Drumshanbo, Co. Leitrim 21st September 2007
Reviewed by Olivia Mullooly

The Mayflower Ballroom in Drumshanbo, Co. Leitrim isn’t exactly Vicar Street, but once the gig of the 21st September started, it wouldn’t have mattered if it was in the garden shed or Carnegie Hall – Christy has a talent, charisma and back up team that make each gig spot on and memorable. Declan is deserving of a special mention as always, he complements Christy perfectly and I love to watch him play.

The ballroom was well primed and ready for the off when the fans started to arrive. A young girl was sitting beside me with her father, and her awed air of expectation was more energising than the excited babble emanating from around the hall…..Oh God, says I, tonight’s the night………and shortly after 8pm, Christy and Declan were warmly greeted back to the Mayflower, having played there two years previously.

The gig opened with Wise and Holy Woman, and the audience extended an enormous welcome to Christy and Declan. The hall was filled with people of all ages, but, like the young girl, we were all young at heart!!
Christy admitted to being a little nervous as it was his “first gig back”. I think September for many feels like the natural beginning of a working year, the old school days calendar is ingrained in us and after summer holidays, it can feel like a fresh start. Christy noted he hadn’t played a gig in six weeks, but reassured us that the reception in the ballroom had rendered the comeback like “getting a goal in the first three minutes!” And a good game it was too!

He settled into This is the Day, followed by City of Chicago, which heralded the beginning of the soft sing-along in the audience. Natives followed which created a quiet, reflective atmosphere in the hall.
We listened with interest as he introduced Reel in the Flickering Light, which travelled back to Ireland with him from Los Angeles. We were a model crowd and nobody clapped during the song for which thou shalt not clap! And we didn’t have to be told either!! The song was delivered with exceptional timing, clarity and comic expression, clearly a song Christy loves to sing. Another introduction followed, this time for Matty. A tale of a lonely man meeting his “dark familiar”, for want of not meeting any other, was received with a mix of giggles and sad reflection, and the song was met with some soft singing in the audience. Quiet Desperation attracted some more singers and Joxer was enthusiastically received, with no need for a request! Then Christy paused to acknowledge his “long haul listeners” i.e. myself from Co. Roscommon, who had taken the effort to travel the 25 miles, and Nicolien from The Netherlands who, to be fair, had travelled a bit further than that! Nicolien’s request for Little Musgrave was granted.

Little Musgrave’s present incarnation is faster than the rendition on the Planxty 2004 album, I think I prefer it sung at a slower pace, but maybe its just what I’ve become used to. Missing You got the crowd singing again and the juke box called for the Lakes of Pontchartrain which was sung by all. North and South was followed by a song in tribute to John Reilly – Go Move Shift – and the atmosphere as Christy explained John’s craft led him to sing The Well below the Valley with no accompaniment, except the audience as we recalled the centuries of tradition that emanated from a man who carried a treasure trove of song, preserved by Tom Munnelly, who has since also passed on to his eternal reward. It is amazing what a few people can leave behind. It takes a lifetime to accumulate such a repertoire of song and a mere second to extinguish it, unless it is preserved definitively and indefinitely. Unfortunately, these ancient songs are carried by fewer people as time passes, or maybe their voices are just harder to hear in today’s world. Christy has given an outlet to these songs, acknowledging the contribution singers and collectors have made to folk music. As long as the songs continue to be sung, they will journey on. They existed long before our generation did; I hope they still remain when we are gone.
The gig continued with Christy passing the reins to Declan. We were informed that he had decided to sing this song at the gig during the sound check, and had learned whatever words he had forgotten in the interim, but nothing fell apart in his performance it was really beautiful. I don’t have the name of the song unfortunately, only that it was once a hit for Billy Furey.
The show went on with Viva la Quince Brigada and Ride On, and staying with Ride On- the album, McIlhatton was waked yet again in Bobby Sands’ classic lament for the loss of the poitin distiller from Glenravels Glen. As A Pair of Brown Eyes ended, there was a cry for Delirium Tremens which resulted in some interesting hallucinations. Bishop Casey was taking Viagra while Gerry Adams sang The Sash Me Father Wore, as Christy tried to cajole the crowd into joining in on a verse!
In the spirit of the host county Leitrim, Ballinamore was rendered and received with good humour. Black is the Colour was followed by the penultimate song of the night, One Last Cold Kiss. The night ended with Don’t Forget Your Shovel amid roars of appreciation and applause as the crowd urged an encore, which resulted in Ordinary Man, and a special dedication to Rita and Maureen from Tennessee in the form of Nancy Spain, which we all helped to sing.
Christy expressed his admiration for the singing emanating from the audience, which, unknown to him at the time, was being helped along by the Grehan Sisters, who were an important part of his musical experience in his younger days.
The people filtered out satisfied and already awaiting his return. It was a wonderful and memorable night of wise and enchanting women, eternal love, poitin and porter, heroes and labourers, emigrants and victims of prejudice, indifference, loneliness, war and hatred, lightened by some drunken hallucinations and a reel in the flickering light. And that was just the front row!! :o) I hope to make a Dublin gig and 4711er rendezvous someday. Maybe next year, all going well. There’s another place I’ve got to be………greetings from Australia.
1. Wise and Holy Woman (aka Yellow Furze Woman)
2. This is the day
3. City of Chicago
4. Natives.
5. Reel in Flickering Light
6. Matty
7. Quiet Desperation
8. Little Musgrave
9. Missing
10. Pontchartrain
11. North and South
12. Go Move shift
13. Well below the Valley.
14. I Will (Declan sings Billy Fury)
15. Quinte Brigada
16. Ride On
17. McIlhatton
18. Brown Eyes
19. Delerium Tremens
20. Ballinamore.
21. Black is the colour
22. One Last cold kiss
23. Shovel.
24 Ordinary man.
25. Nancy Spain

