When I was a boy in Ireland, Saint Patrick’s Day was one of the worst days of the year.
The pubs were closed and you could almost touch the gloom of the populace.
We did have an anemic parade where we half-heartedly sung hymns as we marched along Wexford Quay, wearing sprigs of damp shamrock we suspected might be clover.
On my first Saint Patrick’s Day in New York, I was stunned by the sheer bacchanalian energy.
The pubs were jammed at 11 a.m., red-faced men in Clancy Brothers jumpers whooped it up as the Parade strode up storied Fifth Avenue.
Yet, my biggest impression was the number of kids of color parading by.
Had I finally discovered the lost tribe of the Irish?
Perhaps, but it turned out they were marching with their Catholic high schools, adding groove to the Irish quickstep.
I can’t remember where Turner & Kirwan of Wexford played on those first St. Patrick’s nights – probably Tomorrow’s Lounge in Bay Ridge or Midtown’s Pig & Whistle.
No matter, I always equate March 17th gigs with leaping aback a wild stallion.
There’s no stopping that baby, just hang on and guide it home as best you can.
My first concrete memory of one such gig was after we discovered the cabaret/pub scene in New England.
You played four sets, six nights a week with drink, board and lodging thrown in; you could save most of your pay, there was so little time to spend it.
Up in The Lamplighter in Manchester, New Hampshire we did a successful Feb/March stand.
In the spirit of the great green day, when the owner asked us to play a couple of sets at noon, such was the exuberance of the audience we continued straight through until midnight, when we could no longer speak, let alone sing.
Soon after that marathon, we were discovered by the College Coffee House Agency.
That’s when our travels really began.
They had much the same idea – six nights a week, except that you did Monday-Wednesday in a college, then traveled Thursday morning and played until Saturday at another college, before your hungover Sunday off was spent speeding long distances down the pike to the next house of learning.
Thus, did we find ourselves amidst the mountains of Nowheresville, West Virginia one March 17th.
The student committee shipped in barrels of green beer in our honor, leading college hippies and redneck locals to declare a truce, all cultural differences banished for one glorious “Oirish Evening.”
But New York was where the big bucks were.
In the late 70’s we settled into a four gigs St. Pat’s Day schedule.
We’d begin with a Parade opener on the Upper East Side, then strike the gear and race across town to some class of hooley near the Hudson River.
Then over or under the mighty Hudson to an evening gig in sweet New Jersey, before bolting back into Manhattan for a late-night soiree on Christopher Street.
This came about through our alliance with a former Irish Christian Brother who regularly booked us for Gay Darts League functions.
Truth is we could have just repeated two songs until dawn, “When Irish Eyes are smiling, all the world seems bright and gay...” and "Danny Boy."
I never heard old Danny sung with such fervor and tear-stained passion as in that red-bulbed club on Christopher Street.
Eventually, Chris Byrne and I formed Black 47 and wrote a different chapter in Irish-American music.
Our St. Patrick’s season began in late January in Albany for the local AOH, and finished in late April somewhere out in The Hamptons.
Whatever, we always played NYC on the big day.
We’d arrive back at dawn from Boston or D.C., do an early morning Z100-FM live broadcast from Tavern on the Green, go home, do as many phone interviews as possible, and reassemble for a song on Conan O’Brien or some such show, then rock the night out at whatever big club would pay the most.
What a day and what energy!
It finally caught up with me one year when singing "James Connolly" on Conan.
Somewhere in the middle of that stirring anthem my mind went blank and my heart stopped.
I had to reinvent Connolly’s life for a few lines before I stumbled back on lyrical track.
I still have nightmares about it.
That’s rock ‘n’ roll. That’s St. Patrick’s Day.
I hope you enjoyed your wild stallion ride. Here's to next year.
