out of our cases.  We would be bleary-eyed but ready to play as soon as Father Ruiz would signal his presence from the back of the church.

One person, who had a personality like a cup of good java, was Tom, the energetic and outgoing husband of Kathy.  He was part ringmaster, part preacher, and even part liturgical dancer.  Where most men (and a few women, too) would shrink in horror at the idea of dancing down the aisle in praise of God, Tom was there, stepping in where angels feared to tread.  He had no sense of inhibition.  The 9 a.m. Mass became a favorite for us and some of our fans, who would come to St. Edmund after seeing us play at a pub.  Eventually it was the road that took us away from our standing Sunday gig, but our recollections of Tom and the choir would fuel many a nostalgic talk as we would roll along some back road in Kansas.

About three years ago we were commissioned to write Masses and songs of worship.  The first person we contacted was Kathy to see if St. Edmund would want a Mass and a concert so we could “test-fly” our first Mass.  She was elated, and we had a reunion at her Victorian house (that sports the world’s largest wind chimes) in Oak Park.  Of course, Tom was there. We would smell him before we saw him as his pipe smoke would precede his noisy entrance into the room.  All senses were entangled in his laughing, smoking, darting gestures, and quirky anecdotes.  Tom ran a jewelry business which eventually ended up in his house.  “Come into the parlor” had a vested meaning with him, as he would burst into the room during our music session with Kathy and dazzle us with rings, necklaces, and brooches at back-of-the-truck prices.  We would end up getting a jump start on our holidays and anniversaries and Mother’s Day with these irresistible offerings.   Kathy would tolerate Tom’s takeover during our work sessions until a certain point when she would banish him to his office.  That would last about 15 minutes until he came back again, a big grin on his pipe-clenching face, holding up a coral necklace he forgot to show us.  We would smile and obediently reach for our wallets.

Last fall we met with Kathy to plan another Mass and concert.  We were going on the road and she asked us to write five songs for a “Mass of Healing.”   It was a different house.  As we crossed the threshold, there was no whiff of the pipe.  The jewelry was stacked in cases. Tom had passed away suddenly over the summer.  The reality of that passing came full force to us when entering the Halfpenny house.  The ringmaster wasn’t there to greet us. We didn’t talk about Tom as we worked on the music, but the void of his zany presence was the elephant in the room.

One of the most rewarding parts of being musicians is that we’ve had a chance to meet people whose energies are larger than life. Like a Paul Bunyan, Tom would tower over people with his generosity, joy, and enthusiasm.  He was always excited about simple things like a church raffle or a new liturgical dance step.  Even when the power company tore his front lawn up earlier that summer, he took that as an opportunity and told his next-door neighbor that the fresh mound of earth was where he had buried Kathy.  The neighbor didn’t talk to him for weeks.

The impact of grief is always the wish of one more word spoken, one more bracelet bought, and one more chance to smell the pipe smoke.  Our best way of honoring a life like Tom’s is to continue to play music.  And play it with a bit more zaniness, enthusiasm, spontaneity, and yes, maybe a dance step or two.  If we start selling jewelry at the show, don’t blame us, blame Tom Halfpenny.

~ Brian and Marty

www.WayGoodMusic.com

 

Wearing Corky's Hat

In Bay City last July, it was about 94 degrees (34.4 Celsius for our metric friends) and a scorching sun glared across the brown grass of the concert field and onto the stage of the band shell.  It was seven o’clock and though I was certain things would cool down (rooting for a weak breeze off the bay), it was not to be.  The week before with more moderate temperatures the Bay Arts had about 3,000 people attend the weekly concert.  This week only the die-hard lovers of life came out, some with their umbrellas or huddled near a few trees to give them a little shade, others braving the sun but lingering near a beautiful fountain.

In particular, there were two ladies on electric scooters, front and center, their brightly colored umbrellas capable of landing a plane.  One had a little dog that stayed seated between her feet. When we’d play a slow song, they would start up their scooters and drive out in front of the sparse audience.  Then they would “dance,” reversing and going forward like dueling bumper cars, turning and pirouetting as gracefully as ballerinas.  The lady’s little dog sat between her feet all the time, its eyes bugging out and tongue flapping, clearly enjoying the ride.

Yep, it was definitely a hot concert.  Brian and I were sweating right through our clothes as we played 100 minutes straight.  Lucky for me, I had Corky’s hat on to help keep the sun out of my eyes.

Corky was another die-hard lover of life, and like the scooter gals he was the sort of person that you never forget.  He was from the High Plains country of Kansas.  Perhaps it was those years abroad that gave him a bit of wisdom and made him seem like Gandalf the Grey to me.  Or perhaps the wisdom was from living in High Plains country and earning a living from a land that scarcely gets a soaking summer rain.  Brian and I met him at Th’ Gatherin’ some years ago.  He was about my height, with thinning gray hair and a weather-lined face from being out in the sun and wind.  Corky had a great smile that showed a scattering of teeth.  A real can-do Westerner, he helped put Th’ Gatherin’ on the map, working alongside Seamus Cleland to create a genuine Scottish Beltaine festival.  His crowning glory was the built-from-scratch wooden Viking ship they called “Boudicca” after the famous Celtic battle queen.

