About to flatline

The blog is gasping for breath; there's a gurgling in the throat; the eyes are rolling back in the head.

I've been quite busy, writing about music and such elsewhere on the Interweb, and as a result, this blog has suffered. I fully expect any one of these posts over the next few weeks to be my last. Such is life and the swirling shitstorm that is blogging.

In the meantime, here's some Spirea X: "A vehicle for the '60s pop-art visions of ex-Primal Scream member Jim Beattie, who was accompanied by Judith Boyle and Andrew Kerr. Two EPs appeared in early 1991: Chlorine Dream, which updated the sound of The Byrds for the shoegazing era, and Speed Reaction, a fiendishly catchy melding of harmonies and The Who. The trio's sole album, Fireblade Skies, followed in the autumn. Jim left 4AD shortly after, going on to make records as Adventures In Stereo."

Since I'm a upstanding man of letters, one who abides by all its many varied creeds, I will tell you this information was procured from the 4AD web site. Hear it for yourself. Download: "Chlorine Dream" by Spirea X. Get in on this good Scottish pop now. Before this entire dump flatlines and you're left with jack, hands fumbling as you navigate your mouse to the latest Hype Machine-like site for your daily mp3 fix.

A stream of Saxon gore

The Battle of Glenmalure took place in Ireland in 1580 during the Desmond Rebellions -- rebellions of the Earl of Desmond dynasty and their allies against the efforts of the Elizabethan English government to extend their control over the province of Munster. During the battle, an Irish Catholic force made up of the Gaelic clans from the Wicklow Mountains, led by Fiach MacHugh O'Byrne and James Eustace, defeated an English army under Arthur Grey, 14th Baron Grey de Wilton, at the O'Byrne's mountain stronghold of Glenmalure.

Around 800 English soldiers were killed, including Peter Carew, cousin of his namesake colonist who had made claims to, and won, large tracts of land in southern Ireland. The remainder of the English force retreated to lowland Wicklow and from there, to Dublin. However, the following year, when offered terms, most of the Irish rebels, including O'Byrne, came in and surrendered. The exception was Baltinglass, who fled for France.

"Follow Me Up To Carlow" is an Irish folk song celebrating the Irish victory. It's rather notable, as it's one of the most graphically violent of all Irish folk songs, containing lines such as, "From Tassagart to Clonmore/There flows a steam of Saxon gore," and, "Now for Black FitzWilliam's head/We'll send it over dripping red/To Queen Liza and her ladies."

Download: Follow Me Up To Carlow."

Supercuts

This is clearly a case where one of them "family trees" is need. You know, you frequently see them on ESPN.com when folks are discussing the plethora of coaches who toiled under the tutelage of 49ers legend Bill Walsh.

Because in the case of these 80s Scottish pop groups, it's rather difficult to keep track of who played with whom. Let's try and wade through it all, shall we? The BMX Bandits were formed around Duglas T. Stewart, a Bellshill native and onetime member of the Pretty Flowers. The rest of the band consisted of Sean Dickson, Jim McCulloch, Willie McArdle, and Billy Wood. Eventually, both McArdle and Dickson left the lineup, and were replaced by ex-Boy Hairdressers bassist Joe McAlinden and drummer Francis McDonald.

Dickson soon founded his own band, the Soup Dragons, and was later joined by McCulloch. Another Boy Hairdressers alum, Norman Blake, then joined the fray. But Blake's stay wasn't long either, as both he and McDonald hit the road to form Teenage Fanclub. Later exits included Gordon Keen and Eugene Kelly (on board for a short time following the dissolution of The Vaselines) leaving to create Captain America, and McAlinden bidding adieu to form Superstar.

Got all that? Didn't think so.

Hear it for yourself. Download: "Tidal Wave by The Boy Hairdressers.

Crap Rap 2

I have to wrap presents. Lots of them. Pretty paper, pretty ribbons, etc. Here is a song to get you into that fucking festive spirit, as you get all ticked off, tape stuck to your sausage-like fingers, cruddy scissors in need of a good sharpening, "hospital corners" not quite working out for you: "Holiday Hymn."

Quocunque Jeceris Stabit

Where is Speranza? No one knows for certain. Last scene bobbing like a cork in the Irish Sea, tossed from a Belfast ferry bound for Liverpool; he was a big man, checked in at 6-foot-5, and had fists like ham steaks. He didn't become chum, we know that much, because he would have fought the sea devils off.

