UKRAINE VERSUS VLAD THE IMPALER

Stefan Lutak was Ukrainian. He owned the Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Mark’s Place. Despite its name it was a beer-and-shot joint I stumbled into by chance after settling in the East Village.

The clientele was Ukrainian and didn’t care for strangers. A disapproving silence would attend my entry but after a while they got used to me. I liked the anonymity of the place and the prices.

Stefan told me he had played pro soccer in West Germany. Everyone had a story in the East Village of the 1970’s and I didn’t delve deeper.

One thing there was no doubt about – the local Ukrainians didn’t like Russians. They didn’t care for any empire, including Britain’s, and would occasionally congratulate me over some bombing in Belfast.

Much later on I played some gigs in the USSR, shortly before it collapsed, and witnessed first-hand the iron fist of that empire, so I celebrated with Ukrainian friends when their country gained independence.

Like most Americans I doubly celebrated the Ukrainian people’s resistance to Emperor Putin’s invading army over the last years; though the sheer scale of slaughter is staggering – over a million Russians and 400,000 Ukrainians dead or wounded.

The question remains, why doesn’t President Donald Trump share the same view? 

Doesn’t the man from Queens realize that if Putin does manage to subjugate Ukraine, he’ll then set about destabilizing Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, and perhaps even Finland, in his zeal to restore the Grand Imperial Russian Empire.

Doesn’t he understand that Ukrainians have changed the very nature of modern warfare by their use of drones. He should, for when he rained down bombs and rockets on the Houthis in Yemen, he was soon forced to declare victory and skedaddle for fear of some US billion-dollar battleship getting blown out of the water by a Dollar General Houthi drone.

Leaving aside such treasured American values as freedom and democracy, think of the economics, Mr. Trump. There is so much to be learned from the Ukrainians and the Houthis that could lead to a slashing of American defense budgets. Advanced drone technology allied with AI will rule in the coming years no matter what you, or Hegseth and your other sycophants think.

But then, do you ever think? Or is life one big TV reality show – to be trotted out in neat chunks of blowhard fantasy week after week?

You disrupt the world’s economic system by slapping ridiculously high tariffs on China without ever considering that Comrade Xi controls 90% of the global supply of rare earth elements that enable cars to run and arms to function. Duh!

Didn’t one of your cabinet minions point out that little fact? Nah, they were too busy telling you how wonderful you are.

So now it’s back to square one in the tariff-bluster negotiations, and the ever astute Xi Jinping has your number. Luckily, you got out of the casino business or he could have really taken you to the cleaners.

All this talk about bringing back manufacturing, coal mining or whatever to the US is just that – talk! What young person wants to work in a factory - or even an office - when they can sit at home in their parents’ basement coding on their laptops, or dreaming of becoming an influencer – or even president.

Of course, there are people who would gladly work in factories or fields. But there’s not much hope in recruiting the undocumented with masked ICE patrols prowling Home Depot   ready to ship them off to rest homes in El Salvador or Sudan.

Not even 6 months into round 2 of the Trump regime and already Gaza is rubble, the Marines are on the streets of Los Angeles, Tehran and Tel Aviv are burning, Trump Family Inc. is cleaning up, Brian Wilson is history, and God Only Knows what plans Bibi has in Iran for an ever compliant US of A.

Stefan Lutik is dead a long time. Just as well. I wouldn’t be able to explain to him how an American president feels more comfortable propping up Vlad Putin the Impaler than supporting the freedom loving people of Ukraine.

 

Time for another beer and a shot in the ongoing fantasy of making America great again.

SIN É - SHANE DOYLE!

I was on the Union Square subway platform when I heard the familiar notes cascading off in the distance. With the arrival or departure of a train they would choke into silence. But I knew those notes and the choice of chords that anchored them, and as I strolled closer I remembered hearing them for the first time in Sin É Café.

A young man was rehearsing on the makeshift stage, picking at what seemed like random chords on his guitar, worrying them into shape. He finally settled on a sequence that pleased him and began to sing, quietly, to himself.

I vaguely recognized the Leonard Cohen song that has since become an anthem. Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah is now a standard, and 35 years later the busker in the subway was copying it note for note; it sounded as ethereal as when I first heard Jeff work on it.

It says a lot for Sin É - and even more for Shane Doyle - that Jeff Buckley and so many other artists found their way inside Shane’s bare-bones emporium on St. Mark’s Place.

