Crime Music

Crowdsourcing a country song — the Ballad of Randy Howard

I don’t mean this to sound in any way disrespectful to the late Randy Howard, country singer and songwriter, but the manner of his demise is the most country thing I have ever heard in my life and it only seems fair to pay him an appropriate tribute.

Who’s Randy?  An Outlaw, that’s all.  A man who shared a stage with Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings and Hank Williams Junior.  One of those who rejected Nashville with all its country ‘n’ western schmaltz.  A serious performer of the country art.

How did he die?  In an exchange of gunfire with a bounty hunter, that’s how.  In a hail of God-given lead at the ungodly young age of 65.

randy howard killed by bounty hunter

Randy had a few convictions for DUI, and he’d lost his licence for it, thanks to an oppressive Washington-based federal government that doesn’t understand an American’s right to freedom of conscience.  But on top of that, he was facing charges of a fourth DUI, possessing drugs paraphernalia, possession of a firearm while intoxicated and driving without a licence.  A normal Tennessee boy, in other words.

Randy lit out for parts unknown.  He’d already done jail time for DUI and he wasn’t going back there, so when bounty hunter Jackie Shell showed up at his door, he wasn’t about to go quietly.  Now, anyone familiar with the Western genre will know instantly that the bounty hunter is the lowest of the low.  Lower than a gunslinger. Lower than a drygulcher. Lower than a rattlesnake. Lower, even, than a back-shooter, so it’s hardly surprising that Randy Howard cut loose with a volley of bullets.  Who wouldn’t?

Unfortunately, he only winged the low-down bounty-hunting rattlesnake and in the gunfight, Randy took a slug.

He died.  Randy up and died.

Jackie Shell, meanwhile, ended up in hospital for surgery, according to the Chattanooga Times Free Press, quoting his mother, Mary Jane.  We don’t know yet if he’ll collect the bounty, since it’s by no means certain the reward said Dead or Alive, but he doesn’t seem to have been on Randy’s property legally.  With any luck, the low-down drygulching back-shooting rattlesnake will end up in his trailer nursing a sore shoulder and thinking twice about door-stepping another country outlaw.

Meanwhile, we need a tribute to Randy, and it seems only fair to write him a song.

The Ballad of Randy Howard.

Here’s my plan.

Let’s all contribute a few verses.  Between us we’ll knock it together into a decent song and then I’ll get some of my musical friends to record it.  We’ll put it up here in honour of Randy Howard.

Here’s what we have so far.  After this, it’s up to you.


Randy Howard, a friend of mine, loved his truck, his dog and his gun.

But a wanted poster on the wall sent Randy on the run.


One night, a bounty hunter, a killer known as Shell,

Rolled up to Randy’s hide-out, like a critter straight from Hell.



You low-down bounty hunter, you ain’t nuthin’ but a coward

And I ain’t goin’ nowhere or my name ain’t Randy Howard



Come out now Randy,drop your gun, you’ve gone and jumped your bail.

This paper I got here in my hand says you’re bound for the jail.


No bounty hunter never set a foot inside my door.

And you ain’t gonna be the first, you son of a Texas whore.



You low-down bounty hunter, you ain’t nuthin’ but a coward

And I ain’t goin’ nowhere or my name ain’t Randy Howard



Git to thinkin’, y’hear?




BB King – the thrill is gone

Back before music became a fashion accessory as disposable as last week’s handbag, it formed the soundtrack to our lives. Everything was filled with music; ideas, aspirations, dreams; every facet of our lives was informed and enlightened by the music we listened to. Fashion suited the music back in those days, not vice-versa. There was no such thing as a guilty pleasure. Songs became pins in the map of our lives. It moved around us and inside us and still is the one true religion. Our Gods live and breathe. Our Gods bleed, laugh and cry. Our Gods treat us only with love because we didn’t care about their private personas or personalities. Everything we needed to know about them was in their music. They were superheroes whose alter-ego was unknown to us and didn’t particularly interest us. Our Gods are mortal but their creations are eternal.

