We’ll continue to play Connolly’s every Saturday night until March 3rd.
Thanks to everyone for the last couple of great nights there and great that so
many came despite the snow last week.. See you this
Saturday, Jan. 27th. Lots of new people these nights - perhaps, because
of the ads on New York One.
Here are some other dates - for full details go to the gig schedule on
black47.com

My solo cd, Kilroy Was Here, will be in stores on Feb 27th on Gadfly
Records. I will be doing a series of solo shows, the first of which will
be at The West Bank Café, 407 W.42nd St. (corner 9th Ave) on Feb
14th at 8:30pm sharp. We will be selling the cd for the first time at
that show. I realise that it’s St. Valentine’s Day but the West Bank
has a great restaurant upstairs and if you don’t have a date, well we
can have a lonely hearts night. For dinner reservations call
212-695-6909. Phyllis will be on the separate
music door and selling the cds, for reservations to the show e-mail her
at pkron13@aol.com Tickets will
be $10.

I’ll also be doing the solo show on Feb 15th at The Performing Arts
Theatre, Brookdale College, 765
Newman Spring Rd. Lincroft, NJ. (732) 224-2315 for details.

And West Coast fans, we WILL be doing an open air show on the streets of
San Francisco on Saturday March 31. Details soon.

The discussion board is back up again. No great intrigue - just server
problems and then a technical
transfer from the irishvisions site to black47.com

Milan Hlavsa died last week. Milan who? You might ask. Well, he was from
Czechoslovakia - and no he wasn’t related to Gerty. He was bass player and writer for the band
Pulnoc and the founder member of the the legendary Plastic People of the Universe. It might sound
a corny name now - redolent of the 60’s. But make no mistake about it, Milan was the ultimate rock & roll
rebel. He even went to jail for his right to make music! For his troubles, he lost his right to make a living
and was under constant pressure from the Stalinist Czech authorities. Now line up your idea of the
rockin’ rebel, Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, Jim Morrison, Joe Strummer, Ronan Keating?……Forget about it!

I had heard of the Plastic People in the 80’s. There was a strong contingent of Czechs and Poles in
the East Village but I never imagined I would ever get to play with them. But fate has strange ways
about her. Hammy, Fred and I had played the downtown scene with the poet,
Copernicus, since God knows when. We were amongst a loose association of musicians who would
get up on stage and perform free form music behind his various rants. Sometimes, when we hit our stride and
the substance mix was kind, such music could be majestic, on other occasions it was ragged to the
extreme.

Nonetheless, it came to pass that Copernicus organized a tour of the
Germanys, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Lithuania and other parts of the USSR which ended up in
Moscow on July 4th , 1989. He contacted various dissident groups in these countries and somehow or other got
visas, etc together.

Fred didn’t make the trip but Hammy, Dave Conrad, Mike Fazio (two other
Black 47 alumni) and I set out with the Poet. As you might imagine, the adventures were mighty but
eventually we hit the sacred soil of Czechoslovakia and got promptly lost. It was the middle of the
night, out in the wilds of the country, pitch black (the comrades didn’t believe in lighting the roads), no
legible signs and we’re thirsty as all hell and looking for Prague when, lo and behold, we came upon
what looked like a 17th century inn. Aha, where there’s inns, there’s liquor! The scene inside was like something
out of the Van Gogh painting of the Potato Eaters. An old crone dominating a wooden table laden
down with black beer bottles surrounded by some simian-like rubes. No notice was taken of us until I produced
that universal passport to earthly paradise, the great American ten-spot. This had a magical effect.
The crone was instantly in my arms offering herself and all the customers but we settled for some cases
of beer and the reassurance that, yes, we were on the right road to Praha (Prague).

When we finally made the wondrous city of Prague around dawn we were
informed that the location of our gig had been changed from a boys club to the Ice Hockey Stadium
and that we would be the headliners with the newly formed Pulnoc (containing the remains of the
Plastics). The promoters also casually observed that this would be the first unofficial concert, that
we would be challenging the Stalinist Government and that all the freaks in Czechoslovakia would be
there to support us.

Whatever! We were well used to the bullshit of promoters. But this was
our first time dealing with the obduracy, commitment and sheer dogged spirituality of the Czech
dissident movement. The next day we arrived at the equivalent of Madison Square Garden in the
middle of downtown Prague and realised that these guys weren’t kidding. 13,000 people were gathered inside
and as many surrounded the stadium. But, ominously, the top tiers were occupied by the Czech Militia with
guns drawn and pointed at the stage. I naively inquired of Ivo Pospisil (one of the organizers)
whether we might be in any danger - to which he replied with that Central European swagger and
broken English - “no probalem, bastards vill not kill us all!” With that stolid reassurance, we played before the best
audience of my life - so appreciative, so altogether, so happy that their American brothers were there
to support them. The Gods smiled on us (the substances too) and we played a blinder. Follow that, I
thought as we left the stage.

Then I watched Pulnoc and my jaw dropped. The music was dense,
dissonant, melodic, strident, totally unselfconscious and oddly romantic. It was like The Velvet
Underground meets Schonberg on acid. I didn’t understand a word of it but I knew everything they were saying.
It was the soul of Czechoslovakia being hammered off the anvil of pure unfettered rock & roll. And
yet it had none of the ridiculous characteristics that rock music has come to personify. No preening, no
attitude, just pure idealized music uncontaminated by any false excess; and yet, it was as excessive,
in itself, as a volcano. I had to get on stage with these guys. I couldn’t let this moment pass me by. So,
with a pint of Armenian Brandy in me, (at least that’s what they said it was) I took over one of the mikes
and added my own howling harmonies. I was sure they would throw me off but instead they just smiled
and welcomed me. It may have been the only time I saw any of them smiling.