I asked Corky how and why he and Seamus could build a ship from scratch.  He replied in his long High Plains drawl, “It was Winner, and I called Seamus up and said, ‘I’m gonna beeld a she-ep an attack ye-ew’.”  Seamus surrendered to the idea right away.  Corky ripped a page out of the dictionary that had a Viking ship on it and he, Seamus, and some other die-hard lovers of life aided by a few cans of beer sailed out into the unknown.  All during winter in a garage on the snow-blasted plains of WaKeeney they worked on creating a ship where a ship shouldn’t be.

Boudicca turned out to be a beautiful boat and they sailed her a few times on the reservoir. But her magnificence can truly be appreciated when she is mounted on an old buckboard wagon frame.  The wheels are brightly painted and she rides high above the crowd.  When it comes time to light the great bonfire, she is pulled like a true boat of the plains, her sail unfurled and with all the little kids riding on her.  The crowd gathers around her and the fire dancers dance and the bonfire is lit.  Corky would hang back at times like that and just watch, a grin on his face.  He was a magical person and was enjoying the spell he had just cast.  Brian and I would look forward to each May and the chance to see Corky.

Then the year came when he wasn’t there.

Corky passed away during the dark of the year.  At his funeral they placed his coffin on Boudicca and slowly led him to the cemetery.  He was buried with military honors.  Seamus lost his best friend and we lost our Gandalf.  His name was written on a ribbon and tied to a branch on the Tree of Remembrance on Th’ Gatherin’ grounds, that ribbon joining so many others that had come and gone.  The winds play with those ribbons, eventually fading and fraying them until at last they are airborne and carried off to rest in some far field. I imagine some enterprising bird taking one for its spring nest.

Lucille is Corky’s wife and just as much a Westerner as Corky.  With his passing she works now at the truck stop pulling the late night shift.  I was so happy to see her at the festival and of course amazed that she could attend all day and then head off for a full night of work.  The last day of the festival, I watched as Boudicca was readied for the bonfire lighting.  Lucille came up to me and we talked a little bit about her horse, about Corky’s passing, and how she was faring with him gone.  I asked her if Corky ever owned a cowboy hat.  “I have a hat that he wore a few times,” she said with a sly smile.

The next day, Brian said to me, “Lucille has something for you.”  I walked over to her truck and she presented a black felt cowboy hat of Corky’s.  It was a little bit big on my head, so I stuffed some Kleenex in the band and tried it on.  It felt just perfect and I thanked her for the gift.

The grounds were empty of everyone except the die-hard workers who were busy putting away all the effects needed to make Th’ Gatherin’ a success.  At last Boudicca was rolled to the old semi-trailer and gently lifted, carriage and all, and placed inside.  There she sits, waiting for the next festival.

I decided to wear Corky’s hat at some shows when it’s outside and sunny, and especially when I am feeling challenged in my career.  It’s there to remind me that a very soft-spoken, humorous man created art but never said he was an artist, wove magic but never claimed to be a magician.  He was just Corky.  But to me he was Artist and Wizard.  He helped create something people will continue to love for a long time.  People who never met him will attend Th’ Gatherin’ and will still feel his touch, his work.  To me, that is what living is all about, building a ship where it shouldn’t sail and making it sail anyway.  Corky was not a celebrity but just a simple man from the Plains.  I hope he likes that his hat continues on an adventure worn by a person who also strives to be a die-hard lover of life.

Marty's Ireland Journal Day 3

Friday, September 23, 2011

Day Three

Woke up this morning to a light misty rain.  The Irish have all been complaining that they did not get a summer this year and today looks like they will still be denied one.  But a good Irish breakfast of sausages, fried tomatoes, eggs, blood sausage, rashers and beans can get one all the inner sunshine necessary.  Now Irish sausage is not like American sausage.  It is more of a mixture of meat and meal, with a slightly sweet taste.  Brown sauce, which is a mild mustard-ketchup combination, goes great with it.  Blood sausage is not bad in spite of its name.  It is indeed made from pig blood and mixed with barley.  Grilled, it tastes close to sausage patties back home without all the greasiness.  Rashers are nothing but bacon closer in style to Canadian bacon.  There is really no such thing as American bacon, and in fact the Irish would look upon such bacon with disdain, as it is filled with fat and very little meat.  Rashers are somewhat thicker and have a good, meaty quality.  Add to it a pot of tea and your Irish breakfast can keep you running pretty much all day, which was a good thing for us as we headed down toward Leenane and a tour across the Killary Fjord.  

We all got on the coach that Dave was driving this morning.  He has lived in the south of Ireland near Cork since 1972 and grew up in England.  It turns out he has a great affinity for plants and history, the former suiting my wife Annie, who is an herbalist and the latter myself, a history buff. We rolled through the back roads of the northernmost reach of the Connemara.  There in the distance looming over the other mountains stood Croagh Patrick.  The reek (an Irish word for mountain) has a slash up its side, which is in fact the final shale pathway up to the top of the mountain.  My cousin Mike used to climb it in his bare feet every Reek Sunday, which occurs in August.  For now, it stood in the distance, the top of it obscured in cloud.  