I’m not sure there was even a sign outside the premises when I first discovered it in 1989, but I did notice a mention in the window that “Tea & Irish Scones” were available inside. So, I took a look.

The proprietors, Shane and his angelically handsome partner, Karl Geary, gave me the once-over too. We got talking about scones and Ireland, the price of turnips and whatever else was au courant in those days. Conversation tended to flow like water in Sin É.

I was trying to cut back on drinking and began frequenting this then dry hole-in-the-wall. Soon thereafter I came upon Jeff Buckley working on Hallelujah. It turned out he was the son of Tim Buckley, legendary for his ethereal voice and heroin habit. Father and son met but once.

Jeff was hard to ignore for he was tall and drop-dead handsome. Proprietor Karl Geary was no less stunning. I guess that was the reason the clientele of Sin É often tended towards young lonesome ladies.

Karl eventually took to the stage himself and wrote some beautiful songs – he is now a well- regarded novelist.

I don’t think Shane Doyle ever thought much about his own looks but he had charm aplenty, though he could be diffident and would sometimes retreat behind the counter to brew coffee and, no doubt, gather his thoughts.

 

He was not one of those in-your-face proprietors but when he turned his full attention to you he was very charismatic. 

He rarely spoke about himself, though I gathered that he came from a working class Dublin background. He was very curious about the world around him, and in particular of the show-biz and entertainment life.

His real genius, though, was that he appreciated musicians of all sorts, and in particular anyone who had made any kind of breakthrough in the artistic world.

He did not ask for auditions or audition tapes, instead he encouraged aspiring artists to just get up on stage and give their best. Those who showed any promise were added to a roster of hundreds.

Those who didn’t were treated equally well - given a cup of tea and a genuine thank you. In Shane’s recent New York Times obituary the names of the famous who gathered there: Sinéad, Bono, et al were trumpeted, but in truth everyone was welcome.

Black 47 even played a benefit for the legal defense fund of our friend Sean Mackin and nearly blew down the walls of this small space. All fine with Shane. He always appreciated a full house.

He had a sharp brain, unerring instincts for hospitality and publicity, and learned quickly how to work the entertainment business. He recognized that the agent, manager, A&R person were vital to any artist, and he didn’t hesitate to pick up the phone and let his contacts know when an emerging talent was performing in his sitting room sized cantina.

Sin É didn’t last forever. Rents rose, the nabe gentrified, and Shane moved on, a restless Dub forever seeking his particular grail.

But I still treasure that moment I heard Jeff Buckley magically transform Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah into a worldwide anthem in a bare-bones room on St. Mark’s Place called Sin É. 

THE STOLEN KISS THAT NEVER FADES

 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 4am, 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 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 ‘70’s, Turner and I were invited to the Palladium by music insider Neil Stocker to see The Boomtown Rats on their first NYC appearance. The show was great, 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 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 sated 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!

FROM HERBERT HOOVER TO DONALD TRUMP - TARIFF MASTERS

The word on the street in Queens was, “Donny couldn’t organize a two car funeral.”

Anyone could be forgiven one bankruptcy, but six was stretching a point. The guy couldn’t even turn a buck on his casinos.

And now he’s gambling that universal tariffs will bring the world to its knees. He may well be right – but at what cost?

Herbert Hoover was the last president to play the great tariff game. He too was hoping to protect and encourage American industries, but instead he turned a recession into a raging depression.

President Trump had no recession to grapple with. Less than 4 months ago he was handed a first class economy by President Biden.

Now, I’m no ageist, but why have we elected the two oldest American presidents?

Mr. Biden’s family and advisers had for long obscured his age issues, before all was sadly revealed in the presidential debate.

This led to the reign of an even older President Trump whose cock-and-bull ideas are matched only by his megalomania.

Did you catch any of a recent televised cabinet meeting? It would have put Mussolini to shame.

There sat The Donald, head nodding in sated appreciation, while cabinet members took turns eulogizing his “awesome first-100 days.” 

The only irony is that most of these sycophants will receive their pink slips in the course of this administration. Loyalty flows but one way for the man from Queens.

Not one speaker had the courage - or common sense - to question Mr. Trump’s inane belief that tariffs can eventually replace income tax in funding the US Government.

But given that the Trump cabinet is stocked with doting sheep, are we lost?

