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."