This review and set list was compiled by Olivia Mullooly who attended The Mayflower Ballroom, Drumshambo, Co.Leitrim shortly before heading off to New South Wales from where she sent us the above. We wish her well in her travels.

Reviewed by Doug Lang

Conscience? It is our shared knowing. Those who feel it and honour
its presence have nowhere to hide, and live in such a way that they
needn’t hide.

Choosing to do Artists Of Conscience (which airs this Sunday,
October 28th on CFRO 102.7 fm from 5:30 to 9:00 pm Pacific
and is webcast at www.coopradio.org ) has been a good thing.
It has sent me exploring many recordings and books which I had
not listened to or read in a while. It also compelled me to think
about what conscience means in art. That shared knowing that
joins us. Beyond the commentaries, the bloodstream.

For the purposes of this radio show, when I speak of artists, I am
speaking of songwriters, singers, those who tell a story still. Many
of you are aware that the music business is, as we knew it, dead.
Long live the music! The music business has consumed itself. The
way of life now is to the gypsy, selling cds at the end of shows,
face to face. There you find the artists who are making stories,
keeping memory, those who know that the experience is more
than one song at a time.

It’s not with the $0.99 per song crowd, travelling with 10,000
tunes inside a chip without liner notes, without a single tactile
experience, without any contact whatsoever, i-pod in one hand
and cell phone in the other. No community inside that wheel.
It’s with the gypsies now, the travellers, that’s where the music —
what’s left of it — survives and thrives. They’ve been giving it away
for a hundred years. They’re still giving it away.

Artists of conscience have formed a tribe of hearts, whether they
know it or not. Theirs is a city not found on any map, a portable
community, a moveable feast that is served in small houses the
world over whenever the song comes first. That song says grace,
and our souls are fed. As the music business vanishes into a world
of big-event corporate enterprise, this portable city grows, its people
finding neighbourhood across oceans, face to face and by communique,
via singers without delusions, whose purpose grows clearer, stronger.
There is a bandana that floats across the face of the moon.
I’m thinking now of a living room in Lebanon, Tennessee, where
two people open their home to a music gathering once a month.
There are many living rooms like theirs, a revolution of sorts,
though the by-laws are coming to challenge it. I’m thinking of
Gillian Welch and David Rawlings singing to 50 people in the old
Starfish Room, singing songs just written that sounded 100 years
old, so intimate we almost forgot to applaud. Those rooms, they
are disappearing, reappearing. Have you found one in your town?
Bring your own candle.

I’m thinking of Karine Polwart giving a concert in Walkerburn in
the Scottish Borders, before a hundred people in the Village Hall,
a homecoming concert as it was then. And, after the show, almost
the entire audience lined up patiently to purchase a copy of Karine’s
cd. She’d sign it, handle the monetary exchange herself, graciously
taking time to receive compliments and engage in communication
with each individual. I’m remembering how subtly she’d comment
on the human condition and political landscape, letting the spell
of the song carry the seed of her activism.