Far from it, megalomania to the rescue! Mr. Trump does not believe in taking any blame for his actions. See how quickly he folded when stocks, bonds and the almighty dollar shuddered on “Liberation Day.” A 90-day postponement of excessive tariffs was hastily called, and now it looks as though the EU will be forgiven their tariff negotiation transgressions.

And so the farce will continue, two steps forward, one step back like a drunken bridegroom adrift on the dance floor.

We, however, will be left to pick up the pieces. The trust destroyed by our president’s embarrassing behavior to friends and neighbors will not return automatically. Global economic slowdowns leave all sorts of scars.

Meanwhile, Canadians are boycotting US goods and forsaking their annual winter sojourns in the Sun Belt. Europeans too are steering clear of us – including the Irish. Soho boutiques, once awash with fashionable Chinese are feeling the pinch, and who’d want to be a foreign student, now that the Ugly American has been unleashed and is on the prowl for any hint of college dissent?

Stephen Miller’s “flooding the zone” strategy - government by executive order, attack dogs unleashed at all manner of “radical liberal” threats - is working for now. 

But judges are challenging many of these directives, and a constitutional crisis is on the way. 

Eventually the Supreme Court will have to choose between loyalty to Trump or the constitution.

It seemed for a moment that colleges and white shoe law firms were buckling under the bullyboy pressure, but Harvard and more principled lawyers have drawn lines in the sand against a presidency that Donald Trump has transformed into a weapon of grievance and revenge.

Americans will soon have to decide if due process is a bedrock of our constitutional democracy or are we willing to sacrifice it at the whim of a convicted felon?

One figure should not be forgotten - the national debt of over $36 Trillion. Most of the Trump Tax Cuts of 2017 are now up for renewal. The president is also proposing new fiscal enhancements, including no tax on tips. 

Over 10 years these gifts could cost $4.5 Trillion, less a hoped for $1.5 Trillion in cuts to current expenditures. The balance could add $3 Trillion to the National Debt.

A frightening thought, especially if interest rates should rise to counter expected inflation. What happened to the legion of principled Republican deficit hawks? Did Donald clip their scolding wings?

But ultimately President Trump’s fate may depend on more prosaic figures, like the price of eggs, gas or the cost of a new car, as the 2026 midterms loom closer.

In the meantime, keep your tattoos covered. You too might qualify for an extended vacation down in the Trump Due Process Hostel in sunny El Salvador. 

LACE CURTAIN VERSUS SHANTY AT THE AMERICAN IRISH HISTORICAL SOCIETY

The divide between lace curtain and shanty had pretty much disappeared by the time I hit New York in the 1970’s. That being said, the clientele of the original Irish Pavilion on 57^th Street bore little resemblance to those of us who frequented the many Blarney Stones that dotted the city.

Free love, dime bags, and the general couldn’t-give-a-damn attitudes of the 1960’s had swept away many social barriers. Guys like me who dwelt in lowly tenements on the Lower East Side were welcomed to such temples of culture as the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick up on toney Fifth Avenue. But never once did I think of approaching the lace curtain fortress of the American Irish  Historical Society across the avenue from the Met.

There was an air of “keep your distance” about this gilded age mansion. I occasionally wondered about it, for I was interested in Irish-American history, but like most others I gave this forbidding, and seemingly forbidden, ivory tower a pass.

Then some years back Brian McCabe became Chairman of the AIHS Executive Council and Sophie Colgan assumed management of events. These two dynamic New Yorkers took over the day-to-day administration of the building and threw the doors wide open. It was a new beginning and many of us organized or took part in events. It was then I came to appreciate the beauty and stateliness of the mansion.

But I was never able to discover how many valuable original documents are contained within the hallowed walls of 991 Fifth Avenue, though I did hear rumors of a vast collection of rare books among the “10,000 or so” volumes in the building. The AIHS has never been known for its specificity.

Despite their trojan work Brian and Sophie were eventually dismissed and in 2021 the building was put on sale for $52 million along with a proposal to transfer the archives to Cooperstown. Perhaps room for Irish-America’s heritage had been found within the Baseball Hall of Fame?

A general uproar ensued, the sale price was reduced, and eventually the building was taken off the market.

In 2022 New York Attorney General, Letita James intervened, and in 2023 a “permanent” board of directors was appointed, along with a new executive director, Dr. Elizabeth Stack.

Hallelujah! I knew Elizabeth from her sterling work as Executive Director of the Irish American Heritage Museum in Albany. She had transformed that organization and was a popular cultural figure throughout the Capital Region.