I couldn’t get enough of these guys and after the show we got in serious
conversation. I was also fascinated by their accents. There was something so familiar about them.
And then it hit me - they all sounded like Lou Reed. In fact, they had all learned their English from
Velvet Underground records, so there was a lot of valkin’ on the vild side vith sveet Jane. I told them

I was a big fan of the playwright Vaclav Havel and they offered to take me to his apartment. Just
like that? But Tony (the lead singer) was a theatre designer and said it would be no problem. So, off we
went. Milan, Tony, their wives or girlfriends and yours truly. Everyone knew them. It was their town.
Still, occasionally, we would be stopped by the militia and our papers demanded. This was a constant
irritant to them. But to me it was no different than the streets of the North.

Being a thirsty lot, they suggested we stop in a bar. Now this place was like something out of Dracula movie.
It must have been there for four or five hundred years. It was amazing. At any moment, you expected Mario Lanza
to come trotting out and sing The Student Prince.

We were having a great old time. Czech beer is magnificent and Gerty’s sisters, no less. But after
about an hour a hush came over the crowd, a television set was turned on and I’m expecting to see
some dark Czech masterpiece. But to my horror, it’s a special broadcast from MTV Out pops Michael Jackson,
Duran Duran and whatever else drivel that was popular in 1989. There was a glow in the eyes of the
watchers. I looked nervously at Milan and Tony. Were these two great musicians actually being
taken in by this shite? To this day I don’t know. Perhaps, MTV was banned (for once, the comrades might
have got something right) and this was Pulnoc’s dazed and silent protest.

I often think of that night. We never got to see Havel. We lingered too long in that wonderful pub
talking about life and music that was far divorced from reality as I then knew it (oh by the way, they did turn
off the tv after an hour or so). The Berlin Wall came down some months later
and Czechoslovakia and all the other soviet satellites have been transformed into modern western
democracies. And what of Milan, Tony, Pulnoc and the Plastics? I don’t know. Pulnoc got a deal
with Arista Records and were dropped almost instantly - I guess, they weren’t radio friendly. Look for their
magnificent cd, City of Hysteria. I’m sure you can get Plastic People’s songs to download.

I often wonder about Milan and Tony. They weren’t essentially political
people but they personified the soul of Czechoslovakia in a way that I’ve never seen another group of
musicians do. They refused to give up their right to play music the way they heard it and thus
confronted the power of Stalinist Communism and its banality of evil. How then did they face up to the terrible
deluge of advertising, fast buck entrepreneurs, MTV and the awful evil of banality that permeates
our modern western life? Hopefully, Milan didn’t die disillusioned and kept on fighting to the end. And if
you ever read this, Tony, I’m still trying to keep that promise I made to you. Milan Hlavsa died last
week - a true rock & roll rebel.

Larry Kirwan

This is a short extract from Vaclav Havel’s lengthy and incisive observations on the Plastics written in 1984:
I have often wondered about the remarkable “trick” the Plastics used to achieve their unsettling magic.
It can’t be explained simply by their unusual combination of instruments (that unnerving buzz of viola and violin
is typical of their music). Nor is it merely the god-given originality of Milan Hlavsa’s musical talent. Nor the
long years of working together that created and shaped the group’s style, as a whole that is greater than the sum
of the musical parts brought by each member…..they are unique, and faithful to themselves, and if their music
speaks to young people today more than ever, it’s because they’ve refused to make concessions to taste, because they
have remained themselves, still expressing, after all those years, feelings and experiences which are now felt and
expressed generally.

We’ll continue to play Connolly’s every Saturday night until March 3rd. We’ll be taking a break then until May 5th.
That leaves only four more Saturdays on this run, so, get there soon. The band is smoking.

My solo cd, Kilroy Was Here, will be in stores on Feb 27th on Gadfly Records. It would help me greatly if you could order
it from your record store. It’s distributed by DNA (just like Live in New York City) and should be available anywhere in
the USA. Let me know if there is a problem in obtaining it in your area.

Of course, if you want to jump the gun, you can order it now from irishvisions.com or by calling them direct at
1-800-IRISH-800. Might make a good Valentine’s Gift.

I will be doing a series of solo shows, the first of which will be at The West Bank Café, 407 W. 42nd St. (corner 9th Ave)
on Feb 14th at 8:30pm sharp. We will be selling the cd for the first time at that show. I realise that it is
St. Valentine’s Day but the West Bank has a great restaurant upstairs and if you don’t have a date, well we can have a
lonely hearts night together.. For dinner reservations call 212-695-6909.

Phyllis will be on the separate music door and selling the cds, for reservations to the show e-mail her at
pkron13@aol.com or reserve a seat for the performance at 695-6909. Tickets will be $10.

By the time you get this, the new web site at www.black47.com should be up and running. It’s designed by
Joseph Mulvanerty (he of the communist red pipes) with additional graphics by Fred Parcells (in-house, you might say).
It will contain a number of new features, including MP3s from each album, a very subjective and relatively honest
history of the band as seen through the making of the various cds. It will also have individual sections for each band
member (when they get up off their arses), many new links and I can’t remember what else at this time of night.
We will, of course, be all ears to your suggestions for improvement.

I’ve received a lot of letters asking about Kilroy Was Here. What it’s like, how does it differ from Black 47, who
plays on it and why and god only knows what else. Here’s an extract from the Kilroy section which will be going up on
the new site - soon. Also, the lyrics of Life’s Like That, Isn’t it? one of my favorite songs from the album.

KILROY WAS HERE

I can’t even remember deciding to make Kilroy Was Here. I do know that the inspiration didn’t come like the proverbial
flash of lightning but rather, after a period of mundane gestation. This must have been going on while we were making
Trouble in the Land but I can’t, for the life of me, recall any distracting tug on the shoulder. However, I did know
that the childhood memory of waiting at Wexford Railway Station for the early morning arrival of my Father - back from
sea - would eventually provide a song. And with Kilroy itself, so close to the surface, it was only a matter of time
before that song too broke through.