I’m thinking of Will Geer in Topanga Canyon long ago, when he
was still experiencing the financial doom of the blacklist. Will Geer,
a man who booked appearances for Woody Guthrie during the
McCarthy witch hunts, a man who loved his country but not his
government’s policies. Some recall him as Grandpa Walton now,
forgetting the pioneer he was, the storyteller, the worker. I do
not forget.

Below is a list — and I’ve already whittled it down — of the artists
I’ll be choosing songs from for tomorrow’s show. It is by no means
a complete list, but it names the artists I have music by. Some will
reach the air, and some won’t, but all are members of the tribe
of hearts, the portable community, the gypsy spirit which keeps
our lamps trimmed and burning. They have things to tell us. For
a few hours tomorrow evening, my radio show will be their living
room. Bring your own chair…or cozy up on the carpet.

Woody Guthrie
Pete Seeger
Dick Gaughan
Hazel Dickens
Neil Young
Victor Jara
Joan Baez
Buffy Sainte-Marie
Phil Ochs
Joni Mitchell
Christy Moore
Kris Kristofferson
Sweet Honey In The Rock
Si Kahn
Janis Ian
Utah Phillips
Leonard Cohen
Jackson Browne
Steve Earle
Bruce Cockburn
Emmylou Harris
Billy Bragg
Mimi Farina
Amer Tawfiq
Jim Page
Chuck Brodsky
Arlo Guthrie
John Prine
Ry Cooder
Mavis Staples
Karine Polwart
Youssou N’Dour
Nina Simone
Martyn Joseph
Hugh Masekela
Miriam Makeba
Roy Bailey
Bob Dylan
John Mellencamp
Buddy Miller
John Lennon
Charlie Haden
Abbey Lincoln
Max Roach
Harry Belafonte
Iris DeMent
Andrea Zonn
Susan Werner
Ani Difranco
Solomon Burke
Michael Franti
Stevie Wonder
Bob Marley
John McCutcheon
Tom Pacheco
John Flynn
Linda Thompson
Bonnie Raitt
Egbert Meyers
Jonmark Stone
Keb Mo
Laura Nyro
Tom Paxton
Eliza Gilkyson
Butch Hancock
Sam Baker
Vernon Oxford
Mary Chapin Carpenter
David Francey
Darrell Scott
Bobby Darin
Bill Withers
J B Lenoir
Liam Clancy
John Trudell
Otis Taylor
Eric Bogle
Cris Williamson
David Rovics
Tom Russell
James McMurtry
Frank Harte
Harry Manx
Chip Taylor
The Dixie Chicks
Pol MacAdaim
Fred Neil
Eric Taylor
John Stewart
Greg Brown
Doug Spartz
Rodney Crowell
Loudon Wainwright III
David Massengill
Ferron
David Rodriguez
Ruthie Foster
Bruce Springsteen
Yusuf Islam

ARTISTS OF CONSCIENCE
Sunday, October 28th
5:30 – 9:00 pm, Pacific
Webcast: www.coopradio.org

Please see Links page for a link to Doug Lang’s myspace page.

Gravell, A Man Of Passion
Reviewed by Stephen Jones, Sunday Times, 4th November 2007

“Of all the stars that ever shone Not one does twinkle like your pale blue eyes Like golden corn at harvest time your hair Sailing in my boat the wind Gently blows and fills my sail Your sweet-scented breath is everywhere”

The first verse of Christy Moore’s Nancy Spain. It was Ray Gravell’s most recent entry in our long-running Christy competition. It is far more than a decade since we discovered each other’s affection for the songs of the radical Irish troubadour, an affection in Ray’s case that was fanned when he actually met our hero several years ago, and found his own warmth and firebrand passions reflected.

The idea was that each time we met one of us would perform one verse of one Moore song. Gravs would usually sidle up in some press room where I was tapping at the keyboard, put his mouth close to my ear and croon it. He had the advantage of me. I could manage a few bars of Ride On or Smoke and Strong Whiskey or the Cliffs of Dooneen. Gravs remembered all the lyrics, more than Christy usually can. Gravs could sing, he could perform, he had natural timing, he could hold an audience. He was an actor, a real one. As well as a wonderful player of the old school and the character of a lifetime. Frankly, he was the most compelling and popular man I ever met.

And despite the disappointment that I always lost the Christy competition, it was always fantastic to see him. He made a total nonsense of the word “ebullient” and even though to get to you across a crowded room, he had usually battered his way happily though about 90 meets and greets and bear-hugs and a fusillade of “Orright Gravs?”, he always made it seem when he reached you that he had been making deliberately for you. And the thing was that in the cases of all the scores of us in the room, he had.

