“Send ‘em Home Sweatin’!” was the battle cry of Irish showbands during their rambunctious dancehall reign back in the 1960s.
Or, as Ben Dolan of The Drifters waxed poetic one night backstage in Wexford’s Parish Hall,
“As long as the floor is black, you and me are on the pig’s back.”
Meaning, if you couldn’t see the floorboards from the stage, it meant the hall was packed like sardines with paying dancers.
“Paying” being the operative word.
Showband musicians made a living, and if you managed to finagle a gig you played with real musicians four hours a night, on hit songs in every key imaginable.
Such “artistes” would be beyond disdainful of your skinny inexperienced ass, but you couldn’t help but pick up some musical chops while in their exalted company.
You also got to wear bizarrely-colored jackets, the thought of which makes me blush even now.
These were owned by the band, the first one I wore was about five sizes too big with all its buttons missing.
Ever the improviser, band leader Johnny Reck looped a yard of agricultural binding twine around my waist to hold the offending jacket together.
We were rock bottom bad and employed a number of names, including The Palladium and The Liars. Yet, we played often and for decent money, as Mr. Reck had enrolled us in the Irish Musicians Union, thus forcing all national acts to hire us as support in the union-run halls of County Wexford.
That’s how Pierce Turner and I get our start in the paid entertainment business.
Pierce went on to some fame, but little fortune, as a member of the Arrows Showband, and was paid the princely sum of 25 pounds per week for six nights slogging all over Ireland, while I defected to the less glamorous “singing pubs,” where one could drink free and still get paid a couple of quid a night.
But I never regretted my showband days where the craic, as they say, was mighty. Showband heads (members) were first-class comedians.
Every disaster suffered became an epic laugh-a-ton that can still bring tears to my eyes. You can get a glimpse of those times when reading Rebecca Miller’s magisterial “Are You Dancing?: Showbands, Popular Music, and Memory in Modern Ireland.”
Though she was never part of the scene, this astute Irish Trad head/academic used a keen eye and scrupulous research to get to the very soul of the showband era.
The pictures alone are worth the price of the book. Imagine being a callow 18 year old playing to packed halls before the mighty Miami or Joe Dolan & The Drifters, and meeting the likes of Brendan Bowyer and Dickie Rock.
Legendary names, now rarely mentioned, but superstars back in the sexy 60s.
There are some naysayers in Rebecca’s book, including Bono and Geldof, ashamed of the corniness and lack of originality.
But remember, both Rory Gallagher and Van Morrison served their time in showbands, and any of us who toiled in bands containing brass sections had to learn to play in every key - not just the standard A, E, G, C & D beloved of guitarists.
On a personal note, when I came to play with Black 47’s sterling sax, trombone, and pipes players, I had some sense of how to harness such soulful instruments.
The showband ethic was still strong in The Bronx when Turner & Kirwan of Wexford arrived. We were greeted by Dermot Henry, Paddy Higgins, Colm Graham, Dermie Mac, Tommy Mulvihill, Gerry Finlay, and Joe Nellany, all great heads who could turn the floor black with the first notes of a dance tune.
One note, however, from our years of jamming on long synthesized pieces in Greenwich Village clubs: we had forgotten the magic words that resounded after three songs in every ballroom.
It was in Durty Nelly’s on Kingsbridge we were brought back to earth by owner Phil Delaney from Carrick-on-Suir. I opened my stoned eyes one night to behold the normally unflappable Mr. Delaney storming through the audience as he roared at me, “Did yez never hear about ‘Your Next feckin’ Dance’, Please?’
The women are sick of the same fellahs hanging out of them for thirty minutes straight, and there’s not a sinner in the house drinking!” Ah yes, those glorious dancing days in Da Bronx! Phil was dead right, but at least we sent ‘em home sweatin’!
