Who’re yer influences…?

Please allow me to share a few words not related to the shakuhachi…

Like any musician, I’ve talked a lot about who my influences were over the years. It would be impossible for me to talk about my childhood without mentioning The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, The Everly Brothers, and The Chieftains. Those records were in our somewhat meager record collection for as long as I can remember. The first record I remember spending my own money on was Red Roses for Me by The Pogues.

I first heard The Pogues late one night at Free Mars, a song coming out of a tape deck owned by one of the kids in my school everyone wanted to either be, or be like. I think he had taped a late night radio show off of KCMU (now KEXP) and was re-listening while he washed dishes. Every other sound in that noisy cafe went away and it felt like I was hearing something call my name for the first time, but not butchered like it was on the first day of school year after year.

The Pogues were the first time I remember feeling there was music I wanted to play. The Pogues were the reason I bought a tin whistle. The Pogues’ records weren’t something I inherited. The Pogues were mine.

There was lunatic humor, aching beauty, furious anger, black sadness. Complex and befuddling melody, and raw, crackling energy. Shane MacGowan looked like the punchline to so a train wreck walks into a bar… The first time I listened through the record I heard the how he sang and it hit me like a punch to the gut; the second time through the what hit me squarely on the chin and sent me to the canvas.

Shane MacGowan was equal parts London Punk and Traditional Irish, and genuine in his expression of both. There is only a thin, gossamer line that separates punk rock from trad music, IMHO. The Pogues weren’t an “Irish Punk Band.” They transcended the concept of both idioms. What they created was singular, and thus I could never stand bands that came after; Dropkick Murphys, Flogging Molly, and every other permutation of kilted screamers all sounded like they got the how and missed the what.

With their second album Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash, they added real trad bonafides in Terry Woods. The album also featured a solo from uilleann piper Tommy Keane. Terry led me to Sweeney’s Men which led me to Planxty. I managed to find a cassette tape of Tommy Keane’s The Piper’s Apron at our local Irish import store. This was the crest of a wave of trad records that inundated me over the next decade.

The one solitary time I was able to see The Pogues live, they did not disappoint in the least. Philip Chevron had sadly passed away by that point, but Shane was still unbelievably vital. I was struck by two things: The band was amazing; and Shane, though consistently behind the beat (which somehow never flummoxed everyone else on stage), never dropped a lyric.

Years ago I read an interview with Jack Black where he talked about how he hated telling his friends they should come see his band Tenacious D. Something to the effect of, by inviting someone to a show, you’re telling them they’ll enjoy it even though you have no idea if that’s true or not. You’re not likely to get far as a musician if you don’t tell anyone you’re playing, so you get used to the idea of disappointing your friends. In the 35 years I’ve been playing live music, there has been only one instance where I felt comfortable saying you really should come see this show. Those were the annual St. Patrick’s Day (and in the very good years, Christmas) concerts with K.M.R.I.A., a tribute to the Pogues.

L to R: Ezra, Jesse, me, Scott, Chris, Jenny, Derek, Casey

Jenny, me, Ezra, Scott, Casey, Chris (obscured, Jesse and Derek)

K.M.R.I.A.—a lyric from Transmetropolitan and an acronym for Kiss My Royal Irish Arse—was Derek Brown on drums, Jesse Emerson on bass; Jenny Conlee-Drizos on accordion, keys, and vocals, and Chris Funk on banjo and bouzouki; Casey Neill, Ezra Holbrook, Scott McCaughey (guitars and vocals), and myself on vocals and whistle were on Shane duty. It took four of us. We were Trad Shane, Drunk Shane, Sensitive Shane, and Angry Shane at various times or all at the same time. For as deeply as I loved The Pogues, I somehow hadn’t been aware of just how musically challenging their songs were until we tried to play them in earnest. I felt fearless inviting people to see us play because I knew they’d enjoy it almost as much as we did, and if they didn’t, for the first time ever, I didn’t care.

A friend of mine was playing at a session in a pub in Ireland. Quietly sitting at the bar was the man himself. Someone asked him for a song, and for the rest of the night, he sang traditional songs, one after the other. Not one of his innumerable classics came out, just trad songs. I never met Shane MacGowan, but this is my favorite story of someone who did. It goes to the heart of why I love Irish music, but even more why I loved Shane MacGowan. Traditional music seeped into so many of his lyrics, and while it never felt like it held him back, those roots were deep, well maintained.

It’s no secret that I have stepped away from Irish music. My friend Tony said the other night would it be safe to say you feel like you hit a brick wall? I told him it would be more accurate to say I hit that brick wall over twenty years ago. I just hadn’t realized it. The world of traditional Irish music is one I don’t recognize anymore. It feels like the days of learning this music in the small hours in the kitchen after a night of listening to music are over—it’s now a world of Berklee, University of Limerick, and academia.

Shane MacGowan wasn’t my introduction to Irish music. That venerable/odious distinction has to go to The Chieftains. However, it’s not an overstatement to say Shane opened the door to me playing Irish music, to singing Irish music. As I’ve said before, I’m not prepared to say I’m done playing Irish music. But the passing of Shane MacGowan definitely feels like the final words of a chapter being written. Whether or not that chapter is the end of the story remains to be seen, but for now, I’d like to close the cover, at least for a while.

Rest in Peace.

More anon,
Hanz