It’s a funny old thing, this concept of passion. Gravs personified it. It had fallen into disuse as a playing philosophy, a means of stopping a team of technical superiority, in favour of meticulous planning, of playing in straight lines with everyone inch-perfect in their positions. Mechanical.

There is no shame is being passionate about playing the game, about loving those of any era who did. There is no shame about being passionate about your town or local club. It is a lesson Welsh rugby has forgotten, now that it has made its professional teams the representatives of amorphous slabs of the country, not of the great towns and cities.

On the field, to stop a thundering Ray Gravell charge was to learn far more about yourself than simply that you could tackle. He was a storming centre. There was also a gentleness of spirit about him that belied the rampaging power of his play for Llanelli, Wales and the Lions. He had a magnificent natural strength.

Some time ago, he led a party of supporters on a trip to Australia and at a stopover at Surfers Paradise, Gravs was socialising quietly in a nightclub. The bouncer was a mammoth of a man, with colossal muscles. He had a party trick. He could hold a magnum of champagne in each hand, and hold them out in front of him, arms parallel to the floor.

He challenged customers to a duel, to see who could hold the bottles longest. Gravs came up, not as the blustering contender but because others had put him forward, and eventually, he quietly agreed. Nor did he milk the astonished roar when, against a man twice as big and muscular as he, he held out the magnums for so long after the (dethroned) champ had collapsed that it seemed the dawn might come up because Gravs put the bottles down. Iron strength, iron will, iron resolve, human softness.

It is said that his excellence as an actor in all the fine parts he played was that he never put on airs and graces, but simply played himself. It is true. Only one actor, and only man ever born, could play Ray Gravell, in all his tapestry and friendship and power and fervency. That man died last week, in Majorca.

Ray Gravell
Club honours: 485 games for Llanelli (1970-85)
Internationals: 23 Wales caps (1975-82), part of two Grand Slam-winning teams. Four Lions caps
In 1991, he played a 19th-century farmer in a big-screen adaptation of Dylan Thomas’s Rebecca’s Daughters, starring Peter O’Toole.

Tuesday 29th August 2006
Reviewed by Gerry Quinn

Outside on the strip a handful of expectants were gearing up for Lisdoonvarna’s semi-surreal, annual month long matchmaking experience. But to be honest the only show in town was in The Hall at the Royal Spa Hotel on the main street. Christy Moore – he who sweats for Ireland, opted to do a pair of low-key, entirely solo gigs in the small ballroom of The Royal Spa Hotel – an exercise he hadn’t undertaken in nine years. Romantic hopefuls of a different category and disposition furtively acquired tickets in order to bear witness at the altar of an Irish folk-singing icon. Of late, a Planxty reunion and a peerless association with guitarist Declan Sinnott have been the Kildare man’s primary focus for live performance. Now at last he was ready to take the bull by the ‘liathroidi’ and go it alone. Not since 1997 at the Abbey in Chicago, had he embarked on a solo run and those who begged borrowed or stole to be present in the Clare village, flapped in anxious anticipation of a rare and privileged indulgence. Though nervous for themselves they were nervous for Christy too.

Apparently the first show on Monday night steadied those understandable nerves and when the lights went down in the intimate venue at 8.35pm on Tuesday, a flock of collywobbles and butterflies were reported to have soared over the nearby Cliffs of Moher, departing the Spa town in search of some other unsuspecting or more deserving victims. ’16 Fishermen Raving’ was the bard’s opening selection, launching an unprecedented thirty-five song set. For two hours and twenty minutes Moore poured his heat out and then some, dealing with subjects as diverse as, the murder of Victor Jara, the Chilean singer who died for democracy, – the struggle to preserve the natural beauty and spiritual essence of the Burren mountain, Mullaghmore – in addition to a poignant and tragic tale of two drowned fishermen brothers, the Conneelys from the Aran islands.