We are reminded of their mortality when we lose one of them. Today I learned of the death of B.B King and, while his death was not tragic, before time or caused by anything scandalous, the loss is no less keenly felt. The world today seems to be a lot emptier for his passing. Here was a man who, up until very recently, was touring more than any of his younger counterparts and he was 89. He was the first true electric bluesman and I can’t help wondering if his passing is more significant in that it heralds the end of the Blues.

bb king


Yes there are many blues artists out there but B.B was the genuine article. I grew up listening to blues music. My most constant companions were Stevie Ray Vaughan, Freddie and Albert King, Jimi Hendrix, John Lee Hooker and B.B King. I later got into more contemporary stuff but my love of music began with the blues.

When guitar solos became anathema, blues music was excluded from this rule because there are no guitar solos in real blues. There is merely the pouring of emotions through an instrument. For me, it had to be guitar. A blues player’s guitar was never concerned with notes. It didn’t issue a sequence of notes. It cried, it laughed, it screamed, it sang and it sometimes roared but it was never overly technical because sadness and hardship isn’t.

B.B King was not a trust-fund baby. He was not born into vast wealth. He was not the subject of glossy photographs for teenagers to drool and swoon over. He was a bluesman. Blues Boy King. He embodied everything about the blues. His vocal was always tortured but was somehow exultant and glorious in spite of itself.

We have many artists who play the blues but few who understand and nevertheless ignore the theory of music. Derek Trucks is an exception to that and the rest are hugely talented but it isn’t essentially the blues that was born of a necessity to ease pain and genuine suffering. B.B King did not really play chords. He was not the most technically proficient musician in the history of guitar playing but he didn’t need to be because his heart bled through his beloved Lucille. I’m sure that, should you ever ask the great blues players of the modern era like, John Mayer, Eric Clapton or Robben Ford, they would undoubtedly point to King as a major influence.

Blues as it should be is now only archival. That is not designed to be an insult to anyone. It’s just a fact. We are lucky. We can listen to the greats and still look at them as our Gods. They may have been singing about their baby leaving them or about the sky crying but they were really screaming, “LET ME OUT”. That’s at least what I got from it. Blues music that was hewn from the fabric of slavery, racism, poverty, loss and love will never spawn a new creation. It’s sad.

Music isn’t dead because it can never die. The industry may have eaten itself and there are no more riches to be gained from it but what real musician ever really became a musician for the money?

Sleep well Mr King and thanks for contributing to the soundtrack of my life.


IMRO Awards: Live Music Venue of the Year

Where do you reckon the best live venue in Ireland is?




Not a bit of it.

Galway, maybe?

Guess again.

The 2015 IMRO National Live Music Venue of the Year is our very own Dolan’s, here in Limerick, and that’s for a very good reason.   Dolan’s is the real deal.

This is no Festy McGonigal’s or Thumper O’Toole’s or whatever quaint name some corporate owners decided to put on it.   Instant Irish pub.  Just add Guinness and stir lightly.

See that sign above the door?  It says Dolan’s and when you walk in, you won’t see some financial controller lurking in a corner sipping a skinny latte and counting beans.  You’ll probably bump into Mick Dolan, or Valerie Dolan, or Neil Dolan or Sarah Dolan, the hardest-working family in Irish music promotion, and what’s more, they’ll know your name.

It’s no accident that Dolan’s was named best live music venue.  That happened through years of hard effort, commitment and determination, putting on big names, small names and sometimes, no-names.  Taking a chance on a hunch.  Showing faith in the musicians, the actors, the comedians, and the occasional plainly deranged performer who happens by.  Being open to a good idea, or even to a worthwhile idea.  Supporting a good cause when asked.

You don’t buy  that sort of loyalty from your customers — you earn it.  And not by bean-counting, no matter how many skinny lattes you throw back.

I can’t think of a more deserving recipient of this award.


Here’s a few memories.

Imelda May 029

Dolans imro awards 2015 002

Dolans Sharon Shannon

Dolans imro awards 2015 001

Nouvelle Vague Dolans Warehouse Limerick 01

Nouvelle Vague Dolans Warehouse Limerick 17

Andreas Varady at DOlans

Music Religion

U2, Apple and a New Sound for God’s Country

U2’s recent attempt to reboot their brand was probably hailed as a success by their team, though that’s not to say it was.  This time the criticism and contention will be explained away as being a necessary component of what it takes to gain one-stop international exposure in the global marketplace. Music never felt as much of an afterthought.

u2 apple iphone

The campaign was akin to the test of neutron bomb, that mythical weapon that wipes out populations without laying waste to the land.  Two big boxes ticked.  New markets opened up and a head count was taken of the growing disaffection Bono has drawn onto the band. Vice commented that U2 are now very well aware of how much they are hated by certain sections of the under 40s – those who know who U2 are, of course.  This time they had to do something about it.  A strategy appeared that had the U2 corporation seem to ditch the traditional western rock demographic (and its increasingly tendency for cultural criticism) in favor of new uncritical followers.  These would be populations that would find the band’s unthreatening type of what was being called ‘dad rock’.  Such as those found in Asia and the American Bible belt for instance.