The AIHS appeared to be in safe hands and Elizabeth set to her task of reopening 991 Fifth Avenue with her customary transparency and vivacity. The Irish Rep resumed their wonderful immersive Yuletide production of James Joyce’s The Dead, many readings, lectures and exhibitions were held, and though cash flow – the bane of most non-profit establishments – was a problem, there was a general air of optimism about the future of the AIHS. What could go wrong?

Oh, something as simple as another dismissal notice, this time of Dr. Stack, along with the resignation of a sizeable portion of the “permanent” board. Then, to add a little farce - a Dickensian changing of locks. Talk about Bleak House!

So where do we stand? As ever with the opaque AIHS, who knows? There is talk of a lawsuit over an unpaid $3 million loan, and the necessity of selling the building so that the organization might be salvaged.

To my mind that would go against the spirit of Irish-America. With hard work, miracles can happen. Remember back in 2008 the rescue of St. Brigid’s Church on Avenue B from the wrecking ball?  That too seemed impossible until a sainted anonymous donor provided $20 million. 

Regardless, the road to recovery should begin with the immediate reinstatement of Dr. Stack. All who have met her – except, apparently, some “permanent” board members – have been impressed by her hard work, and devotion to the organization and the building. 

But if, in the end, the mansion must be sold, then so be it. Another building can be leased, or even bought, in a less pricey area of the city where the digitized archives, library, paintings and other treasures can be opened to the public.

Perhaps then the AIHS can finally fulfill its original mission, “to place permanently on record the story of the Irish in America” - be they shanty or lace curtain.

CELTIC CRUSH 20TH ANNIVERSARY ON SIRIUSXM RADIO

About twenty years ago, I happened to be in the right place at the right time. I was visiting the Sirius Satellite Radio headquarters for an interview with Meg Griffin, head of the Disorder Channel. I was promoting a memoir, Green Suede Shoes, and the release of an associated Black 47 CD, Elvis Murphy’s Green Suede Shoes.

Meg and I were friends from the downtown Punk days, and after the interview we were laughing and bantering in the corridor of the 36^th Floor as a top executive, Steve Blatter, strode by. 

We exchanged a few words and, noticing my accent, Steve called Meg to one side; she soon returned inquiring, “Would you be interested in hosting a weekly Celtic show?”

I’d always loved radio and I had done countless interviews with Black 47 - it seemed like a gig made in heaven.

Meg mentioned that the Sirius Celtic collection was pretty scant, so a couple of days later I showed up with a backpack full of CDs and a list of songs for a 3-hour show. I decided to adapt the old  WNEW-FM system: play 3 songs and then talk about whatever came to mind. 

I called the show Celtic Crush, as I would be mixing songs and styles from across the Celtic world, while hopefully adding a seasoning of the radio romance that had swept me away as a boy.

Meg taught me how to use the controls, and gave me hints on how to balance a show, like “keep to the point,” but let inspiration guide me.

I had been influenced by many hosts from the golden days of FM radio, but three in particular: Vin Scelsa, Alison Steele and Meg herself. All three were masters of improv.

Black 47 was an improv band – we never did the same set twice, we just lived in the moment and trusted in the ongoing dynamic between band and audience. 20 years later I still use that sixth sense of communication to propel each Celtic Crush show.

I begin each show with a 5-minute intro that usually sets the tone of the show. I rarely play a song from the previous week, and I always add new songs, so that the show is always fresh to me, and hopefully to the audience.

Celtic Crush is about songs, not artists, and I encourage musicians submitting material to be daring with their choices. Because I’ve been on the road for most of my life, I tend to know or have first-hand knowledge of many artists. But I don’t deal in gossip, only their musical history as I understand it.

The idea is to find and nurture “future classics.” These can be recordings from as far back as 100 years. In last year’s listener’s Top 100 poll, Sean Ó’Riada’s mystical live version of Aisling Gheal from 1971 was voted #3, and Celtic Crush has been the first in the US to play such current popular favorites as Lankum, Kneecap, Fontaines DC, Jiggy, The Mary Wallopers, and so many more.

Instead of just looking back to the original 8 Celtic nations I’m as interested in the diaspora from each and how new lands have influenced immigrant music. 

As for my commentaries I delve into history, politics, literature, theatre and memory. One of the touchstones of being a SiriusXM host is that your show may be heard in any part of the US or Canada, so you must speak to audiences way beyond your own locality.

