What a blast to move to New York from Wexford town - the size, the bustle, and the sheer moxie of the city, but also the originality and diversity of the music.
You could see and hear something different every night, often brilliant, usually thought-provoking.
Pierce Turner and I went out every night. The streets were our oyster. All you needed was the price of a tallboy and a stoop to perch on. New York provided the rest.
With time, Irish accents, and the acquisition of some much-needed chutzpah, we learned how to bluff our way into shows from CBGB to Carnegie Hall.
CB’s was easy. Turner & Kirwan of Wexford was the first band to play there.
Owner Hilly Kristal had seen us fill the back room of the Bells of Hell, and hired us to play opening night at his new emporium on the Bowery.
If you played CBGB and drew people, you were inevitably invited to gig at Max’s Kansas City on Park Avenue South, and that opened up the Mudd Club on White Street and Hurrah uptown.
Max’s was my favorite. If you played the upstairs room, then you were welcome to attend any night, as long as there was room – and there always was, as people continually came and went in search of friends or excitement.
Remember, there were no cell phones or texts.
Doormen and bartenders let you know who was there, who had been, and where they were heading.
The nights were long, closing time stretched past 4 a.m., and if you were still standing, then the inevitable fashionable or seedy after-hours beckoned.
There was no sitting at home, staring into a screen, hoping for clicks or likes, just hot happening streets - sweaty or freezing - in the nightlife capital of the world.
Your repeated presence granted you membership of the scene, and nights you were gigging you too became an act worth checking out.
Should you get a review or a mention in the Village Voice, the Post (particularly Page 6), the Times, or a myriad of magazines, so much the better; but remember, the media was also on the prowl looking for interesting content.
Get a spin or two on WNEW, WLIR or WFMU and you were really happening. You just had to have stamina, a thirst for adventure, and some form of originality that made you stand out - for better or worse. There were fun nights too, and without cell phones and websites it was a lot easier to pull off the occasional scam.
One night in the late ‘70s, Turner and I were invited to the Palladium by music insider Neil Stocker to see The Boomtown Rats on their first New York City appearance. The show was great, Bob Geldof was in top arrogant form, when Stocker suggested we crash their party at the very toney One Fifth Restaurant in the Village.
He called ahead from a pay-phone to say that the Rats were on their way. On our arrival, and sporting our best Dublin accents, Stocker introduced us to the manager of One Fifth who insisted we try his new creation of Rat/Champagne and Guinness.
Our guests soon began to file in and wave to us as we imbibed pints of this magical mix. Soon the room was throbbing with the usual hangers-on and first-night scavengers, none of whom apparently knew the Rats, or what they looked like.
Well satiated from the Champagne/Guinness concoction, we were about to beat a retreat when the manager corralled us and declared, “Time to meet your guests.”
And so we three stood behind a velvet rope and accepted busses, handshakes and congratulations. Suddenly Debbie Harry materialized. She leaned into me smiling, and murmured in “Heart of Glass” tones, “You were wonderful on stage tonight.”
Someone pushed her from behind and she melted into my arms. I leaned closer and we kissed magically and without haste.
Then she was gone, another face in a first-night crowd. By the time Geldof arrived we had greeted most of his guests, and managed to stay a step ahead of him all that long night.
My last sighting was of him surrounded by his handlers outside Studio 54 arguing with the puzzled bouncers that “The Rats have NOT been here already, we just stepped out of that bloody limo!”
Ah well, just another of those analog nights – long before the dawn of clicks and likes.
But, oh, that stolen kiss still feels magical!