We pulled into Killary Harbor and got on the boat.  We were running a bit late, in part as a result of our policy that no activity takes place until 10 a.m., so everyone can get a restful night of sleep.  Already there were some couples waiting on the ship, but for the most part the ship belonged to our tour group.  We started out in the only fjord in Ireland.  On both sides of the fjord, the mountains reared up, showing on their lower slopes the old lines of the “lazy beds,” the spots where the pre-famine Irish lived and raised the chief crop of the peasantry, the potato. The boat pulled into a pretty strong wind and we all worked our way to a bit of shelter, with a few of our group determined to hold out in the gale.  I took out a video camera and captured some of the clouds being dragged along the mountaintops.  The area here is very dramatic and desolate looking which has drawn a lot of artists, writers, and philosophers to it as it is a welcome respite from the rest of bustling Europe.

As we sailed toward the mouth of the fjord, we were told about the mussel farming that takes place along its banks.   On a bit of the shore there would be 40 to 50 floats with a rope and little floats between each.  Under each float runs a rope that is anchored to the bottom of the fjord. On it little mussels are placed and there they grow.  When they reach maturity, they are pulled up and cleaned off the ropes.  They are then bagged and dragged to the side of the road where they sit waiting to be brought to a shop or restaurant.  (In fact a few hours later we drove by about 20 such sacks sitting alongside the road.  Ron asked Dave, “How long can those mussels sit there?”   Dave looked back and said, “Well, as long as they like I guess.”)  

We passed next a bunch of salmon farms.  I was surprised to hear that they were farming salmon on Killary Fjord as early at the 1870’s.  I had thought this was a recent development, but here we were, going past these large cages that were about 10 feet above the water and completely covered in mesh.  These go straight down into the water and are about 150 feet across.  In each are hundreds of good-sized salmon that would break out of the water and leap into the air as they heard the sound of the boats motors.  Obviously they were expecting to be fed.   Being an avid fisherman, it was quite a shock to see such trophy-sized fish all in one spot. It also made me think about how wonderful Irish salmon is to eat.  I was hoping that the ship would have that or mussels for lunch.

Some Irish history concerned the grave of Diarmuid and Grainne, who were Irish folk heroes. There up on a cairn looking over the waters was the reported tomb of the great Irish warrior. Some recent history was even more spectacular.  Back in World War II, neutral Ireland was visited by both German and British warships.  On one occasion, a terrible storm was taking place off the west coast of Ireland, causing both a German submarine and a British destroyer to be drawn into the fjord for safety.  There to each other’s surprise they sat.  Instead of firing upon each other, they chose the more prudent route and decided to ignore each other, thus avoiding an international incident.  After the storm cleared, the sub quietly made its way out of the harbor and well away from the destroyer.

Occasionally the sun would break out of the clouds and race over the mountains and the fjord, which caused a breath-taking change to the cold gray Irish weather.  We turned around at the mouth of the fjord and made our way toward the mooring.  We all were expecting lunch and were quite surprised to find out lunch was not being served even though the dining area was set for a meal.  Everyone including Dave was a bit bewildered at that, and Dave called Mick back at the hotel to see what went wrong with the plans.  Turns out the ship forgot about our lunch and everyone was credited for the gaffe.  But we were without sustenance and so we headed into Leenane to see what was available for a meal.  That in turn was a blessing as it seems that what we were able to get in town was far superior to what the ship could have offered, for there was a bit of a competition between the pubs in Leenane, with each offering a lunch special for around 10 Euros.  In fact, we came across Gary and Linda, sitting outside and about to get into big bowls of steaming mussels that were smothered in a creamy garlic sauce.  When I found that the meal also included a pint of Guinness, I was hooked.  So Annie and I went in and we ordered the same meal.  Gary counted his mussels and there turned out to be more than 75 of the tasty little creatures in each mixing bowl-sized serving!   We ate that along with thick cuts of home-made Irish brown bread and deep draughts of cool Guinness.  Others had the competitions’ fare:  for 10 Euros they ate fresh whitefish in a butter broth with home-made brown bread and a pint of choice.  It was a great meal and we became very sleepy as we made our way through the historic town of Louisburg and back to Westport.

After about an hour to get freshened up, we all hopped on the buses and headed over to Castlebar for our first concert.   The girls from the Kosier Studio of Dance were very excited as we drove toward our venue.  Right outside the town at the first roundabout we were flagged down by Michael Feeney, who was the coordinator of the evening’s concert.   We parked the buses and walked over to the Mayo Peace Park so that each of us could get a better idea of what the evening was all about.