I have my own political views and they include being a small “r” and “d” republican and democrat, so I speak my mind in these troublesome authoritarian times, while trying not to do so in an abrasive manner. 

The last message each week is to encourage listeners to reach out to one person in his/her circle and help put a dent in the epidemic of loneliness that afflicts modern life.

After 20 years, Celtic Crush is still a joy to host and produce, and no matter what mood I’m in before I record, I invariably feel uplifted after. What more can one ask for? Ah yes, the ongoing magic of radio!

 

SiriusXM is the largest audio entertainment company in North America and has approximately 34 million subscribers in the US and Canada. It is subscription based and is available through satellite or online. It offers over 200 channels, including commercial-free music, sports, news, talk, and entertainment. To sign up for SiriusXM, or for a free trial option, visit www.siriusxm.com or call1-866-635-2349.

DAVID JOHANSEN, JACK O'LEARY, JOE STRUMMER & ALL MY INFLUENCERS!

 There are a number of building blocks in any reasonably successful rock ‘n’ roll band. First of course, are the musicians themselves, followed closely by a loyal tech crew. Add a dogged and dedicated agent and you’re off to the races.

Some swear by a good manager, but if you haven’t learned how to manage yourself after a couple of years, then you haven’t been looking or listening – besides adding a manager’s 15% off the top to an agent’s 10%, means you’ll take very little home. Forget about hiring a PR person, just favor a united Ireland and oppose an American war and you’ll get all the publicity you need.

That being said, you’re going nowhere unless you have a loyal fanbase led by superfans. 10 years after Black 47 disbanded I can still summon up the faces in the first two rows in most American cities. Many still stay in touch.

But there’s another, somewhat more exalted breed, that really made a difference, I called them influencers, long before every Tom, Dick and Harry debased the title. I lost some of mine recently.

I first met Jack O’Leary when I was 18 and playing a pub in Wexford. I was singing “Donna, Donna,” a little-known ballad; no one was listening - except Jack. During a break he complimented my taste, and stated that “Donna, Donna” was an old Jewish folk song. 

From that moment on we were linked. Jack seemed to know every song that had any bit of soul or history to it, and was determined to pass on his knowledge.

He worked on the Rosslare/Fishguard ferries, and on his time off attended most of my gigs.

I can still picture him roaming around pubs, resplendent in a well-cut grey suit, pint in hand, swaying to the music, and encouraging me to try new songs, especially my own.

He was an excellent singer of sea-chanteys and could have gained a PhD in the semi-mystical songs of the merchant-marine songwriter, Cyril Tawney.

He came to London when Black 47 opened for The Pogues at their remarkable Christmas show in 1990. There I introduced him to Joe Strummer. Backstage they talked non-stop, head to head at the bar. When Jack finally took a toilet break, Joe turned to me and said, “Where did you find him, guy knows more about music than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Like many other commercial sailors Jack had little time for religion, still I fancy I can see him, pint in hand, wheedling his way into heaven by entertaining St. Peter with a lusty version of Tawney’s “Five Foot Flirt.”

Joe himself died way too young; although he was recognized as the Prince of Punk, he had an inexhaustible knowledge of popular music. For about 6 months he came to every Black 47 gig in Paddy Reilly’s. It was a rare night we didn’t introduce a new song, and Joe took delight in mentioning its “obvious” influences. Even when I’d tell him none of us ever heard of such arcane writers, he’d say, “Makes no difference, man, music is universal and we’re all linked.” He always had a friendly suggestion for how we could make a song better. But just knowing Joe was listening made you better anyway. 

He never mentioned The Clash but he often spoke about Thomas Moore’s Minstrel Boy, and how someday he hoped to improve on Paul Robeson’s magisterial interpretation; he eventually did in the soundtrack for Black Hawk Down.

David Johansen’s mother was a Cullen from Staten Island. I noticed him on the streets of the East Village not long after I arrived in the US. Handsome, rakish and convivial, he had been vocalist for The New York Dolls and became big daddy to many New York musicians. He used to drink in Tramps, Terry Dunne’s bar on 15^thStreet. ‘Twas there he developed his alter-ego, Buster Poindexter. 

He guested on the Black 47 track, Staten Island Baby. Talk about a pro, he made that song his own. As he left the studio, veteran producer/engineer Stewart Lerman murmured, “I learned more in the last 2 hours from Dave than I did in the past 20 years.”

I miss my influencers – they gave so much of themselves and asked for so little in return.