I always dream more vividly in the summer. I do not know why. Unlike the winter, when life seems all too practical, there seems to be a little more mental space around here during the brief warm months. Thoughts come and go, and music drifts ever further away…melodies slip in and out of your brain, and it’s too hard to learn anything new. Better to just drift for a while. I was at dinner the other night, and the table violinist played a mazurka, a Polish tune adapted by Chopin. When I got home it stuck with me, 'til I had to get out of bed and play the only mazurka I know. Summer is like that.
Recently I found myself in Ireland, a place I have not been to for years. While I was there circumstances led me to Kilarney, a town I had been to a few times before, most recently with the band to shoot the ‘Lukey’ video with the Chieftains. That whole period feels a little like a serendipitous vision these days, when such frivolous ideas are miles away. Having decided at the last possible second to do the video, we arrived at the last minute, much the worse for wear, via several airplanes and taxis. After a lengthy piss-up, we spent a languorous day hanging about a restaurant, drinking and kind of acting, and then descended upon a small pub known only to Paddy Maloney for a monster session.
The session remains my most vivid, (although drunken), memory of that strange and magical weekend. The pub was a small and eccentric one, down an anonymous alley, with no real outside markings other than a tiny sign. The lounge appeared to double as a living room, and there seemed to be no bar as such, just a window from which drinks appeared on a semi-regular basis. Several of the Chieftains joined in the session, an unusual occurrence to say the least, and as the news spread, great players from the area appeared one by one until the music was mighty indeed. Closing time came and went, and the songs and tunes continued ‘til dawn. For some reason I remember the publican quite well, a dignified older gentleman named Mr. O’Brien, who calmly orchestrated that amazing party. Given a month in Kilarney, I doubt I would ever find the spot again. It did not appear on any websites, and the pub guides and locals alike were silent on the topic.
As it turned out, the van I rented a few weeks ago for the trip was massive, and driving on narrow Irish roads, (on the left, I might add), was stressful. Kilarney was very busy when we arrived, and after dropping my passengers off, I drove around for a good half-hour looking for a place to park. Up and down narrow roads, one-way streets and driveways, it was a nightmare. Driving in the British Islands requires a lot of attention. You are always conscious that if you lose focus for a second, your instincts will take over and you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of the road. After another half hour of pain, I was thoroughly fed up and about to give up and go home, when I spied a tiny ‘P’ (for parking) sign fixed high up a wall on a street that paralleled the main drag. I scratched both mirrors getting down the invisible laneway, and then spent a good 20 minutes inching my way into a space. It was so tight that I had to climb out the passenger door. Only our old tour manager Tony, a man of legendary driving skills, could possibly appreciate the mental effort I had gone through, so I decided to take a picture of the lane and parking job to send him. While fooling about with camera, trying to get a decent angle to demonstrate that ridiculously small parking lot, I noticed a small sign on the door, which I had now completely blocked with my obnoxious car.
‘O’Brien’s Pub’. I was floored. What were the chances? Instantly I recognized the dusty window, the faded ‘Jameson’s’ sign... In spite of all odds, I had found myself back at that magical place. Instantly I went into a nostalgic reverie, recalling the pints, the conversations, the wonder songs, the incredible cast of characters, the mighty tunes I had experienced there. I abandoned all plans for the night, imagining with pleasure the delights that awaited me inside that secret door. Or might have, perhaps, if only Mr. O’Brien had seen fit to open for business that day.
These summer reveries can easily lead to a certain unrealistic outlook. Like Ireland, St. John’s has a way of suddenly bringing you back to earth, turning reality inside out, as if you had just found your glasses, and brought everything back into focus. A brief experience the other day brought this home to me very vividly.
St. John’s should be a busker’s paradise: lots of pedestrians, a healthy population of jolly drunks, and a universal appreciation for music of any kind. Alas, it is often not the case. On a recent stroll along Water St., I noted three classic examples. The first was one of our regulars, a guy who plays guitar and sings songs of all genres, strumming away outside in all weather. I usually give him a buck, even though despite his wide repertoire, he only knows one tune. When I passed the other day he was bawling out ‘Sweet Child of Mine’ by Guns and Roses, a tune rarely heard from buskers - particularly sung to a melody that sounded like a cross between ‘You’re Cheaten Heart’ and ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. A half a block later a rather deranged looking chap was playing accordion in a doorway. ‘Playing’ may be a bit generous - with great enthusiasm he was squeezing it in and out like a child, playing the same two notes over and over. The restaurateur next door was lurking in his own doorway, looking at the accordionist venomously. No doubt the novelty of those two notes had quickly worn off. I gave the player a buck too, but I felt like offering him a few lessons. The winner of this trio was a hundred feet away. A healthy looking youth, (by busker standards), he was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, banging away for all he was worth on an upside down Newfoundland salt beef bucket - the kind recycled locally for picking berries and whatnot. I stood and watched for a second - I actually thought it was some kind of Newfoundland satire. A passing tradesman, with whom I am loosely acquainted, smashed my reverie. Like me, he stopped and watched for a second, astonished at the racket. He bent over the kid, and stared at him for a second, as one might when happening upon some strange object on the sidewalk, and then shook his head vigorously.
“Jesus Christ, what the *** are you doing,” he roared at the hapless youngster. “That’s a fucking beef bucket for Christ’s sake.”
His tone was a bit sharp, but it was hard not to agree. I kept the last of my change for the meter.