Apple balances a similar dichotomy. Rather than deal with detractors and those ignorant of their product as separate issues they summoned a 20th century spectacle, a media-designed neutron bomb simultaneously dismissing and embracing fandom as their corporate buildings weather the explosion.  The new markets of India for example where millions of phone users have not yet been converted to smartphone usage became the thing.  For U2 to piggyback on this penetration made complete sense to a corporation used of doing business the 20th way.  India’s population appears to be ripe for upgrade and if there was a gap for a band to exploit this then it could only be one as large as U2 consider them as.

In this campaign Bono’s huckster schtick, previously detrimental to the band, became inflated beyond the reach of hater parody as he led the bombing raid.  Its why we are called U2 … we want to be you too he said as the commentary about the unwanted virus album spread.  This was preacher talk akin to a money call by TV evangelists.

In the hubris, other corporations looked on as Apple eventually offered to remove the product after a week, confident that the ringing in the ears from the audacity of the strike left them uncontaminated. This was a campaign that courted negativity to such an extent negativity had to be redefined.  In just a week the two brands cleared a path for new ways of insinuating their product into (what they hope is) a new generation of compliant uncritical consumers.  The concept of selling, though laughable and unsophisticated, was made redundant.  Both brands had lost interest in courting any 90s model of ‘cool’.

Apple and U2 had spent a good a decade being prodded by the left about their messianic missions with the criticism focused on a type of vulgarity associated with their corporate strategies. They needed a new firewall, as this now-established critique was building and Twitter commentary eroded profits.  While Apple cheerfully acknowledged the album’s identity as a virus that may still rake in profit, they let it be known that traditional critique is inadequate. If the campaign embraces or swats away the comments of someone with the hip cultural clout of profile rapper Tyler the Creator, who demanded to know why fuckin Bono’s album was in his digital possession, what platform now exists to fully criticise either the campaign or the product in the pop cultural arena?

Recently at the peak of his hipness Tyler offered himself as a creative brand offering his services to corporations desperate for hipness and one big drink company took the bait. One surreal TV ad mired in accusations of racism later, the company beat a hasty retreat and Tyler went back to music and t-shirts. Hold that thought and imagine the two strategies analysed by a ruthless ad exec. Imagine a resulting campaign that would not only test the range of both old and new ways of pushing product but also reaffirm the 20th century boundaries of consuming music as well as keeping the media that champion the likes of Tyler’s left field thinking in their place?  It would have to be a campaign that would cost millions and involve the uber-synergy of mega corporations seeking untapped markets for rock music and trendy mobile devices.

And so it came to pass. Within a week as the tide turned in U2’s favour, the Guardian went from criticising the endeavour to criticising those who hate Bono (it was getting boring it seems). Complementing this turn, The New Yorker published a detailed biography of U2 that focused exclusively on their Christian roots including an assessment of their standing in biblical America.

This article also listed a surprising amount of American Christian books dedicated to the band.  By now Bono was laboriously emphasizing the album’s theme of family and loss to anyone who would listen, but who exactly would want to hear this from a rock singer?  Nobody in their 20s for a start.  In an outrageous ‘bono-ism’ the millionaire white singer mused that rappers often created music about their missing fathers, while U2’s album had themes about mothers. Not even Daniel O’Donnell would have been so audacious, or borderline racist in commentary.  Daniel knows his market in America well of course.

The chime of cash registers is the new ringtone in God’s country. Most of us heathens wont hear it but U2 are ok with that.


The Pigtown Fling

Pigtown Fling

It’s been over a week now since the night of the Pigtown Fling, and still the town is buzzing from the success of it all.

True, the Crescent Hall was filled with more hipsters than a skinny-jeans fire sale in a vegan coffee shop, more beards than a Cecil B De Mille retrospective and more intense frowns than a French Art-House parody, but since this is Limerick, there was also pig on a spit, pints on tap and a pile of ne’er do-wells out the back smoking cigarettes and talking shite.