Why a solo album? After all, it’s not as if I can’t try out any song within the constantly expanding boundaries of
Black 47. But something demanded that I keep these songs separate. They seemed to call for a different touch - a
change in instrumentation. Also, there comes a time for everyone when you have to leave the comfort of your family
to gain new experience. Then having achieved that, you can return and let everyone be the richer for it. I have no
intention of leaving Black 47 but a band only remains strong by constantly renewing it and challenging it with new ideas.
As we speak, Geoff, Ham and Andrew, Mike Fazio and Baby Monroe are putting together an ensemble named The Pheasant
Pluckers (say that six times quickly) to do some dates (More on that in the next newsletter). And in the end, Black 47
will be the stronger for all our extramural music excursion.

For some time, I’ve been reading the poetry of Garcia Lorca, thinking about the circumstances of his death and trying
to come to terms with his notion of “duende.” How do I, an Irishman, explain the Spanish concept of duende? Broadly
speaking, it’s a particular overheated, even mystical feeling that is occasionally generated between a performer and
an audience - a rare knife-edge, hair-raising, nails-scraping-off-slate connection that once experienced can never be
forgotten.

I want that experience and, to that end, I need a body of songs that can, perhaps, evoke it. With Black 47, as you all
know, it’s a rare show where we don’t reach a moment of transcendence - when the band and audience merge into one. At
this point, after 11 years, we’ve become junkies for that high - some of you have too - and we’re lucky that we can
mainline it so many times a year. I guess I want a new high - one that I’ll have to work hard for but one that will
ultimately improve me as a writer and performer.

But most of all I wantto get back out in front of an audience with just a guitar and see if I can do it the way I
started off in Wexford, so many moons ago. And speaking of Wexford, it permeates the album - not the successful
Wexford of today - but the one I remember, grey, gloomy, rain-soaked , lightning streets, full of teddyboys, sailors
home on leave, Presentation schoolgirls, bookies, messenger boys, Sister Philip, Tommy Swift, mini minors, Franciscans,
altar-boys, culchies on old black bicycles, country boys sweating in black suits on Curracloe Beach, Sunday walks to
Ferrycarrig, Norman castles, Yola and memories of ‘98, Eddie Calvert’s trumpet, showbands at the Parish Hall, girls
in seamed stockings who thought you were an eejit, opera and rock & roll all mixed into one grand, big yellowbellied
stew. No wonder I’m so messed up! Still, I want to bring some of those drunken Sunday evening memories (the day I
wrote most of this) back into rock & roll and, hopefully, merge the two worlds I’m a part of - theatre and music, once
and for all.

And so, I called up my dear friend, Stewart Lerman, the engineer/producer extraordinaire and informed him of my
aspiration. Characteristically, he answered, “great, man, the first thing you should do is get the songs together on
acoustic - nothing fancy - then come up here and lay them down. When can you do that?”

“Next week.” I replied with less sense than determination.

“How about noon on Friday? I can fit you in right before Loudon at 1:30.”

And so Friday it was, with the band setting off for a gig in Boston at 2. But before that, I had some frantic rehearsals
- with myself. It’s one thing mumbling the songs at home - quite another to go into the illuminating nakedness of a
professional studio. Were they all in the right key? Could I play the guitar parts and sing them simultaneously. Was
I just over-reaching? All the usual self-doubts that precede any kind of a recording.

I barely remember the session. We laid down 13 or 14 songs in a blur and then I hopped into the van for that, oh so
familiar, dash up old Route 95 - the scourge of the working musician. Stewart burned me a cd and that acoustic session
became the foundation that Kilroy was built on. (Perhaps, we’ll release it in a limited form some day - strictly for
Black 47 people.)

About a week later, Stewart called and inquired, “what do you want to do with this thing, man?” And so I told him that I
had a yen to approach the project a little differently - use a jazz drummer and a double bassist and have the lead
instruments be trumpet and violin. “Wow,” said Stewart - a man who loves the challenge of the new, “sounds like a concept.
But can you be a little more specific - like eh - anything in particular it should sound like?” Hmm, I thought. How about
a cross between Sinead O’Connor and Triple H? Nah, wouldn’t fly; so let’s try using Sketches of Spain and Astral Weeks as
bookends. This appealed to the intrepid record producer no end and we were off in a canter.

Enter the one and only, Fabulous Freddie Parcells. Now Fred and I go back almost 20 years at this point. He’s been called
The Hendrix of the Trombone and that’s obvious to Black 47 devotees. But his greatest talent may be as an orchestrator.
I told him I wanted to mix trumpet and violin in a manner that Gil Evans wouldn’t turn up his nose at. This was enough
for Fred, being an ardent admirer of the Miles/Gil oeuvre. “I can dig Gil’s shit, man,” he cryptically replied. I gave him a copy of the acoustic cd and the whistled trumpet/violin lines that were kicking around in my head - with the understanding that he add whatever he heard, then put the whole kit and kaboodle into charts and tallyho, Bob’s yer Uncle, Fanny’s yer Aunt, we’d be on our way!

But the jazz drummer and bassist got a gig in Europe right before the first rehearsal. What to do? Let there be no panic
on the Titanic, declared Stewart. Leave it in my hands - all we need are two cats who can read. (Sounded a bit like
T.S Elliot contemplating a Broadway run.) Well, to tell the truth, I was a little panicked - cats or no cats. But not
to worry, Stewart got in touch with Paul Ossola, a close friend who had been bassist in my old band, Major Thinkers.
(What goes around most definitely comes around.) He also picked another friend of Black 47’s, Frank Vilardi, as drummer.