The Mayo Peace Park was created by Michael, whose grandfather had served in World War I for the British Army.   With the creation of the Republic, it became clear to him that there was not a proper way to honor the Irish soldiers who served not only in the British Army, but also the Irish who served in the American, Canadian, Belgian and other armies.   His research revealed that County Mayo had contributed a significant number of soldiers and many who lost their lives. They were all heroes, not only for the respective country they served but specifically for Ireland and County Mayo.  So the Peace Park was created.  The main marble slabs are shaped like an eye on the ground.  From each eye flows a tear that becomes the walk that people make along the path.  Little “eyes” on each side commemorate the other countries for which the Irish soldiers served.  The symbolism of course is weeping over the folly of war and the loss of these men who gave their lives so far away from Mayo.  But also, as Michael’s friend Ernie pointed out, “that these children, for they were no more than 16 or so at the time, made it possible for all of us to live in freedom.”  The culmination of the visit was to be the placement of a wreath by Brian and myself at the American memorial.  Instead, I suggested that we have the youngest of our tour group, Gabby Scott, bring the wreath over and place it.  As a nine-year-old, she was skipping around while the talks were going on and so, when I called for her, thought that she was in trouble.  But she was a real trouper and brought the wreath over and placed it there.  We took some group pictures and headed back to the coaches.

We arrived at the Linenhall and were quite happy with the stage.  Oisin was there to meet us and help us with the sound.  We were set up quite easily and Takeshi, Brian, Nick and I went through some numbers to make sure we had everything in order.  In addition, the Kosier girls ran through some songs.  We had to determine whether or not the girls should use their taps for the clogging as they were able to create quite a sound.  At first, we thought only one girl should use the taps, but the moms in the audience said that all the girls should tap away with the band. It was that sort of tweaking that helped the show come alive that night.

 
After sound check, we ate some curry that Maggie and Annie picked up at a pub.  It was very good and we were eating when my cousin Seamus came backstage with Liam and Kay Lyons. We had a quick hello and pretty soon it was time to go out and do the show.  The Mayor of Castlebar Gene McCormack made a nice introduction and there were representatives from the British Armed Forces and the American Armed Forces.   It was also noted that we had the senior club from Kiltimagh there as well.  When we got on stage I said, “I was nervous when I heard about all these dignitaries, but got really nervous when I heard the Kiltimagh Senior Center was here.”

The high point for me was singing Bolinree and dedicating it to Seamus, but the whole evening was quite wonderful.  Mary Babic, who came to join us from Serbia, was moved the most by the song “Far Away from Where the Fighting Is.”  She said she cried through it all as it reminded her of the horrible war that she lived through in the Balkans.   Other people had songs that meant a lot to them and the Irish were very taken with the American clogging.   When I introduced the Kosier dancers, I asked each one a question about their thoughts on Ireland.  The first girl got a roar out of the crowd when I asked, “What do you think of the Irish people?”  She looked at me and said in a very small voice, “I don’t know!”

We were presented with certificates and a book about the history of the Mayo Peace Park by Michael Feeney.  Each Kosier dancer was given a hoodie from the Castlebar Town Youth Soccer League, whose benefit we are to do tomorrow night.  If our tour thought the entertainment was over, they were greatly mistaken as we were brought over to a post-party at a nearby hotel.  There we had sandwiches as well as drinks.  A husband and wife musical team gave our tour quite a show with an introduction to Irish country music which draws mainly on a style that is closer to 1960’s style American country.  That era had more ballads and some pretty good entertainers, including Johnny Cash.  It was fun to hear everyone start singing, “I’m on the top of the world, looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find…”   Just when we thought this duo was going to take a break, out jumped a bald-headed man, who grabbed the mic from the lady and yelled, “How’s everybody doing?”  He immediately launched into the song “Where’s Your Momma Gone?” and had everyone clapping along and pretty amused by his antics.  He was a one-man cheerleading squad and everyone was really revved up after he finished his act.  It was a tired but happy pair of coaches that made their way back to Westport tonight.  We sat in the bar at the Clew Bay and drank a couple more whiskies and called it a night because tomorrow, I have to be up rather early to head over to the dedication in Bekan. 

Marty's Ireland Journal Days 1 & 2

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Day One

I know I drive my wife nuts. It must be some weird Irish custom that is deeply embedded in the genetic code. Every time I get ready for a trip, especially a trip overseas, I do what I call my “death clean.” I have this overwhelming urge to clean the house spotless. All dishes done, all dried and in the cupboard. All the trash and recycling out and in the alley. All carpets vacuumed and all specks of dust removed. I guess in the back of my mind, I hear the turn of the key in the door and the people coming in, mournful over my untimely loss. Then I hear the gasp as they survey a house totally undone and unkempt. “Oh, I thought he was such a good, clean man,” I hear them say. “Now we know; NOW, WE KNOW!” The prospect of such an indictment makes me get the house looking as good as I can get it, before I leave with Annie’s and my carefully weighed luggage off to O’Hare and on to Ireland.

We meet the FitzGeralds and Arnolds at the airport. Nick, our drummer, has been patiently waiting for us as we finally pay off the cabby and run into the international terminal. There we meet all the other people for the tour and hand out the special Switchback hoodies that were made just for this tour. It is a big tour that we are bringing to Ireland this year, about 60 people who are coming not only from the US, but Japan, Serbia, and Canada. It’s a wonderful affirmation that our music is reaching out to people from around the world. I can’t think of a better place to meet those people than here at the “home base” of Ireland.