Those who saw him last swore he wasn't in distress. They said he was doing the backstroke, a big smile on his ruddy face, his eyes pointed upwards. He was believed to be headed towards the Isle of Man. His wife said Speranza's long been fond of the Triskelion, for reasons unknown to her. He would laugh and point on the rare times he saw the blood-red flag, and quickly make a crude "third leg" joke.

At any rate, I can assure you our Harp pal would not be uploading any Irish-themed Christmas music today, which is why I plan on doing just that. Hopefully, he will be back in time to resume his rightful spot as the Interweb's most avowed and sober Irish music chronicler. Listen to: The Clancy Brothers' "Curoo Curoo," Bing Crosby's "Christmas In Killarney," and The Chieftains' "The Wexford Carol."

Play at your shindig

I've long considered "Tommy Bhetty's Waltz" to be a brilliant "end of things" song. You know, one of those tunes that would fit nicely at the end of a terrific film, or at the conclusion of a moving wedding. It's a haunting number, one that stays with you long after the final note, which is why it's such a perfect song of "finality."

I guess it's apt such a number is being discussed now, as yet another year draws to a close. In my cell of sobriety, I make another hash mark on the wall. There are six there now, scratched out in long, straight lines. I can't complain, really. I'm locked away from the saucy drunkards, but I do get the occasional conjugal visit. Though she is searched beforehand to ensure she's not sneaking in any bitter. Bah.

Here's Altan with the aforementioned "Tommy Bhetty's Waltz." It's a lovely version of the song that showcases Altan's exceptional talents. Play it this your New Year's Eve shindig, as the seconds slowly tick away on this year, and you relive all its significant and trivial moments in your head. And of course, raise a glass to the temperates, who are certainly with you in spirit. Yes, indeed: pun intended. Have a listen.

Yeah, what they said

They've been dubbed a slighty poorer version of Dog Faced Hermans, but I'm willing to let that slide, since I have a soft spot for any modern pop act trying to emulate that No Wave aesthetic. Besides, you have to show some iota of affection for a group that pens a song named, "Jesus Sends Hate Mail."

The group's name is Archbishop Kebab and of course, being as sonically anarchist as they were, information regarding them is scarce. What little we can tell you is that in-the-loop folks at Harvard are at least name-dropping them, all part of a cleverly titled "Universal Listening Assignment." Right . . . .

Hear it for yourself. Download: "Jesus Sends Hate Mail" by Archbishop Kebab. The band was once described as "a riotous punk post-raggle-taggle band of the just-post-punk and no-wave era." Yeah, what they said. Anyway, as always, when it comes to acts of the mighty obscure variety (and when the Interweb has so disappointingly let us down; bastards), any futher information is appreciated.

Let the music do the talkin'

Here's Natalie MacMaster with a lovely rendition of "Balmoral Highlanders." This track appeared on 1998's cleverly titled My Roots Are Showing. MacMaster, born and bred in breathtaking Nova Scotia, is one of the most famous musicians in the tradition of Cape Breton fiddle music. She's quite the looker, as well! And for just this once, I'll rightfully supress my Irish gift (curse?) for the gab and let the music do the talking.

Heaven's Reflex indeed

The shops on Main Street are closed up tight with iron shutters. The entranceways are waiting anxiously to be swept out. There are no sales racks with postcards and half-priced books and sun-faded clothing. The merchants have no coin.

I walk to Kenmare Place and sit on the stone wall, and study the old jarveys with their tattered sweaters and their pants worn in the bottoms. They are feeding and brushing their horses, preparing for a day of riding their jaunting cars down the bumpy paths of Killarney National Park.

Nearby, the statue of Christ the King studies me. He is looking quite dapper among the smell of horse manure and man sweat. Beyond Christ, lies the Killarney House Gardens: the beech, lime, and walnut trees standing tall and thick; the fading rhododendrons, roses and azaleas, which are bushed after blooming so heavily in the spring; the arched cherry drive where the ugly lovers walk together.