Then Stewart dropped the bombshell that he wanted Dave Tronzo to sit in on guitar. He must have seen my raised eyebrows
- after all, I was trying to get away from electric guitars.. “Don’t worry,” he reassured, “you’ll love him. He even
reads”. Jesus, the literacy level was shooting up. Stewart had obviously missed his calling - the next time they need
a Chancellor of the New York City Schools - be advised that their man is wasting away on 14th Street. But he was right.
There is nothing quite like The Tronz on slide. Duane Allman on crack, I thought, during one inspired riff.

Having spent what seemed like years of my life slaving away in studios in vain attempts at pop perfection, I had become
impressed with the jazz greats who could often knock out a couple of albums before their breakfast. Indeed, our own
Beatles had recorded and mixed their first album in a couple of sessions between gigs. Bearing all that in mind, I
suggested that we just do two, four hour rehearsals to keep the thing on edge, maintain a sense of mystery, as it were.
Stewart, however, was of the opinion that after three hours any self-respecting musician was fit only for the pub.
When he saw the concerned look on my face, he again was the soul of reassurance “don’t worry, just think of it as adding
a little more mystery.” I tried to affect an air of nonchalance but if this keeps up, I’m thinking, we’ll need to put
out an alert for Sherlock Holmes.

But, as is often the case, he was right. On that first day in the rehearsal studio we began with Walkin’ With Her God
and it was obvious each of these musicians had done their homework. The song gelled instantly and floated around a very
mysterious pocket. Paul was playing bass to break your heart, Tronz’s slide had me back on unmade beds gazing at the
cracks in the ceiling of East Village apartments, Fred’s bone captured that narcotic Avenue D mariachi and Frank’s
driving, but delicate, rhythms seamlessly stitched all the ribs together. Song after song fell into place, some not
without effort, but always with the desired quotient of enigma intact.

We recorded the whole album in two days. I sang live on each track while playing my Martin acoustic, with a pickup
feed for effects. Now my intention was that I would re-sing the vocals, which is the norm.
But, because of the nature of this album, with the voice leading and dueling with Vilardi’s sense of timing and
Paul’s evocative bass, when I came to do the “real” vocals - even though they were often technically better - they
never sounded as “right” as the originals. And so, unusual for this digital day and age, all the vocals are live,
for better or worse. The Lord protect me from the critics.

I had assumed that my buddy, Angel Fernandez, would play his wonderful trumpet (remember him on
Who Killed Bobby Fuller, Paul Robeson, etc) but he was on the road leading the Marc Anthony band.
He suggested Rich Viruet. What a trip! He is one brilliant trumpeter and a real character to boot.
Remind me to tell you about him someday! He brilliantly knocked off all the intricate parts that
Fred had orchestrated while devouring a mountain of chicken wings, rice and beans. Faith Glassman
put all her passion into the beautiful violin parts. Mike Fazio layered Kilroy with the sweep of
his effected pedal steel guitar. Lisa Gutkin added her gypsy fiddle on Spanish Moon. Dashing David
Conrad, in between drafts of his new book, added cello, his new axe, to Girl in the Rain and, of course,
the incomparable Geoffrey Blythe blew his heart out on Only Livin’ Boy in New York and History of
Ireland, Part 1. Then Stewart and I took turns on guitars, Fender Rhodes and his old Hammond;
Suzzy Roche added her exquisitely haunting vocals to the first three tracks, Copernicus translated
and added lyrics to the Lorca song, my old employer and comrade, Malachy McCourt, added his wry
touches to the re-writing of Irish History and that - as the Bishop said to the actress - was that.

Over the next three months or so, Stewart and I snatched moments in between his sessions to massage
and polish, what became for us, a labor of love. I can never thank him, Fred, Suzzy, the musicians
and all those who gave me such love and support. I dedicate this album to them….and, of course, to you.

LIFE’S LIKE THAT, ISN’T IT?

The boy is holding his Mother’s hand in a seaside station
The streets are silent in the rain, naked and dead in their small town pain
When the train pulls in a man alights, lugging a suitcase battered but bright
With labels from the Argentines, he pulls down his hat, flexes his knees
Swaggers up the platform, Bogart on ice, winks at the boy kisses his wife
For a moment, they’re lost in their ardor, the boy is suddenly jealous of his Father.
The young couple walk hand in hand up the town, the boy just keeps his head down
Past the furniture store owned by a comrade from the Spanish Civil War
Looks in the window to his surprise, an apparition in maple catches his eye
A Loyalist guitar from the Siege of Madrid, he pushes his nose up to the windowsill
His Father says “como estas, Senor, the boy is entranced by your guitar
Here’s a couple of quid down, you’ll get the rest next Saturday
Life’s like that, isn’t it?
Back at the house his parents disappear, to the bedroom they go but all the boy can hear
Are the strings echoing off of the maple, the Father shouts out, “hey, son, soon you’ll be able
To play me a tango knock spots off the sound,” then he grabs his wife, twirls her around.
The boy watches in wonder as the couple cavort outside the rain and the thunder drown out
The chill of the devotional bell, while inside the small kitchen, his Father and Mother are sublimely Going to hell.
The boy is religious serves mass at the Friary, he’s got a crush on St. Anthony
Got a hot date with him when he gets to heaven but it’s still hard to get up at twenty to seven
On a gale force morning, slates hitting the streets, exploding in smithereens all around him
He runs in fear past the deserted garden where a man hung himself his soul ever after sentenced to roam in search of
salvation but that morning his Father leaves from the station, six months on the Banana Run down to West Africa,
it’s up to him now he’s got to look after his tangoless, Bogarted, brokenhearted Mother, later for you, Dad, it
was nice while it lasted
Life’s like that, isn’t it?
The boy plays guitar and reads voraciously about sex and revolution in the County Library
And in bed he tunes in Radio Sofia, gets it on with the sister comrade from Bulgaria
The librarian is worried, she visits his Mother, all he wants is James Connolly and Patrice Lumumba
The Friars don’t know what to do with this communist, “if he don’t look out he’ll end up poor as St. Francis,
them ould books is drivin’ the poor chap crazy, it’s time he got a job he’s far too lazy, go out into the real
world, meet a nice girl.”