The plane takes off from O’Hare and I switch on the screen on the seat in front of me to see where we are traveling. “You are such a geek,” says my wife Annie, who is watching some melodrama on her screen. But I am watching the flight for several reasons, mainly to time when I need to “sleep” on the plane. Usually that takes place after dinner, when others are settling into their films. The secret of east-bound flying is to get as much sleep as possible to cheat the body’s internal clock when you arrive six hours ahead of the time it is keeping.

But I am delayed over Canada. There is a dramatic electric storm outside the window. The thunderheads light up across the sky. We are cruising several thousand feet above them. One brain-shaped cloud pulses with light, like neurons sparking with some illuminating rumination of a thunder-being. It is powerful in its aspect and the modern 21st century planes pay homage by skirting around the front, their contrails and outlines sporadically made visible by the sharp flashes of light.

So after the light display I concentrate on dinner, which of course in airline-speak is always “chicken or beef?” One of these days, I long to hear “leg of lamb or rainbow trout?” but I am afraid that this will never happen. I am now attempting a gluten-free existence, so that quickly rules out half of what has been presented to me. But no fear, I find enough to make a satisfactory meal and then pull out my eye-patch and ear plugs and attempt to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in the economy section of the plane.


Thursday, September 22, 2011

Day Two

We land early in Dublin. The airport has finally completed its remodeling after years of our watching the construction. I am impressed, but our drivers Mick and Dave are a bit more jaundiced about the whole layout of the place. “It doesn’t cater to moving people,” Dave says. And I have to agree as we trundle out of the airport and have to walk a good distance, luggage in tow, to board the coaches. But that is not even a slight concern of our group as we happily pull our belongings, stow them with the help of our drivers, and begin again traveling down an Irish road.

We stop once in Longford and I am surprised and happy to see that the Paddy Keenan Banjo Festival is underway. Our friends Jeff and Vida from New Orleans regularly play the event, but they are not on the list for this year. Still several bands from the States, Canada, Ireland, and elsewhere are converging to celebrate the African instrument. The main thing we are aware of in Longford is watching for the stray splotches of doggie-doo that pepper the sidewalks. That’s hard to navigate on jet-lag, but after a good cappuccino, we are ready to head to Mayo.

Our driver Dave does a wonderful job of describing the Irish landscape and history, but he is pretty wise to well-worn Yanks and soon, in spite of our best intentions, the majority of us are dozing on the bus as we roll across the midlands of Ireland. We arrive in Westport, County Mayo around 3 p.m. and get settled into the Clew Bay Hotel. We haven’t stayed here before, but it is a wonderful place with a lot of space and a great, welcoming staff. Maggie, Annie, Takeshi, Brian and I decide to take a walk around the town and are very happy to see that the picturesque Croagh Patrick has shed her shroud of clouds, except for one trailing bit that looks like a feather boa being teased by a dancer. We aim to climb her this tour. Our hope is that we can reach the top on Sunday, but that remains to be seen.

We head back into town and who do we see but Joannie Madden of the group Cherish the Ladies. We have shared the stage with Joannie only once, performing a concert for the Northwest Indiana Symphony. But we had a great rapport, and with Joannie, a true professional musician, it only takes once to make a friendship. We welcome each other on the street and talk about meeting at Matt Malloy’s on Sunday. She is on tour with her group, playing a string of dates throughout Ireland. “Not much pay,” she says, “but a bit of craic.” Knowing Cherish the Ladies, that is an understatement on both accounts.

Our dinner at Clew Bay Hotel was wonderful. I had baked cod, resting on a light bed of potatoes, and supplemented by a savory mix of baked cabbage and carrots. That, along with a great smoked chicken salad and a fantastic dessert of ice cream, profiteroles, jello, and cheesecake made a more-than-sufficient welcome to Ireland. The tour group is very happy and seems extremely excited about the opportunities that await them over the next few days.

Michael Feeney, who is helping coordinate our concerts in Castlebar, stopped by the pub to go over logistics for the next two nights. A Member of the British Empire, he has spearheaded a campaign to bring honor to all the Irish citizens who sacrificed their lives for freedom. Throughout history, many of those served in armies from other countries, including the U.S. Army. Michael has helped find these graves of soldiers who have been buried in absolute anonymity and bring a dignified acknowledgment of their sacrifice for freedom. Many a Mayo soldier has fought and died in wars over the centuries. For this a beautiful Peace Park has been created in Castlebar. Tomorrow night, we will do a benefit to help raise money to help Michael and his folks continue the campaign to bring dignity and respect to these selfless soldiers. One person he tells me about is a Catholic priest, who entered as an army chaplain in the British Army during WWI. He persuaded the draft board to take him in lieu of his brother, who would be the only one to take care of their mother. This priest was killed on the last day of the Great War. He was returned to Ireland but was buried in an unmarked grave. For almost 100 years, he has laid, unknown and unhonored. But Michael and other volunteers have helped bring about acknowledgment through their work. So tomorrow, we play for these volunteers and indirectly for those others who have given the ultimate sacrifice.

