There was nothing to stop the wind, as it whipped across the Georgia border into Lake County, leaving whitecaps on Lake Eustis.
I remember a similar wind, almost twenty years ago, born in the harbor, that came shrieking around the corner at State Street near the Customs House and knocked over a metal box containing a half dozen copies of yesterday's Boston Globe.
At that time, I hurried into the
Black Rose Pub, to escape the coming deluge, and discovered live Irish music in the process.
Today, my friend and I were dressed for the unusually cold Florida weather; she in an ancient gray wool cloak, and me in black leather over a corderoy shirt, as we made out way into what would be our "Irish Pub for the day".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I bare orders from the captain,
get ye ready, quick and soon...
for the pikes must be together...
at the rising of the moon."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the intervening years, since the Black Rose literally offered a Port in the Storm, I've seen many a Celtic musician in many an Irish pub. I've never been to Ireland, but have traveled the East Coast of America enough to see the immigrants at play. From East Duram in the Catskills, through Boston, New York and Philadelphia, the brogues are heavy, the Guinness is plentiful and the music is unlike anything else you've ever heard...or seen.
While live music creates a certain atmosphere, I've often found the right setting can enhance the music as well.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"On the Curragh of Kildare, and the boys
will all be there...
with their pikes in good repair, says the
Sean Bhean Bhocht...(pronounced shan van vote...meaning the
poor old woman...a poetic depiction of the Irish Nation)
~~~~~~~~
When there's Irish music in an Irish pub, the audience is often just as interesting as the performers...picture a standing group, all dressed in leather jackets against the cold, with heavy wool sweaters beneath. Often the men are dressed the same way. In everyone's right hand is a pint of the brown (to hold a bottle is to invite derision), while the left hand punches the air to the rythmn of the band...naturally, you can switch it up if you're left handed.
In a darker corner of the bar, Shane MacGowan is having a friendly argument with the ghost of Joe Strummer...yer man in the snug, looking remarkably like Brendan Behan, is taking notes, while a tall fellow in a trench coat and tweed cap is speaking with quiet intensity to a small, ferret-like boy, who seems hardly old enough to be here. The big man's eyes constantly scan the room, in quick furtive glances. He will abruptly leave by the back door, with his pint untouched.
The
Third Place Cafe, on the other hand, is very new (even though it was built as a department store in 1926). The newly polished wood floors do creak some in certain spots, but the 30 foot ceiling is covered in acoustic tile. It is a fine restaurant, that tries its best to turn into an Irish pub with "character" on the second Sunday of every month.
They're just missing the "characters".
Most of the people, average age around 60, are not there to "plot rebellion or talk treason". They've come for the Sunday Irish buffet. In addition to the mandatory corned beef and cabbage, there's a very decent selection of simple entres, salads and desserts.
Starting at around 4:30 in the afternoon, younger people wander in carrying flutes, fiddles, guitars and the occassional bozuki or banjo...I usually bring a bodhran, myself, while my friend brings her small "traveling" guitar.
After about an hour or so, they ask if anyone wants to do a song.
As if on cue, the two of us make our way to the stage. Each gets one microphone...she tunes, I give a cursory thump on the old skin head, and we're off (with minimal rehersal, I might add).
We start with Theodore Bikel's slower, more stately version of "The Rising of the Moon", followed by a galloping version of "The Sean Bhean Bhocht", both songs about the ill-fated Irish uprising of 1798.
Within seconds, I realize our audience came to hear "Danny Boy", and not necessarily our offering of rebel songs in powdered wigs.
So instead of looking out over the audience, I turn my mind inward.
I am quite pleased by the sound quality of my friend's small guitar, and thrilled by the nuanced beauty of her smooth alto. My own voice seems to have happily discovered a note or two in barritone territory. For what it is, I'm thinking, this is pretty good for a two song set...and half way through the first song, I close my eyes. I can almost see the big fellow abruptly stop talking. He holds up a single finger to get his companion to listen for a moment.
Even the girls in black leather start punching the air...
I am transported, however briefly, away from A Third Place to Another Place entirely...all by the music.
~~~~~~~~~~
"DEATH to every foe and traitor!
Whistle out the marching tune...
and Hurrah, me boys, for Freedom!....
at the rising of the moon.