Killarney is quite the gorgeous girl. Take in all her charms -- the cramped lanes where you can smuggle a colleen and steal a kiss; the misty, afternoon rains washing away all sadness; MacGillycuddy's Reeks, masking their peril with beauty; the ancient buildings hunched over with palsy, struggling to breathe; the wet, surrounding woodlands and their gentle alder, willow, and birch -- peace is always there and you never mind the insects; the light winds that warn you of an impending, cold night; the Arbutus trees, with their saw-like leaves and red fruit, which you can plunk and toss; the feeling of having this good girl to lean on -- one that will certainly outlast me.

Here's Lunasa with "Killarney Boys Of Pleasure."

No ankle busters here

We headed to the Mull of Galloway on a big North Channel Swell to find a few cars with boards strapped on top, folk smiling like monkeys and half a foot of slop. Bonkers. But the legend lives on and I have heard it can be good. I swear I saw barrels at Balantrae.
Tom, Coylton

I'm a surfer who grew up in Lewis and have surfed there for 6 years now. I had to move away for work but miss the surf in Lewis. I've had some awsome surfs and seen some very heavy ones too. Once I saw a west coast reef break which was jacking up at 25-30 feet, looked magic, stuff Hawaii, Lewis rules!
Ronnie, Stornoway

St. Andrew's doesn't get much swell due to the wierd, tucked away location of both beaches. Also the swells that do come in are, more often than not, torn apart by the baltic onshores. West sands is an almost exclusively long board wave due to the super mellow (read: weak) way the wave breaks. East sands, though more finnicky, is the best bet on a short board. As for the balls out, suicide reef in between the two: I've never heard of it being ridden, probably because you have to thread a line between dry reef. It's possible though, so next time it's big and you find yourself in Fife, drop by east sands and we'll tempt our fates.
Ted, St. Andrews

Good break. You can park at the west end or the east end near the lifeguard hut. Seemed to pick up a similar amount of swell to Thurso East but in westerly swells is probably a bit bigger. Clean water!
Adam, Yarm

Nice looking beach, but fickle. Been there many times, yet to see it bigger than knee high. There is a rivermouth break 10 mins walk around the headland (south end of beach) but never surfed it. Does pick up way more swell than the beach though. Faces N/NW, so S/SE wind is offshore.
Iain, Balchrick

Hear it for yourself. Download: "Surf's Up" by The Beat Poets.

Garrett and Willie

So Garrett Barry . . . . What an amazing life this gentleman led. He was born in Inagh, County Clare, during Black 47. The famine robbed the lad of his sight (malnutrition and famine sickness), but it never robbed him of his spirit; as a child he took up the uilleann pipes and that's how he made his livelihood.

He remained a piper until his death in 1899 and although he passed away in the Ennistymon Poor House, he richened the lives of countless folk in West Clare with his music. In addition to the famous jig that bears his name, Barry is remembered in other tunes such as "Garrett Barry's Mazurka" and "Garrett Barry's Reel." He is also associated with the "I Buried My Wife And Danced On Top Of Her" (name a better song title than that one; I dares ya) and "The Humours of Glen."

Barry's legacy perpetuated thanks largely to a chap named Willie Clancy. He was a man of many talents -- whistle and flute player, singer, storyteller -- but his speciality was the uilleann Pipes. Barry's piping style was passed on to Clancy from his father, Gilbert. According to many, Barry is known and cherished today because of Clancy's determination to pass on his music.

Let's raise a pint to both Garrett and Willie. Here's Kevin Burke with "Garrett Barry's."

My elbow from my ass

I like sweet songs. Sweet songs like me back. Sometimes.

Rather tipsy on my recent flight to Ireland, this song came on while I had the ole iPod on shuffle. And it had me crying saccharine tears right there in seat 17G. Even with naughty words in the lyrics, the song manages to be sweeter than four cutesy girls with pink, frilly ribbons in their hair playing Candyland surrounded by Strawberry Shortcake paraphernalia. (Yes, I'm rather tipsy once again.)

I covered Camera Obscura not too long ago, but figured, what the hey, another look is certainly worth it. Especially since it's Friday and I'm certainly not up for a long-ass entry.

Hear it for yourself. Download: "Suspended From Class" by Camera Obscura. Not to be confused with them posers from California.

Down The Kingdom!