It’s all about the feeling.  Every bit of it is about the feeling, and even though that feeling comes from close on sixty unique musicians, all from Limerick and its environs, it also comes from the unique outlook of our people — a bunch almost entirely untainted by the affectations of other towns on this islands, provided you exclude a small coterie of knob-ends in the business community, and even they are a minority.

Limerick is all about the talent, and at the Fling you were falling over it.  Everywhere you went it was the same thing.  Excuse me, you extravagantly talented person, could I just squeeze past to grab myself a faceful of free roasted pig?

Certainly.  Thank you for calling me an extravagantly talented person.

No.   Not at all.  You are extravagantly talented.

I’m not.  The best you could call me is gifted.

You’re extravagantly talented.

I’m fucking not.

You fucking are.


That’s Limerick City, kid.  Violently modest.

I loved the Pigtown Fling.  I loved every shuddering inch of it, every last chorus, power-chord, heart-melting harmony and athletic hip-hop face-grinding second of it.  I fucking loved it, as did my friends, the hundreds of old friends I met, as did my children, astonished by the surfeit of talent available in this little town.

Jesus jumping Christ, where would you get it?

Presenting the show, for some reason I don’t quite get, were Pat Shortt and Paul McLoone, a man who has grown heartily tired of Prefab Sprout jokes over the years with their undertones of derision.  They did a fair enough job of it and they deserve thanks, but the people who really deserve the applause are those who laboured to make it a reality and those who went on stage to give it a soul.

I won’t name them, in case I might leave someone out, and also because who the fuck am I to be congratulating anyone?  These immensely talented people made it happen while I was just a spectator, though  a grateful and happy one.  Many of them are my friends, I’m fortunate to say, and together they showed yet again what a wonderful town we live in.

No need to say they should be proud.

They are proud and with good reason.



Pigtown Fling



Pigtown Fling

Pigtown Fling


Sexual Rage, Jealousy, Stalking and Murder Fantasies. A Traditional Irish Tune.

I was settled down last evening with a book and the radio on in the background.  Nice and chilled, Fiachna Ó Braonáin doing his usual eclectic selection of sounds.  I like that subliminal cool-music feel going on without being too intrusive.

Nice.  I was just getting into the story when something tickled at the back of my brain, this a capella delivery of Bean Pháidín by
Lasairfhiona Ni Chonaola with a nice bodhrán beat thumping along in the background.

‘S é truaigh nach mise nach mise, ‘s é truaigh nach mise bean Pháidín.

I remember it well.  Planxty used to do a version of this, but I never really learned the words, just that refrain.  ‘S é truaigh nach mise nach mise, ‘s é truaigh nach mise bean Pháidín.

–  What a pity I’m not Páidín’s wife. —

Standard issue thwarted love lament, or  so I used to think.  But for whatever reason, I kept listening to the insistent drumbeat of the song and for the very first time, noticed the final line of the first verse.

‘S é truaigh nach mise bean Phádín is an bean atá aige bheith caillte.

What the fuck?

— It’s a pity I’m not Páidín’s wife with  the one he has now being  dead. —

My Aran Islands friends tell me the common version there says báite, drowned, not caillte, lost,

Jesus, this is a long way from the saccharine, grá mo chroí Irish-American schmaltz they sold back to us and persuaded so many Irish people was genuine heritage.  Hard to imagine Daniel O’Donnell singing this stuff.  So much for the Homes of Donegal.

It gets more full-blooded.


Rachainn go  hAonach na Chlocháin

‘S isteach go Béal Átha na Báighe

Bhreathnóinn isteach trí na fuinneogaí

‘Súil ‘s go bhfeicfinn bean Pháidín


— I’d go to the market in Clifden and to Béal Átha na Báighe.  I’d look in through the windows to see if I could spot Páidín’s wife. —


It’s getting fairly fucking sinister.  This is rabbit-boiling territory but the third verse nails it for sheer batshit lunacy..


Go mbristear do chosa, do chosa

Go mbristear do chosa, a bhean Pháidín

Go mbristear do chosa, do chosa

Go mbristear do chosa ‘s do chnámha.


— May your legs be broken, Páidín’s wife.  May your legs be broken, and all your bones. —


Now that’s what I call jealousy, but isn’t it great?  Doesn’t it beat the living shit out of all that clergy-diluted nonsense we’ve been persuaded is the Irish heritage.