Oh, he meets the girl but she is not so nice, she wears micro-dresses, has stormy black eyes
He no longer has time for the County Library, learnin’ about life in the back of a mini, her dress is so soft
but it’s nothing compared to her silky white thighs, oh how he’d like to go much further so they run off to Dublin,
he’s drinking too much, getting in trouble with Mao’s little red book he’s ready for action but Black Eyes wants
a house not satisfaction in Terenure but he’s heard Bernadette Devlin, so it’s take to the streets, rock & roll
revolution.

Black Eyes is gone on the boat to London and Connolly Youth is explodin’, so he hops a plane to New York, he’s
down on the Deuce hustlin’ work and recreation when she rings him in a Richmond accent, my only darling, it would
never work out and here is the reason, I’ve fallen head over heels for an English policeman.

So he plays the tango remembers his Father, resolves to live life like Bogart, turn pain to music, sorrow to
laughter, live for today, to hell with tomorrow, it started at the station waiting for his Father, one moment
affects everything thereafter but

Life’s like that, isn’t it……

Larry Kirwan

A wild night in Connolly’s for New Year’s Eve. The place was packed -
though there were barricades on 45th St., the NYPD was more than
accommodating to the audience - and a great night was had by all,
particularly the uilleann piper who played at angles which had to be seen
to be believed. We’ll be in Pittsburgh this Friday (our first visit in some
years) and back for Connolly’s on Saturday. After that, there will only be
3 more Saturdays in Connolly’s until we head for Florida. (Orlando, Ft.
Lauderdale & Tampa). Regret to say that due to circumstances beyond
everyone’s control, the McGeary’s gig on Friday 25th January has been
rescheduled for March 14th. But, yes, we will be back in Boston on March
1st at a new, as yet unopened, location, Hurricane O’Reilly’s 150 Canal
St., Boston. (617) 451-7400 ext 234.

Read the rest of this entry »

Thanks for making the move to the new Connolly’s such a success. Everyone appears to like the new room and location. The dynamic presence of Times Square seems to be a great catalyst. We’re seeing a lot of both familiar and fresh faces and, yes, the music starts at 11pm, leaving you time to catch late trains and buses. The audiences have been large, enthusiastic and everyone appears to be having a good time, not least, the band. Connolly’s is located at 121 W. 45th Street (Between Broadway and 6th Avenue (212)-597-5126. We hope you’ll join us there on some Saturday soon. Rockefeller Center is mere blocks away, so leave time to take in the Christmas tree beforehand.

Read the rest of this entry »

Only 3 more Connolly’s dates before St. Patrick’s Day, Feb 9, 23 and March
2.. Hope to see you. We’ve been introducing two new songs, The Far Side of
the Wall and Red Hugh O’Donnell. There’ll be more over the next few weeks.
The St. Patrick’s Parade show at The Knitting Factory, March 16th, will
soon be announced to the general public. You still have a head start.
Tickets can be purchased at 74 Leonard St., NYC (5 blocks below Canal
between Broadway & Church) 212-219-3006 www.knittingfactory.com for $20 or
through www.virtuous.com And yes, we will be playing Irish Day at Shea
Stadium this year on July 27th. The Mets play the Reds - 1:15pm start. We
should go on 4:30 or 5pm. And for those who would like to take the mountain
air with us up in the Catskills on Memorial Weekend, better reserve your
rooms at The Blackthorn in East Durham soon (518) 634-2541. And see you in
Florida: Orlando, Ft. Lauderdale and Tampa on Presidents’ Day Weekend.
Sorry, I had the wrong number listed for The Social in Orlando, it’s
(407)246-1599. The Ft. Lauderdale Festival is always a blast. Call Sheila
Hynes at 1-800-882-ERIN. And Colm Breen’s Four Green Fields is the best pub
on the West Coast at 813-254-4444. And for our first Boston gig in a year
on March 1st, the location is Hurricane O’Reilly’s at 150 Canal St. (round
the corner from the Harp) and the number for inquiries is 617-722-0161.

We have a new t-shirt out. It’s the Black 47 logo with the Gaelic words
“Tiocfaidh ar la” (Our Day Will Come) above the chained fist. Go to the online store
where you’ll also find our other t-shirts and CDs, including ON FIRE, our latest.
Also available, Keltic Kids and Kilroy Was Here (named one of the top CDs of the year by the Irish Voice,

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Just four more Winter dates in Connolly’s (121 W. 45th St., Manhattan). We will be there this Saturday Feb 1st (Feast of St. Brigid), Feb 8, 22 and March 1st. Hope you can make it to one of the shows. We’re introducing a new song every night now - to be eventually recorded for the next studio cd. At the end of this newsletter, you can read last week’s. Shows have been going very well. Lots of new friends from all over the world. Drop by. Also see you at a great venue Bodles Opera House in Chester, NY for a little Puccini this Friday 31st, and see out frigid January with us. We had a sold out house at Bodles last time, so get your tickets early. Lots of new dates added to the schedule.

We will again do two All Ages shows at The Knitting Factory in Lower Manhattan on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17th in 2003. Tickets are on sale at the club and at Virtuous.