Stay tuned for more installments of Marty's Ireland Journal!

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/

Let the Bon Temps Roulez

The first song Martin McCormack and I set out to write together was a thing called "Banshee Gumbo." This song was written over 20 years ago in the first apartment that my wife Maggie and I occupied early in our marriage.

The apartment was located in a building that my father and my brothers had bought next door to their club FitzGerald's in Berwyn, IL. At the time we lived there, my German friend Otto had a small appliance repair shop at the rear of the first level of the building. The front of the lower level was occupied by my Korean friends who had a dry cleaning business complete with seamstress.

In a concerted effort one night, Marty and I set out to write "Banshee Gumbo." The song describes an Irish band attempting to perform Irish music after having ingested Cajun food. A gastronomical mayday ensued, "from 'Saddle the Pony' to 'Galway Bay,' it all came out bon temps roulez."

On August 13, 2011, Marty and I along with my siblings and their spouses attended a surprise birthday party for my eldest sister, Mary. Mary has been a long-time supporter of Switchback, having hosted us in her home when she lived in Florida and also traveling with us to Ireland twice. In fact, she is planning to join us on our trip to Italy next year. With seven of the nine children born to Margaret and Chris FitzGerald in attendance, it was a good sized group at Quartino, a downtown Chicago Italian restaurant, that awaited Mary's arrival. When Mary arrived she was accosted by the sight of her oversized, Irish Catholic family. Mary's husband Matt and daughter Madeline led her like a lamb to slaughter.

The restaurant was noisy and crowded. We wondered how we could converse over such a din. After a few drinks, the noise level at our table insulated us from the noise from surrounding tables. Thanks to Marty, I didn't mix the grape and the grain. He also gave me a quick elbow when it was time to stand and give a toast to Mary. For dessert, a large platter of cupcakes was passed around. These were of the decadent variety. They were all so uniquely tempting, which one to eat? Well if you're me, you can only eat one. Marty somehow finished off two.

After dinner we all headed over to FitzGerald's in Berwyn to catch C.J. Chenier and his Red Hot Louisiana Band. C.J., an old friend of the family, once explained to me how musicians in Louisiana go about "sitting in." C.J. said, "Back home when you want to sit in you just go on stage and tap the guitar player on the shoulder." That is exactly what Marty and I did that night. We performed "Banshee Gumbo" and dedicated it to my sister Mary on her birthday on a stage a stone's throw from the apartment in which the song was penned.

~Brian FitzGerald

Click here to listen to an MP3 of Brian telling the story of how he and Marty wrote Banshee Gumbo.

Click here to view the live performance of Banshee Gumbo.

Click here to view another live version of Banshee Gumbo including trumpet player Kevin Gallagher

Lyrics to Banshee Gumbo

On a rainy night not long ago
We were doing some cookin' before the show
Of sick boiled potatoes and cabbage greens
Had a taste for somethin' from New Orleans
Like a bolt of lightning and a thunder clap
Les haricots we began to snap
The Queen whipped up a mighty roux [1]
While humming a bar from the "Foggy, Foggy Dew"

Verse 2
A pinch of this and a dash of that
De cayenne pepper et le cochon fat [2]
Fill me up with the rice and beans
Add to the fire of the sweet poteen [3]
We were feeling good when we hit the gig
The crowd was ready for an Irish jig
But from "Saddle the Pony" to "Galway Bay"
It all came out a bon temps roulez [4]

Verse 3
They were kicking tables and shovin' chairs
Folks were dancin' everywhere
No stack of barley, no dosey doe
Et mon cher c'est le Banshee Gumbo, et mon cher c'est le Banshee Gumbo [5]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] The Queen was a nickname for Mary McDonough, the fiddle player for the Wailin' Banshees.
[2] Cochon is French for pig.
[3] Poteen is Irish for moonshine.
[4] Bon temps roulez means "let the good times roll."
[5] "And my dear it's a Banshee Gumbo."

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/ 

Why Rondy?

In a few days we will be holding the 9th Annual Haybarn Rendezvous. When Brian and I first started the “Rondy” we wanted to create a festival that would draw Switchback fans from all over. Our first attempt was at The Natural Gait grounds. It was early fall and though it was warm enough during the day, it really got pretty cold at night. Still we had a great time with fans coming from as far away as Tennessee.

The next year we moved the Rondy closer to Chicago to the farm of our friends and Switchback Team members Mary Anne and Jerry Duve. There it started to grow, gathering in more fans and also serving as a chance for Switchback STeamers (our volunteers) to meet and greet. Many of them only knew each other through email, so it was a real pleasure to get to see them meet in person for the first time. STeamers like the legendary Soupbone and Monica, who are both blind, rode the Greyhound all the way from Cincinnati so they could be part of the fun.

We started inviting musicians like singer-songwriter Karen Reynolds of Tennessee and Prairie Home Companion veteran Dave Moore to play for the audience. Who could forget Dave’s famous harmonica solo done with the harmonica completely in his mouth and resonating on his abscessed tooth? Probably one of the best solos ever.