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling?  Galway Bay?

Spare us.

Isn’t it great to remember that this is a flesh-and-blood country,  not some Gaelic nostalgia theme park.


Long may it last.




Music Uncategorized

Leonard Cohen Hits 80

It wouldn’t be right to let this day pass without wishing old Lenny Cohen a happy 80th birthday.  Last time I saw him, he was only 79 and his knees were in far far better shape than mine.  Now that I come to think of it, all of him was in far better shape than me, but especially his mind.

How can it be that after 80 years of whiskey and cigarettes a man can be so fit, so sharp and so funny?  Not to mention so unrelentingly creative.

Leonard Cohen

I read somewhere that when Leonard quit the smokes a while back he announced that if he made it to 80 he’d take them up again and I’d lay money on it that he’ll be as good as his word because after all, when you’re eighty years old, nothing is bad for you.  He only has twenty years left till he’s the same age as his very close companion.   She’s a hundred but she’s wearing something tight.

Ah Lenny.   Was there ever a poet as misunderstood?  For years he suffered from the razor-blade jibe, thrown at him by people who knew nothing of his art, nothing of the deadpan, self-deprecating humour that underlies almost everything he does, nothing of the profound respect he shows to everyone he meets and to all who attend his concerts.  I’ve had that privilege perhaps half a dozen times over the years while Lenny has continued to walk by my side, somehow articulating the angst of my generation’s long trudge towards oblivion, like a literate, horny,  well-dressed Jesus for non-believers.

I won’t spend all night talking about Cohen for a simple reason.  If you get him, you get him.  If you don’t it’s because you haven’t found the time yet.

I don’t know how he’s spending his birthday, but I imagine it’s with a song, a prayer, a joke, a meditation, a whiskey, a cigarette and a circle of friends.

I believe there’s a word in Yiddish, mentsh, (equivalent to mensch in German).  It denotes a person of decency and integrity, somebody to be admired.  An individual of uncommonly good character.

Cohen the agnostic, Buddhist Christian Jew would probably recoil from any such description of himself since he’d be the first to point out the many things in his life he’s not proud of, but in the end it’s not for him to judge.  That’s a matter for others but I think there are few who would disagree that if you’re looking for a mentsh, Lenny’s face fits the wanted poster.

Leonard Cohen.   A most uncommon Everyman.

Happy birthday Lenny and remember your own advice in this song from the mad Phil Spector days  …


Previously on BTR.

Cohen plays Dublin




Jake Clemons at the Warehouse

Jake Clemons at Dolans Warehouse.


You weren’t thinking of going?

Are you mad?  Are you crazy?

I heard this guy live at Thomond Park backing Bruce Springsteen, and later I heard him in Bourkes, a much more intimate venue.  He’s a motherfucker.   He’s great and he’s  his own man, even if he happens to be the nephew of the late great Clarence Clemons, as if any of us would not be downright delighted to claim that one thing.

But  not only is Jake a seriously talented musician — he’s also a damn nice guy as I found out when I met him.

Go to this.  Meet the guy and shake his hand.

One serious mother of a muso.

Go to this gig or be forever missing out on the greatness available to you in this world.



Where?  Dolans Warehouse

When? Sunday, 2nd November

What time? Doors 8pm

Milk Market

Horslips at Limerick’s Milk Market

This was always going to be a night for the true Horslips fan.

Horslips Limerick Milk Market
© Dermot Lynch


As the band came on stage I found myself positioned beside three immaculate Levis jackets, bought many years ago and worn proudly tonight by Belfast men in their 50s. In this company my own Levis denim shirt felt like it was trying too hard.  One did focus on clothes once especially when there wasn’t much choice. The denim clothes that became campaign uniforms will always represent an age when the Irish rock fan operated on basic signifiers.

Hair, a good jacket, and a scarf with maybe just one badge could see you through a decade.  It was a solid enough look for an Irish lad before Punk encouraged him to make more of an effort. Variations of the denim uniform were occasionally allowed but the faded Levis Jacket held its own for decades.

Those men wore denim tonight as a mark of respect for the band as much as the times they must have seen them in. This  commitment and respect was evident everywhere. Even the two-handed waved scarf made sense. This was a particular community that Horslips had seen through to the present and they were glad to see each other.