Exceptional moments in an artist’s career can oft times be founded on misty eyed hindsight and sentimentality, but on Tuesday night Moore’s performance was definitely as good and probably better than any, this writer has witnessed by him over the last thirty years. I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing the many guises and incarnations he has assumed in that period, and though several are memorable, none touched and engaged to the extent that this one did. A resonant political and social conscience inhabits songs rich in history, humour and pathos and the humility that Christy exudes when delivering such material was never as palpable. The author Franklin P. Jones once said, “originality is the art of concealing your source”, but it’s obvious that he never encountered Christy Moore. For the duration, the singer with the anarchic and indomitable spirit paid homage to the composition qualities of writers such as John Spillane, Wally Page, Woody Guthrie, Colm Gallagher, Richard Thompson and Bobby Sands. His mastery of interpreting a worthy song, regardless of origin is without peer. Christy infuses a unique originality on his chosen material, that is grounded in a deep conviction that the song and its meaning is paramount. However he went to great lengths to eulogize and credit the authors. His own songs are equally profound and insightful. ‘The Middle of The Island’, a tender tribute to teenager Anne Lovett who died tragically following childbirth and ‘They Never Came Home’ his statement on the Stardust fire tragedy, were balanced perfectly with the ubiquitous ‘Don’t Forget Your Shovel’, a sardonic and jovial recollection of his experiences on the building sites of England during the sixties. Nobody does pain and humour in tandem as well as Christy Moore. This show was an emotional voyage that massaged the senses, providing thought provoking moments with passages of hilarity and sheer joy.

An unaccompanied rendition of ‘The Well Below The Valley’ generated hair raising and goose bump moments, while Woody Guthrie’s tale of ‘Sacco and Vanzetti’ lifted and regaled an assiduous and partisan audience. Never once throughout a superb and inspired recital did its magical intensity dip or wane. On the contrary, the time elapsed seemed brief and fleeting, as a deep trawl through an extensive back catalogue unearthed some forgotten gems and reinvigorated favourites. Though well worn and proverbial, Christy’s self penned ditty ‘Lisdoonvarna’, was never more appropriate as when used to bring the curtain down on what has to be a contender for one of Moore’s finest and most impressive live performances, over a lengthy and ever evolving career.

October 6th ’06
Reviewed by Christy
For many years I have been an (very) occasional visitor to the Góilín Singers Club. I recall four different venues since my first visit. It is unique, in that it is run by singers who share a deep love for singing and for songs – they are the primary purpose. The listening is intense and the fare is very varied. All manner of singing and songs are tolerated but the emphasis is very much on what might be loosely described as Folksongs, be they Traditional, Sean Nós, Ballads old and new in English and Irish. There is a small network of similar gatherings around the country, each remaining autonomous but they seem to support each other to foster and further a mutual love of songs.

The format of the Góilín is a weekly singaround with as many as is possible getting an opportunity to sing. Occasionally a guest will be invited to sing a set of songs. There is no stage, nor is there amplification. Yet no matter how quietly the song be sung it will be heard for the room has great acoustics. The publican would appear to have great regard for the ethos of the club. Well able to serve the drink (and Tea – God save us) without disrupting the listeners. Despite the restrained atmosphere I describe, the fun element of songs is well to the fore and never forgotten. Instruments are not particularly welcome but, occasionally, a blind eye might be turned to an errant guest who needs their soother.
The proceedings are marked by the ringing of a sweet bell and order for the singer is the order of the day. There is no cover charge but a collection is made to cover expenses – the recommended contribution being 3 euro. (I have started writing a song called “The Box Dodgers” or “Auld Dodge The Box”).

On the night in question the following songs were heard:
Its a Fine Flower The Lily……Colin Batho

Mourne Maggie………………..Barry Gleeson

Drumsna Bachelors……………Roisín Gaffney (also sang Bridget;s pill)

Bonnie Lass O’Morning………..Mary Canniffe

Isolde’s Chapel…………………Jerry O’Reilly (a song for Frank Harte written by Pat Burke)

Tiochfaidh an tSamraidh………Maire Ní Cronáin

My Old Man……………………..Andrew Clarke

Galtee Mt.Boy/Kit Conway…….Manus O’Riordan

The Auld Thrashing Machine…..Johnny Collins

No More Fishing………………….Tom Crean

The Life of a Man………………..Luke Cheevers

Amhrán Muinish…………………..Míchéal MacRaghnall

The Sands of San Miguel……….Tony Canniffe

Doctor Crematorium……………..Anne Buckley

Back Home in Derry………………Diarmuid Breathnach (with a new original air)

Margaret Burke Sheridan………..Pat Burke

The Note that Lingers……………Robert Kelly (written by Colum Sands)

Reconciliation……………………..Colin Batho (written by Ron Kavana)
I was the guest on the night and I sang
The well below the Valley

Middle of the Island

O My lovely Young One

The 2 Conneeleys

Quinte Brigada

Smoke and Strong whiskey

St Brendans Voyage

Magic Nights

Stitch in time

Burning Times

Three hours later we went down the stairs sated in song after a memorable gathering.
We’ll be back soon.