Pretty soon a sound man was needed and Mike Sharp from FitzGerald’s nightclub ventured out in his 1964 station wagon, crammed with the necessary gear to turn a home-grown event into a real festival. One day wasn’t enough, and so it became two days and threatened to turn into three.

Sure, there were some mishaps, like the time I stayed up past 3 a.m. with the Chardonnay gals the night before the Rondy and found out the hard way why they are called that. I didn’t know tents could spin. Or the time my buddy Norm got lost and had to ask for directions at a rural cross-roads gentlemen’s club called Heartbreakers. He said they were the worst directions he ever had. It took him four hours to cover a mere five miles! But it never rained and we always had a great bonfire to celebrate the end of summer.

By 2009, it became pretty obvious that we were outgrowing the space at the Duves’ farm. So with heavy hearts we pulled up stakes and set out west again to start anew at The Natural Gait grounds. By this time, the Gait had more rental cabins and a path was cleared to the cave. With over 500 acres and the Yellow River meandering gently through the middle, it offered amazing campsites and a chance to kayak the river. Even a small band of wild elk is rumored to have returned to the land. It just felt right. The Rondy had found its home.

This year, we’ve taken on some wonderful sponsors who believe in the Rondy. We especially wish to thank Weis Buick and GMC of Decorah as well Dale Vagts and his insurance company of Cresco. They’re local businesses in Iowa that backed our pleas for support with cold cash. For that we’re deeply grateful.

Why should you come out to the Rondy? I think it is a chance for you to attend an event with your family at a place that is still natural, beautiful, and just far enough to make it feel like a vacation and not just a long weekend. Over the years we have brought in musicians from Canada to Hawaii to provide a diversity of music. This year will also please everyone with music ranging from Czech polkas by the Jim Busta Band to the musical storytelling of James McCandless. And you’ll be thrilled when you experience the precision of the Kosier Studio, performing everything from clogging to modern dance.

Unlike other festivals that have the same acts and are basically carbon copies of each other, just in another town, our festival prides itself on being small and unique. We aren’t looking for a huge mass of people but folks who enjoy being in nature and listening to great music. We offer unusual settings, such as the Cave Concert that takes place in a Paleolithic overhang that is a natural acoustic wonder. After the concert, you can relax under the stars as we treat you to an amazing pyrotechnic display!

You can wade, fish, or kayak the Yellow River. We even have kayaks for rent. For those wishing to get in the right vibe, we have a Yoga session led by the well-known yogi Shiva Singh Kalsa of Spirit Rising Yoga of Chicago. He along with Kundalini Yoga Instructor Surinder Jeet Kaur will be leading us in what is called a “gong-bath” which is a sonic meditation that actually helps tune the body. Chinese and Western herbal expert Anne de Courtenay of Imagine Health, Chicago and native flower expert Howard Bright of the Ion Exchange will lead people on a prairie walk to identify medicinal plants, prairie flowers, and the rare ones that are both.

Another great reason to attend the Rondy is that, unlike Lollapaloozing, we encourage kids and adults to mix and mingle. Take your children over to the puppet show or give them a chance to watch a horse demonstration called “I Love Horses!” (The only horse at Lollapalooza and other such hot and crowded events has a baton waving cop on its back.) This is the environment that will fire your kids’ imaginations and create wonderful memories. You will have a chance to let your child be a child with face painting and pinata whacking to collect some candy.

We have some of the best food available, including the well-known and highly anticipated “Aunt Linda’s Breakfast” featuring heavenly flapjacks and sausage served in an honest to goodness cowboy dining hall. And our campsites offer wonderful views as well as a short walk to a lodge that has real showers and real toilets. That alone should make you want to attend the Rondy.

There’s the great fire ring and the Chinese lantern launch with music and professional fire dancers. It will be the culmination of a day’s worth of entertainment. Sunday morning will bring more music with the Rondy jam, in which all the musicians get on stage together and perform.

The final reason is that Brian and I realize that you have had a busy summer and that gas prices are high, and in order for you to attend an event, it better be an event. We, together with the Natural Gait and our fine STeamers, have put together one of the best Rondys yet. We want you to come out and be part of the family gathering. We hope you will call 877-776-2208 and join us from Friday, August 19 until Sunday, August 21. Or better yet, go to our website and follow the prompts to sign up directly for the Rondy.

 

We welcome your comments here about our blog!

Watch for Deer

Our friend and fellow songwriter John Lamb has a song called “Watch for Deer” and I’ve always enjoyed it because watching for deer is something that we’ve had to do for years. Like small airplanes, deer and musicians just don’t mix. And in the Midwest, deer are the predominant life form, even making their way downtown to the heart of Chicago and happily eating every tulip and tree in Millennium Park.

Every deer secretly has a death wish, I believe. They sense when a musician is driving and will make a kamikaze run toward that musician’s vehicle, whether it’s a van, tour bus, or bicycle. It is one of the unwritten rules of life on the road for musicians. I don’t know when this struggle began, but it is there. As a musician, you have to be ready for deer and have a taste for venison because they have a taste for heavy metal and I don’t mean music.