Many people write and ask how they can help Black 47. Well, of course, coming to the gigs is the best way but there is something else you could do for us. A couple of weeks ago we set up Black 47 Radio. We have made all of the recordings of Black 47 available to be heard through this medium, along with live shows and interviews. We felt that people who couldn’t buy the cds or come see the band shouldn’t be penalized. If you could drop a line to three or four of your friends informing them of Black 47 Radio, you would be greatly expanding our base and giving people a free gift at the same time. Thanks, in advance, for doing this and please enjoy the service yourselves. If you have any ideas on how to improve it, do let me know.

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Hope you all have a great St. Patrick’s Day. We’ll be doing two shows
in Wetlands. We’ll be onstage at 6:30pm and 10:30pm (quite sharp). But
get there at least 30-45 minutes early as there are usually lines for
entrance. We will be recording both shows for a live cd and French TV will be
shooting, so let’s hear you!

While we were in Rosario, Argentina last fall, we worked with The San Patricio Ballet,
a great group of Irish dancers. Later this year,
we’re planning to go back and do another tour of Argentina and Chile with
them. But, to our surprise, the dancers have decided to come to New York,
march in the Parade and dance with us at Wetlands on St. Patrick’s Day. They
are a wonderful bunch of people and lend a whole new Latin exuberance to the Irish steps.
Come along and check them out and give them a real New York welcome.

Black 47 will be taking some time off in April and we’ll be back in
Connolly’s on May 5th. If you’re thinking of coming to the Catskills
with us for the Friday and Saturday of Memorial Day, better book soon if you
want to stay at The Blackthorn (518) 634-2541. We’ll be doing the Sunday and Monday
of Memorial Day at Gaelic Park in Chicago. We wouldn’t let you down, Southside!

Thanks so much for buying my solo cd, Kilroy Was Here, in the first
week. It’s slowly working its way into stores but your ordering it and asking
about it has helped greatly. It can also be bought online at irishvisions.com,
gadflyrecords.com, cdnow.com, amazon.com, dararecords.com and others.

But more than anything, thank you for all the feedback about the various
songs. I’m glad you enjoy it so much. I’ve written a short story or piece that
amplifies each of the songs and they can be found at the Kilroy section
o fwww.black47.com I’ll be doing a number of solo gigs around the country in
late March/April. The show will consist of pieces from Rockin’ The Bronx (a one
person play which is tied together by acoustic versions of some early Black 47 songs)
and, of course, songs from Kilroy. Hope I get to see you and meet you after the shows.
The cd will be on sale at all shows.

I’ve had a lot of requests to run the piece about St. Patrick’s Day from
last year. So, herewith. Have a great day and take care of yourselves.

Round about this time of year, especially with a new record out, I do a
lot of interviews. One of the hardest and most oblique questions that
arises is “what does St. Patrick’s Day mean to you?” Usually, I concentrate on
describing the ferocious energy at the big gig that night - “like being
on the back of a wild stallion, you just hang on and go with it - if you
try and buck it, you’ll get thrown off.” No matter how facile, that’s always
good for a sound bite or two. But, every now and again, an interviewer
insists on an overview - either historical, political or personal. And so, I’ve
had to dig deeper: When the Irish arrived here, often in tatters, dropping with
fever and surely shell-shocked from the long Atlantic journey, they were looked
on with dismay and disgust by the Nativist Americans. Sometimes, paradoxically, they
were even robbed and cheated by their own - Irish who had arrived some years or
generations earlier. They died by the thousands in the flooded cellars of Boston
and the slums of the Five Points of New York City. But they were a hardy breed
and many had already survived hunger and oppression back in Ireland. And so, they
bided their time and took the most servile of jobs in a struggle to survive; in time,
they formed themselves into parishes and unions, got what education they could and
ensured, with back-breaking labour, that their children would have opportunities to
advance themselves.On one day a year, they congregated outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral
off Prince Street in New York City and marched in celebration. To some of them, no doubt,
it was a religious occasion but to most it was an affirmation of their right, not only to
survive but, to thrive in their adopted country. That’s what I sense when I think of St.
Patrick’s Day - an echo from a time, not so long ago, when to be Irish was to be a despised
outsider. And that’s why I go along with the raucous energy, the excitement and even the
green beer, the plastic shamrocks and the ubiquitous leprechaun. Because no matter what
stage I’m on, mixed in with the scream of guitars, the blare of
horns, the wail of pipes and the pounding of drums, I hear an old, but jarring,memory of
a people rejoicing as they rise up from their knees.By the same token, we should never
forget to reach out a hand to those who come behind us - the immigrants who arrive here daily
- legal and otherwise. Many of them are poor and confused by our ways but striving to feed
and educate their families. It would be the ultimate irony if an Irish
person were to look down upon the least of them - especially after what our
forebears suffered - for, in my mind anyway, there is no place in the
Irish soul for racism, sectarianism or even dumb old Archie Bunker type
xenophobia. A question, I once heard Pete Hamill put, always sticks in my mind: “What does
the Pakistani taxi driver say to his children when he comes home after 12 hours behind the wheel?”

Whatever! I hope you have a wonderful day and I’m looking forward to
seeing you at some of our upcoming gigs. It’s going to be a wild time, so do
look after yourselves.

Thanks so much for all the great support you gave the band in the months coming up to St. Patrick’s Day. It’s always great to travel around the country and see everyone - make sure you’re all holding up. St. Patrick’s Day, itself, was a blast. We recorded the two shows at Wetlands and got many’s the memorable take. A new live cd will be out by the end of the year. One of the wildest takes was of Sam Hall, towards the end of the second show, when we succeeded in getting not only most of the words wrong, but the chords too. I suspect that some bootlegs of that one will surface - to my shame and considerable embarrassment. Whatever, it’s only rock & roll and not rocket science, as the poet was heard to emote over his 5th cocktail.