27th October 2006
Reviewed by Davoc Rynne

SINGER AT WORK – NOT “ON HOLD”!

It was 4.30pm when the Flying Enterprise pulled into the Railway station in Dundalk. This was our fourth train of the day and our sixth railway station. But no doubt about it – this old Victorian railway station was the finest, with it’s spectacular cast-iron columns and canopies with original waiting rooms, ticket offices, it even has a well stocked museum. In fact since leaving the town of Ennis five hours previously – no hassles no problems. With great difficulty we will forgive Irish Rail for charging us €17.50 for two beers and two sandwiches. Why? Well the stories are long and the sentiments run deep. The sheer magic of trains and railroads is very special. Childhood holiday memories merge with long rattling journeys across merry ol’ England. Poker games in carriages on trains with no toilets. “Leg of a duck leg of a duck leg of a duck” as the mighty steel wheels run over the rail joints. Telegraph poles laden with multitudes of pottery insulators, smoke, steam, soot and smells fly by the windows. Puffing and hissing and clackety clack as it goes over metal bridges and clunkety clunk as we go under bridges and into tunnels. As Willy Nelson sings “the sons of the engineers ride their father’s magic carpets made of steel”. Has it all changed beyond belief? Is the romance gone forever? Well, yes and no. No hissing and puffing fire
engines, smoke or steam. No water towers, signal boxes, flags, whistles or uniforms. Now I have to be careful – I did see a guard in Limerick Junction with a rolled up green flag – but alas, he didn’t use it! Now the train rides silent and smoothly. Poor old “leg of a duck” is gone forever, it seems that it was simple to get rid of him! They figured out that the rails could be just welded together. No need for joints anymore. I miss them! But yes yes to the toilets that work and the trains that run on time. “Are you right there Michael are you right, do you think that we’ll be home before the night”. When Percy French wrote this song about the West Clare Railway, I don’t think he was driven by romance. Indeed the Railway Company sued him – I wonder did they win? But I digress.

We are on our way to a Christy gig. We taxi to the Park Inn out the Armagh Road. We are allocated our room – big, minimalist and adequate. We could be anywhere from Arizona to Shanghai. The carpets, walls, bed quilts, menus and pictures are all designed with coloured cubes. We are well squared out – but we have a comfortable room within sight of the Cooley Mountains on one side, the wee North everywhere else. We are as happy as larks!
But hey – we must get going. This hotel is in cyberspace – we must meet the people especially across the border. We must drink pints and talk.

“When first the border started and ’twas seen that smuggling paid
King George he ordered out his men to try and stop the trade
‘But don’t’, says he, ‘pass Silverbridge, lest ye not be seen again
For there’s not a cop could ever stop the Boys from Crossmaglen”

Mark drives the taxi – he’s from the Falls Road in Belfast. He explains how you tell where the border begins by the surface of the road. He is homesick. There are tough men in Crossmaglen – he likes them. He shows us the monument near Silverbridge dedicated to the ten Hunger Strikers. We talk about the troubles. “What do you think of the support and attitudes of the people down south?” There was a sigh and a long answer – “Ever since the British imposed border was marked out by the Boundary Commission in the 1920s, the people of the Free State washed their hands of it, they stood by and did absolutely nothing. No governments or groups did anything to relieve the stress and pain of the people trapped in a …….. “But but wait a minute” I protested, “We had to get on with it, raise families, pay our way. We had a sort of freedom and we had no British troops on the streets. We had lives to live”. He sighs again, “If my neighbour, friend or relative was in trouble I would give him a dig out”. We had no answer to that. Case closed.