A Waterford girl once told me, "The only accents I can't understand are those of a Kerryman." That's probably a good thing, lass, because all the Kerryman would likely be talking about is his fecking football squad. Seventy-one Munster titles, 52 appearences in the All-Ireland final, 34 senior championships. Enough already!

Anyway, back in 2005, when the GAA released its best moments of Gaelic football and hurling in the television era, I was a tad upset to see Seamus Darby's goal was only at No. 3. For those who lack football acumen, Darby tallied a last-minute goal in the 1982 All-Ireland final, giving Offaly the victory and preventing hated Kerry from securing the much coveted five-in-a-row.

The top moment on the GAA's list? Well, that would be Michael Donnellan's solo run against Kildare in the '98 final. Donnellan's sprint down the Croke Park pitch set up a Sean Og de Paor point and helped lead Galway to its first football title in over three decades.

Getting back to that Waterford lass: Maybe it's best she doesn't participate in a discussion involving football. The Deise have never won shite!

Download: "The Arrival Of The Queen Of Sheba (In Galway Bay)" and "Barney From Killarney" by De Dannan.

All aboard the Paddy wagon

When I've been away for awhile, both physically and in spirit, I dust off a Paddy Reilly record and spin the old beauty on the victrola. There's just something about Paddy's voice that's so warm and reassuring, even when he's singinig about topics of the cheerless variety.

One of my favorite tunes by Mr. Reilly is his version of Johnny McEvoy's "Long Before Your Time." McEvoy once jokingly said, "It could have been different. I could have been an advertising man with button-down collar, sports coat, permanently creased terylene trousers, and a secure job. But I threw it all away to become a ballad singer with button-down collar, sports coat, permanently creased terylene trousers, and no job." Rather neat a man with such a sense of humor could produce a song so heart-wrenching.

Paddy's cover of it is just lovely, as he portrays the narrator to be both melancholy and composed; you can picture him telling his story, keeping himself together for his lovely daughter's sake, only to fall apart once his tale ends and his daughter has up and left the room.

Here is "Long Before Your Time."

A band that drives me hazy

Two tradeshows in two months, vacation looming, persuing other writing projects, The Hype Machine being an unruly bitch -- all of this has made the last few weeks a bit hectic and frustrating 'round these parts.

I'm cutting out of here shortly, so a long update is out of the question. And while you diehard Jock popsters (all five of you) curse me up and down for falling on the side of lazy this afternoon, take a listen to The Hazey Janes (the name comes from a Nick Drake song; and no, they sound nothing like him), for it will certainly brighten your dark moods. This Dundee outfit already has one well-received U.K. tour under its belt, not to mention an appearence at the annual SXSW festival.

The Hazey Janes' debut album, Hotel Radio, was recorded in Spain with producer Paco Loco, and features three-part harmonies, plenty of glossy pop hooks, and a unique blend of trad and country rock. Not to mention a rather deft brother-sister team of Matthew and Alice Marra.

Hear it for yourself. Download: "Don't Look Away" and "Moanin' Face" by The Hazey Janes.

How many Moore times

I wasn't all that prosperous back then. Lolling head and flickering tongue, sitting on my hands, freeing them only to grasp at pint glasses. When I finally started clawing my way back to everyday clarity, I found myself -- like anyone else partaking in a similar endeavor, I suppose -- looking for signs that my destination was indeed viable.

And that brings us to Prosperous in Prosperous: Christy Moore's first album and the town in County Kildare. Moore named his LP thus, on account of it being recorded in this tiny hamlet by producer Bill Leader. Years back, battling with the amber liquids, I spent a weekend of torment in a dirty hotel room in Prosperous, my only salve the album Prosperous. I was angry with Ireland at the time -- I may have even pissed in An Chanail Mhor -- but Moore's brilliance kept me in check.

So yes, I found a sign that weekend. I can be prosperous again. Sappy? Of course. But I can deal with being sappy now; I can deal with being a lot of things now.

I also just came to the realization that this post has been one big tease; I do indeed have Moore tracks to share, but they are not from Prosperous. Don't be cross with me. These are from Ride On: "Back Home In Derry" and "Among The Wicklow Hills."

Lloyd's of England

I've long been amused by the number of Scottish pop aficionados who bestow Jock status upon Lloyd Cole, all because the Buxton-born and Chapel-en-le-Frith-reared songwriter attended the University of Glasgow for a few semesters in the early 80s. Shit, Cole didn't even graduate from that institution.