We’ll be doing a show this Saturday, March 31st in Washington Square Park in San Francisco. Hope you can make it there - flowers in your hair or not - call O’Reilly’s at 415-989-6222 for info. We’ll be onstage around 4pm but there is an excellent line-up, including the 2 remaining members of Taste (Rory Gallagher’s first big band) - hope to bring back some Rory stories. For those of you who like blues guitar, check out any Rory Gallagher or Taste recording - to my mind, he was second only to Hendrix and on a good night - his considered equal. Blister on the Moon by Taste was one of the first singles I ever bought. If you’re in San Francisco a night early, drop by Foley’s, 243 O’Farrell St. on March 30th, where I’ll be doing my solo show at 9:30pm - we can have a pint later. The show is being co-promoted by Slim’s 415-522-0333 - for info - or just drop by Foley’s, there’ll be plenty of room.

Black 47 will resume in Connolly’s on May 5th and will play Saturdays excluding Memorial Day Weekend when we’ll be up in the Blackthorn on the Friday and Saturday and out at Gaelic Park, Chicago on the Sunday and Monday. See you there and in Connolly’s.

My solo cd, Kilroy Was Here, appears to be working its way into stores - at least, in the NY area. So many retailers are going bankrupt nowadays that they only like to carry your favorites, Britney and The Back Street Boys - so thank you for ordering Kilroy and making it a presence. It’s also available through all the major internet retailers. We’ll be putting up some mp3s of it on the Kilroy section of www.black47.com soon. Check out the stories and illustrations there. They’ll fill you in more on the themes behind the actual songs.

I’ve had a lot of e-mails wishing to know the identity of the mysterious stranger in the story of the title track, Kilroy Was here. Well, I know and the ladies from San Patricio Ballet in Argentina are in on it (they twisted my arm backstage in Wetlands and without Maureen to rescue me, what’s a man to do?). If you would care to try your hand unraveling this mystery, I have my last 2 copies of Ten Bloody Years for prizes. Send me your answers to blk47@aol.com and may the best sleuths win.

Here are some more solo dates. I’ll also be carrying a limited amount of Black 47 t-shirts and cds (as well as Kilroys) so let me know what you want and I’ll bring it along for you. By the way, if you have Irish or traditional band in any of these cities, get in touch with the promoters. I’ve been encouraging them to book local acts of that nature for support slots.

It was All Saints Night and the streets were thick with fog, of that I’m positive. The sounds from the Harbor rang still and with muffled tones. The tavern was warm and inviting, while outside a grey mist drenched the exhausted city. The times were troubled and the streets unsafe; and yet, I felt the need to be away from the forced gaiety of that anxious crowd. The stranger was on the front step as I opened the door. I did not catch a glimpse of his face - his head was covered by a cowl-like hood. But there was, about him, something that caught my attention.

Later that evening, I was shocked to see him again on a corner of Christopher, a stone’s throw from the River. He did not fit well in his surroundings but, for that matter, neither did I. I watched him from across the street. He was framed in an arc of gaslight. I could have sworn that he was talking to someone but I am certain there was no one there. His eyes appeared to be tracking shadows up the cobbled lanes that spiral off that street of dreams - or nightmares, as the case may be.

I was not surprised to see him in St. Malachy’s. An acquaintance of mine was being waked - a distinguished actor who had cut a figure on the stages of Europe; his last encore had drawn a diffuse, if somewhat bohemian, crowd and so my cloaked and hooded nemesis did not seem out of place. He stood in the cold shadows at the back of the pews, lifeless except for eyes that burned with some intensity at a crucified Jesus suspended over the main altar. At one point, my attention was distracted but when I looked again he was in animated conversation with a tall, distinguished Jewish gentleman. I thought of introducing myself but decided it was neither the time nor the place.

At midnight, I found myself back down by the pier side. Trinity’s bells were pealing the lateness of the hour when I noticed him again. He was speaking to a beautiful woman with long, coarse dark hair that cascaded well below the small of her back. Dressed in a fashion not of this century, she was forlornly gripping him by the arm, her face white as Holland sheets. I hid in a doorway, unwilling to trespass on their intimacy but pivoted my body for a better view. From time to time, he would glance in fear or annoyance at a uniformed figure that seemed to be beckoning to him from the bow of a ship. My friend, for by now I thought of him as such, appeared to be in two minds. When suddenly, he seemed to become alarmed at the sight of the Jewish gentleman advancing down the quayside. He bent and tenderly kissed the young woman with a degree of loss and passion unusual in these times; then again, perhaps I am surmising - for he had his back turned to me. She clung to him as if her life depended on it but he was resolute and his footstep was deliberate as he mounted the gangway to the ship. Near the top, he turned to look back at her and the hood slipped from his head. To this day, I shiver when I recall the scene - for I knew that face only too well.

On one day a year, they congregated outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral off
Prince Street in New York City and marched in celebration. To some of
these immigrant Irish and their American born children it was a religious
occasion, but to most it was an affirmation of their right, not only to
survive but, to thrive in their adopted country. That’s what I sense on
St. Patrick’s Day - an echo from a time when the Irish were despised
outsiders. And that’s why I go along with the raucous energy, the
excitement and even the green beer, the plastic shamrocks and the
ubiquitous leprechaun.

I didn’t always feel that way. When I arrived from Ireland, these
manifestations of Irish-America struck me as downright odd. Back home, our
own celebrations were rigid and religious; we did sport actual sprigs of
shamrock but there was no beer, green or otherwise. The Parade up Fifth
Avenue and the ensuing bacchanal seemed downright pagan by comparison.

I had other immigrant battles of my own ahead. The band, Black 47, was
formed to create music that would reflect the complexity of immigrant and
contemporary Irish-American life and to banish When irish Eyes Are Smiling
off to a well earned rest in Galway Bay. This idea met with not a little
resistance in the north Bronx and the south sides of Boston and Chicago;
but when irate patrons would yell out in the middle of a reggae/reel “why
can’t yez sing somethin’ Irish?” I would return the compliment with, “I’m
from Ireland, I wrote it, that makes it Irish!”