In jig time we arrived at the Silverbridge Resource Centre and GAA Club – a huge place that appears to be in the middle of nowhere. We are an hour early – doors open at 7pm. “Do ye know it is a dry gig?” Indeed we do! Which reminds me of a local song, the last verse which goes:
“So all you bred tea-totallers, if sober you may be
Be careful of your company and mind what happened to me
It wasn’t the boys from Shercock or the lads from Ballybay
But the dealin’ men from Crossmaglen put the whiskey in me tay”

Mark drops us at Garveys down the road from the club. The young barman pulls us two great pints. Sitting next to us is a local man originally from Askeaton in County Limerick. We ask him is he going to the gig up the road. What gig? This is not the answer we expected. A picture of Michael Collins throwing a sliotar into a hurling match is on the wall in front of us. A framed Proclamation hangs on the opposite wall. Another punter hears our accents and gives us a huge Mile Failte. We talk GAA – at least Turlough does – I get lost after the first sentence! I butt in and ask about British Army helicopters using the Crossmaglen GAA pitch as a base. He looks at me strangely – “but sure that was about 12 years ago”! Oops – how we forget. This young man was probably not even born when the infamous “Beware – Sniper at work” was in action. Later I am told that the sign is still there but with the words “on hold” added. A man down the bar, who up till now has been very quiet, buys us pints. We drink to his health – sláinte. He overhears we are staying in a posh hotel in Dundalk. “Ach ye could have stayed with me – I have four rooms to spare”! Big hearted generous people.

There are a dozen park attendants, the door is now open and there is a fast moving queue. We are in a mighty big hall that is filling rapidly. Right on time our two boys enter from stage left and Christy without a word goes straight into it with “Viva La Quinte Brigada”. Now this of all songs is a gigantic epic – it deserves and demands the best of attention. God I wish he had started on something lighter – Janey Mack Alive we have only just sat down!! Ten glorious songs later we get “The City of Chicago”. Christy gives a great boost to the then “very young Kevin Barry Moore for all his musical talent and genius”. The same Luka inspired Christy to sit down and start composing his own songs he tells us, as he gives us two of them. “On the Bridge”, is a simple and short but very poignant song about the scandalous abuse of Irish women prisoners of war. Next we have “The Wise and Holy Woman” – Christy’s mother Nancy is here along with “the bounty we gain from nature’s abundance” to the sheer magic of calling on the stars “to shine a light please shine a light on me”. Now Christy himself is quoted as saying “it never did too well on the high stage”, but hold on a minute Christyboy, musicians and singers are only messengers from a higher authority! With the “clear water, fresh air that we breathe and the wonders of the world” yes, yes let the light shine on us.
McIlhatton. Happy go lucky times with a ‘divil a care’ in the world. We drank it together – Christy and I – way back then. We saw the salmon in the bog and the dogs had run away even before we had started. If you say the goat collapsed I believe you, but I didn’t even see him. Hey Bobby Sands – yourself and Christy make a great team.
Richard Thompson penned a beauty with Beeswing. Everything here is superb. The music and sentiments ebb and flow together. Free spirits galore and we all aspire to that. We are smitten with grief for the man who attempts to woo her with his hearth, babies on the rug and his couple of acres. “Even a gypsy’s caravan was too much like settlin’ down”. What was she like?! “As fine as a beeswing”.

The audience is never sure whether to laugh or cry at Stitch in Time. This is a huge important song. Hard hitting in every sense of the word. Needles and thread, rolling pins and frying pans – simple domestic tools brilliantly used as weapons of punishment. If a drunken abusive husband ever had the tiniest nightmare that this might happen to him when he wakes………………..!!

The most extraordinary thing about Don’t Forget your Shovel is that it has survived. 6,559 Paddies diggin’ their way back to Annascaul is far far removed from the Ireland of today. Now we have 49,000 Poles diggin’ their way back to Khodawa!!! And who was Enoch Powell anyway? Who knows, who cares. Maybe this is the whole point. This song is a reminder/historical document of the bad ol’ days of the 1980s – long may it remain intact.

Where do we leave the great Wexford man Declan with the classic St Louis Blues? First recorded over 88 years ago – it is steeped in history. Her man has walked out on her “Ma man’s got a heart like a rock cast in de sea”. Declan sure can sing and play de blues! His mighty skills on the guitar come shining through. He puts us in an entirely different mood after Christy’s songs. This is good, it allows us to listen differently and it acts as an interlude.

Over two and a half hours and twenty eight songs later and I have only talked about a handful of them!

I leave as the encore begins. The huge bar on the other end of the building is all geared up. I walk in and I’m the only one there. “Is it over?” “Very nearly – he’s into the encore”. Five people attend me and as quickly leave to start prepping for the invasion. I am told there are 820 fans inside. Suddenly everyone of them mill into the bar! It rapidly fills up with the chattering masses. In one minute all available space has run out. Chairs by the dozen are brought from the main hall. The place is abuzz, everybody high and as yet not a drink in them! Most of people I overheard were first timers. Old veterans in their mid 30s talk of seeing him four years ago. Wonder what that makes me!!!! A very very very old fan!!