Over the years, Brian and I have had our run-ins with wildlife. Sometimes even during a show, a critter or two will steal the stage for a while. One time, we had just finished a set playing at the Rolling Ground in Wisconsin. We were perched on the side of a hay wagon stage talking to our friends when out of the sky came tumbling a sparrow-sized gypsy moth. Attached to it was a brown bat and they were caught in a life struggle. They rolled across the stage for several moments. We all could see the bat trying to eat the moth and the moth kicking the bat off with its tremendous wings. In a flash they both took off into the air and were gone. Nobody said a word. It was one of the most bizarre encores we had ever had for one of our shows.

Another time the insects were our opening act. In this case, we were driving into Austin, Minnesota to play a show in September. Brian had his mother-in-law’s Honda Civic that he kept strewn with half-consumed cans of pop, perfect for the little meat-eating hornets that come out at that time of year. The show was an outdoor party for seniors and their families at the residence and several hundred people were waiting as we rolled onto the grounds. Little old ladies were waving at us as we headed toward the band stand. At that point, two or three little hornets made their way out of these pop cans and up the legs of my pants. Immediately I was stung and started pulling my pants off in front of the crowd, slapping my legs and butt and flailing around in jerks and spasms. Brian quietly exited his side of the car and started taking out equipment as a silence descended upon the festivities and heads turned to watch. It was quite a show.

Late one night, about three in the morning, we were driving along the Mississippi south toward Lansing while listening to Art Bell on “Coast to Coast” AM. For those who have never listened to the show, there are usually stories about aliens, ghosts, Armageddon, or asteroids due to hit the planet. That night they were talking about ghosts as I was starting to doze on the passenger side of the car. All of the sudden, right as a ghost hunter was to play a tape-recorded sound of a ghost “talking,” this huge shape came across our windshield. Wham! A big barn owl flew straight into us and knocked the rearview mirror right off. Brian slammed to a stop and we stumbled out to see what had hit us. There in front of us the unfortunate owl lay dead. We were totally wide awake and I was never so scared in my life. The owl had left a dusty, ghostly image of its last flight on our windshield. It was a sad, but adrenaline-filled feeling.

One fall afternoon, Brian and I were driving across Allamakee County in Iowa, heading to a body shop to get some work done on our van. We had bought the van after it was hit by a deer and repaired at this shop. A young guy came speeding up behind us. Now, we have learned that it just isn’t worth speeding to any place. Getting there in one piece is the way to survive out on the road. But this young fellow was not going to let our van delay his getting wherever he had to be. He started passing us on a curve, and at the same time a huge deer came running from a field. You guessed it. The young guy passed us going full force into the deer, smashing the right side of his car. About ten minutes later, he slowly passed by us with his right wheels pathetically wobbling as we sat at the body shop. There was some sort of poetic justice in it all, but no justice for the deer unfortunately. Of course, I think it was aiming for us.

We have luckily never had a serious collision with a deer, but we came very close on our way back from Colorado recently. It was about 5 am and I was driving near Ogallala, Nebraska on our way east when in the early dawn light came a mule deer. I instinctively slowed down as I watched it cross the road about a quarter mile ahead. It ran across the eastbound lanes of I-80 and into the median. I kept my eye on it as I slowed down and looked to see if there were any other deer nearby. Usually where there is one, there are two. So far so good -- it looked like it was going to cross the westbound lanes. But then it saw two approaching cars. Suddenly it swerved and I could see little puffs of dust from its hooves as it circled back toward me. I knew what happened: It smelled musicians and took off after our van. By now I was slowing down to about 25 miles an hour. The deer came out on the road and ran right into our right headlight. “What was that?” said Brian, popping awake in the passenger’s side. “Deer,” I said, pulling the van over to the shoulder and expecting a grisly scene. Miraculously, the deer was standing off to the side and looking at me. I looked at it and looked at the headlight it had knocked out. The headlight looked like someone had taken a hammer and expertly knocked the glass out. I looked up at the deer again. It gave me an angry look, like “Next time you come through, it will be the whole car” and hopped the fence, trotting perfectly across the field.

The final wildlife story came as Brian and I were down near Alton, Illinois. We were at a family party and staying overnight in the state park. Everyone was asleep when I heard the sound of happy little chattering. I sat up and as my eyes adjusted, I saw a whole family of raccoons on top of our van. We had left the driver’s side window open, and they had managed to get inside and start feasting on trail mix that was in a container on the floor. It was a party. One raccoon was up on the dash, sort of swaying as another one was grappling with the window. It looked like it was trying to open up the door. A couple more were singing up on roof, little peanut M&M’s clutched in their hands. I got up and dashed out there in my underwear. I banged on the window and immediately the whole fiesta dispersed. I rolled up the window and looked in our van. Luckily they didn’t do anything more serious that mix up the trash that we already had from days on the road, but they had almost eaten all of our trail mix. As I fell asleep, I could hear them complaining as they tried to get the window open. They worked on it for about ten minutes and then they took off. I swear I heard one say. “Screw these guys. Let’s get the deer.”