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We received hundreds of entries for the Guess The Stranger from the
Kilroy Was Here story competition. They rangeAd from the utterly hilarious to the deeply profound. The correct answer was
chosen by six people and I have held a private raffle amongst them for the two winners of Ten Bloody Years. They are
Stephanie from Atlanta and June (of the red hair) Sommers from Baltimore. If they will both send me their addresses, I
will mail the prizes next week.

Kilroy Was Here is partly a ghost story and when the Stranger looks back from the gangplank, the song’s protagonist sees
himself - or rather his ghost. To fill you in a little: the tramp steamer is carrying a crew and passengers of lost souls
- it stops in different ports and certain passengers are allowed off, for the evening, to re-visit old haunts and be close
to those whom they loved or hated. I wouldn’t want to spoil your own personal imagery by giving a more detailed
explanation; this is just a framework and there are layers within layers in this particular song as well as in Molly and
Life’s Like That, in particular. The surfaces of these songs are mirrors and, underneath, the words and feeling are there
to be felt and understood to your own specifications. Congratulations to the winners, those who chose the “correct” answer
and I must say I enjoyed the many explanations I received - you made me re-think some of my notions about the song.

Thanks for supporting the solo gigs. I’ve traveled a lot of miles in the last few weeks - many more this week - and
everyone has been so kind. There’s an MP3 of Molly available at the Kilroy section of black47.com Feel free to download
it and pass it on to your friends. Hope to see you at some of the following gigs. Again, I’ll be carrying a limited amount
of Black 47 cds and t-shirts (as well as Kilroys). Let me know anything you want by e-mail and I’ll try and bring it
along.

Black 47 will be back in Connolly’s on May 5th and for many Saturdays thereafter but, a word of warning, due to demand
for the band both in the US and overseas, we won’t be doing the long-ended runs that we used to in NYC on Saturday nights
- so catch us in Connolly’s while you can. We’re looking forward to seeing you all again. For those who inquired -
yes, we will be playing Stonehill College Irish Festival on Friday, June 8th.

I only had two meaningful conversations with Joey Ramone, although, god knows, I’d run into him around the streets and
the the clubs on countless occasions. I’d first seen the Ramones back in CBGBs in the early days. To tell you the truth,
I wasn’t one of their big supporters. They seemed vaguely ominous back then - they even gave off, dare I say it, a
storm-trooper vibe (ironic given that Joey was Jewish). But his voice was much weaker then and it was very hard to hear
just what he was singing about. Then again, I was a huge fan of the band Television, the kings of the scene. (There
was nothing quite like Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd on guitars and Verlaine’s vocals were the epitome of cool, each
syllable spit out like a dagger - I always knew what he was saying.) When the Ramones first album was released and I
could hear them properly, I realized that Joey’s lyrics were tongue in cheek and very witty and not how I had first
perceived them at all.

Soon thereafter, I was introduced to him by Billy Altman in the Bells of Hell. Joey’s wry, sympathetic smile was a winner
and made me realize how ridiculous were my notions of any fascist sympathies. He was a very down to earth, empathetic,
if slightly, goofy individual. He had a way of looking at you that took in your whole being but unlike others with the
same characteristic, he was very non-judgmental. He was also very interested in other musicians, the types of music
they played and how they knocked out a living from this cannibalistic business. He was familiar with Turner & Kirwan of
Wexford - being an avid reader of the Village Voice Entertainment ads - and asked me many pertinent questions about the
group.

I didn’t talk to him again for many years. One night, just before Black 47 signed with EMI Records, he showed up at
Wetlands with Vin Scelsa. He was interested in producing the band and we talked about how he saw us and how we should be
presented on record. It was an interesting talk, as you might imagine; although we had been around the same city and
scene for many years, our sensibilities were quite different. I can’t remember how we left it. Perhaps, we had already
committed to Ric Ocasek as producer. Suffice it to say, we didn’t work with Joey. I wonder how Fire of Freedom would have
turned out with Mister Rockaway Beach at the helm. Makes one think, right? Another what if, that crosses one’s mind late
at night on Route 95.

The Ramones are now part of the fabric of this city and of our culture. Some of their songs will become even more anthemic
as the years pass and Joey, no doubt, will assume mythic proportions. But I remember a very gentle giant who had a deep
compassion for the many musicians who weren’t doing as well as himself. Unlike the reports, in some of his obituaries,
that he felt the Ramones should have been more successful, I never noticed the slightest hint of bitterness in the man.
Instead, I seem to recall a wry bemusement that he and his band had gotten so far. (Oddly enough, Neil Young and Joe
Strummer exhibited the same trait - the greats seem to have the whole thing in perspective, I suppose - it’s the poseurs
who tend to think otherwise.) What can I tell you? Life’s like that.

Though I must have seen them a score of times in CBGB’s, my most vivid memory of the Ramones was when they opened for Dr.
Feelgood, one of my favorite bands of the period. (Go track them down on Napster) There were few better white r&b outfits
than the good Doctors from London. I never missed a chance to see them. Their lead singer was a madman
(what was his name?); Wilco, their guitarist was spellbinding, and a great inspiration to me. Anyway, The Ramones opened
for them in The Bottom Line, of all places - a sit down audience - must have been strange for them. It was hellish for
their mostly disapproving audience. After 40 minutes of Ramones thrashing overdrive, our collective ears were so burned
that the estimable Doctors, when they hit the stage, seemed strangely, sedate, subdued, out of whack - even
old fashioned. The Ramones put things in a different perspective that night - a changing of the guard, as it were.
Maybe, that’s what we all needed. Whatever. Long may your rock, Joey. In your lanky, goofy magnificence, you were
never less than a gentleman.

Larry Kirwan