Why does Christy change guitars at least half a dozen times throughout the gig? I used to think he was moody about the instrument or maybe he wanted to change to a different colour! Or was he bored with one and wanted to try another? No – the answer is quite simple – he’s not able to tune it!!! As a would-be musician this fascinates me. I play me whistle away but have a terrible ear. I get fed up with musicians who spend all night tuning. Give us an A they seem to say all night. No jigs or reels, just an oul’ A that blasts away! And they are always right and I am always flat! So gather around me would-be musicians with poor ears. Christy Moore has five hundred plus songs – is an accomplished singer and musician, has been on the road for over 30 years – but he cannot tune his guitar!!

We head backstage. Mick, Paddy, Jim Aiken and the lads are there amidst a hive of activity. Lots of fans and lots of people ‘minding’ Christy. No sign of Declan – he’s the wise boy and has gone off for a bite to eat. We join him. Later we have a ‘set list’ conversation. Christy says Mick always does them. “You mean Mick decides what songs are to be sung and you read them off the floor”!! “Nooooooooo, he writes them down as I sing them”. All news to me and fascinating. “The two of you can run a real tight gig but in actual fact ye are winging it all the time”! “Correct”. I dig a bit deeper. “Declan, how can you tell what he’s about and where he is going?” Declan puts his hands in the air – so it’s magic! Only someone with Declan’s genius could bring the magic to life!

We talked about the importance of the songs. There was a story in ancient Ireland about enemy torture. The unfortunate victim was deprived of music, water and food – in that order! “We have ways and means of making you talk”. But it does go to show how music/song was so important to our ancestors. One of the messages in the CM guest book online describes a song that had a special meaning to the writer but adds to the sentence – “but sure it’s only a song”! And Christy’s lyrical response – “ONLY a song!! What divine pastures you must dwell upon”! Songs and music are never ONLY!

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Reviewed by Christy Moore

BBC – September 27th 2005

4.am. and a sleepless night with a whirring head, I’m putting it down to Dylan. What a beautiful film Scorcese has made for us. The later and shorter film on BBC4 was excellent too with Woody Guthrie footage previously unseen and deeply moving. The Lenny Bruce section was heartbreaking, the fucking bastards murdered him in Britain and America, again the footage was stunning and the image of Lenny being escorted up the steps into a BEA plane upon his deportation will be unforgettable. The main film gave me a new and welcome insight into Dylan. While I’m no Dylanologist I have been very aware of him for 40 years, I have seen him maybe 6 times, sung 3 or 6 of his songs and there are various vinyl, cassettes and cds scattered throughout the years.

I thought Chronicles Vol.1. was a great read and now we get this Masterpiece of a film. The Cinematography and editing were superb and the man himself seemed totally engaged in the process. I felt it was the first time I had ever seen him real, something I never thought I’d see. (I was always more than happy to watch him acting so this was an unexpected and welcome bonus). Dave Van Ronk shone with honesty and humour and Liam Clancy’s final paragraph summed it up when he said of Dylan’s songs ” Bobby was saying things that we would all love to have said”. He’s still doing it. Even the shysters shone here. Dylan brings out the best in everybody. Even those only interested in pounds of flesh displayed uncharacteristic humanity when reminiscing. Of course I realise I’ve only seen half the bloody film and tonight will probably be more of the same! We watched The Last Waltz as a warmer-upper for this (BBC again) and it proved to be an excellent trailer. The Band was simply brilliant on Dylan’s first electric gigs, what a way to come out. (I was retrospectively embarrassed to realise that, had I been there, I’d have been one of those cloth-eared, wanker- knockers).

What struck me repeatedly was how hard he must have worked to achieve what he was doing in those early days. His focus and determination matched by his infatuation with and his love for songs. Of course many of us had those qualities but Dylan had the extra ingredient that carried him the final furlong into that field he alone can occupy. Many of us gaze through the bushes wondering how the fuck did he think of saying that? Then Joan Baez tells us that he knew 40 years ago that we would be asking these questions, nor did he understand the words nor have the answers himself. Forever the conundrum, always the ambivalence but it matters not for both sides of the coin are honest and truthful. I always knew he had a marvellous sense of humour but it was so beautiful to see him smile last night. Fuck it, I don’t care that it was on a small screen in the corner of the living room, that it was far removed from my life, that I am sounding off like an anorak, who gives a shit, it was pure magic.