If this cursed blog has taught us anything, it's that Scotland certainly does not suffer from a dearth of pop virtuosi -- yes, tin ear, there is life beyond Shirley Manson and Big Country! There's no need to claim an individual of clear English stock as one of the country's own. The whole thing slightly reeks of desperation; it even reminds me of when a certain professional sports franchise retired this star's number.

Anyway, this little endeavor does grant me the opportunity to post a track from Cole's (and The Commotions', too, of course; can't forget about them) landmark album, Rattlesnakes, which easily ranks among my all-time top 10. On that LP's closing tracks, Cole sang, "Are you ready to be?/Are you ready to bleed?/Are you ready to be heartbroken?"

Twenty-two years later, he finally got his response.

Hear it for yourself. Download: "Patience" by Lloyd Cole & The Commotions and "Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken by Camera Obscura.

Lots of maudlin mush

She was craving romance. Flickering candles, a poem read to her in Irish, a few dainty roses, a table tucked away in the corner of the restaurant, where we would push our seats really close together. My goodness, the kind of maudlin mush woman pine for and men frequently bumble up when trying to deliver.

I tried my damndest at delivering the goods, so much so that when the end of the evening rolled around, she was satisfied -- or at least, gave the appearence of being satisfied. And after 25 years of marital bliss (!), I've learned that definitely suffices. (Twenty years ago, of course, I thought differently.)

We retired to a small pub on the ocean, so she could have her nightcap. There was a small group of musicians heartily belting out song; she said I should request one. "Why not ask for 'Galway Bay?'" she suggested. "Since we are here and all." My, what a glorious idea! (I'm quite skilled in the art of flattery, I should let you know.) So up I went, my suggestion at the ready. The ole boys agreed and a few sips of her red wine later, "Galway Bay" commenced.

Only it wasn't the version she was expecting. I'm quite the devil. "Just to watch the suds roll down by Galway Bay!" Here's The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem doing their own version of "Galway Bay."

No mobile phones, no BK

I've long been drawn to the character that is King Creosote (nee Kenny Anderson).

He has a rather unique approach to his craft (songs more important than style; performance over recording quality), and is wildly ambitious (he's at over two dozen albums now and counting). He extends a big middle finger to fame: "I don’t want to be cool," he said in this interview. "I hate that winning thing -– people that enjoy winning, that’s just a total farce, isn’t it?" He enjoys the relative isolation that comes with living in Fife: "Mobile phones don’t work there," he said, "and there are no chain shops, no Burger King or Costa Coffee -- it’s great!" And, possibly most important of all, he hates the idiot box.

Anderson is known for his involvement with the Fence Collective, a group of folk artists affiliated with Fife's Fence Records and headquartered in the seacoast town of Anstruther. That collective included The Beta Band, though more typically, features those artists of the obscure variety such as James Yorkston and Lone Pigeon.

Hear it for yourself. Download: "So Forlorn" and "My Favourite Girl In All The World" by King Creosote. Both songs beautifully capture Anderson's knack for poetic, lo-fi, quirky folk music.

Let good pop smother you

If it feels like I keep coming back to Egg Records, it's because, well, I do. The tiny, Glasgow record label has given pop fans quite a few glittering gems -- both during its short, three-year run from 1988 to 1991 and today, as part of its restoration program.

The Hardy Boys, who hail from Greenock, are one of a handful of acts getting the re-issue treatment. According to the band's rather terse biography on Egg's web site, the mainstays of The Hardy Boys' lineup were two lads named Johnny White and Mike. The group did some gigs around the UK and once recorded at Shabby Road Studios in Kilmarnock, the former recording haunt -- and living quarters -- for Trashcan Sinatras.

The Hardy Boys had just four official releases: 1987's "Wonderful Lie," a four-song EP on Stella Five Records; the track "15" on a cassette compilation known as Red Roses For Me (a comp I've unearthed nothing about, though I have managed to track down the song itself); a 2004 "Wonderful Lie" re-release on Japan's Excellent Records; and 2005's "Let The World Smother You," which was initially set to be an EP on Egg in '91, but the label going belly-up prevented this from happening.

Hear it for yourself. Download: "Let The World Smother You" by The Hardy Boys.