Horslips Limerick Milk Market
© Dermot Lynch

Up until the late 90s, emigration was the government’s safety valve in syphoning off the national excess and Horslips featured in the soundtrack for those who remained.  The theme of exile was a real one for all as was the concept of leaving.  It was something that had to be dealt with eventually some day and the thought of that day stayed with you whether you left or not.  Whether you sought to cut ties or you chose to stay for good and finish with any notions of exile.

The thought of that day always remains, its part of how one once processed the notion of being Irish  and a lot of those emotions are in songs by Horslips.  In their career the band kept up a healthy tour schedule. They were known to deliver a challenging spectacle that served to banish the lingering rituals that hung to the dancehall circuit. Unlike the Show bands and pop cover bands who used the same venues Horslips early shows show were bereft of the often ‘unsaid- but- followed – anyway’ traditions of the dancehall, the rules and regulations that insidiously directed social behaviour within church-monitored halls.

Horslips Milk Market
© Dermot Lynch

An impatient young rock audience saw those archaic rituals as redundant clichés.  They were impatient for an alternative but had no power.  They could only tolerate the lack of a representative culture for themselves, but no-one was going to provide viable alternatives if you were 18 and chose to remain at home.

You accepted what was left to you.

Rural youth in particular had no real opportunity to create change. The totems of the halls and their show band priests would remain intact well after Horslips disbanded in 1980 because a Horslips gig in all its loud Celtic glory was a different sort of Irishness that challenged this despondency.  Every dancehall gig by them allowed youth to temporarily occupy the dance floor of their parents and cast off an amount of frustration in the process.  Within this and in an absence of a national platform for the voice of the youth, Horslips stood in solidarity with a generation who experienced a country not of their own making.  A generation that experienced one war in the north while in the south emigration waged another.

Once a year, between 1972 and 1980, in a hall in the likes of a town the size of Castlerea, you would be briefly immersed in the sound of an alternative Ireland when Horslips came.  You had a couple of LPs and knew that the songs they brought were their own, not cover versions representative of the pop charts or any sort of familiar radio fodder.

They mixed old Irish tales with new stories and drew from the remnants of a counterculture that encouraged beatnik-approved mixes of folk and rock and roll.  They respected folk as rebel music but loved rock and roll too much to slavishly replicate it.  In this they were committed to being Irish in a way that few others chose to be.

Jim Lockhart recounts a story about listening to a Dublin musician regaling him with the Americanisms of a song he had written.  Lockhart wondered what on earth any talk of pick- ups and diners had to do with living in seventies Ireland. Surely one should make contemporary Irish music using sounds from abroad without compromise?   Horslips songs soundtracked generations and often spoke of the crux of emigration and leftover rituals at home and abroad.  With jigs and boogie riffs in the same measure they were received as a dance band but had sad songs too with tales about characters who were away too long.   They even left themselves, playing for emigrants aboard and returning with songs culled from the experience for albums called ‘Aliens’ or ‘The Man who Built America.’

In the Milk market Barry Devlin dropped historical notes on the audience from the stage as the band’s set was designed for a  celebration not just on the legacy of music but of place.  Stories referenced early Limerick gigs in the Redemptorist Hall and Johnny Fean paid tribute to all those who had travelled to Limerick and as a gracious host saluted many of them during the night. His brother Ray replaced Eamonn Carr on the drums making it a touch more local as well.

In a nice touch for the occasion, the Cha Haran band played support, featuring two  members of Granny’s intentions, including Cha himself, an ex-roadie for Horslips.

Cha Haran Band Limerick Milk Market

There was never any new album to introduce.  Instead there was a careful set list designed to showcase and celebrate their timeline, as the reaction to the first notes of the King of the Fairies showed.

The early years, the Book of Invasions section and the emigration themed songs were all threaded together before they finished with the anthem ‘Trouble with a capital T’ and reclaimed Dearg Doom from Italia 90.   The songs said it all.  Altogether, the music provided a cachet of memories from 1972 to 1980.

It will never be separated from its time and that it how it should be.  In that evocation it contained the reminder of what the band has bequeathed to modern Irish History.  Horslips created music that said that the Irish Jig was not the property of academics and rock n roll is owned by all no matter where you live.


Rubberbandits New Song — Fellas

I see the Rubberbandits have a new song, called Fellas, which is unfortunately a song reminding some people that, shockingly, it’s ok to be gay.

rubberbandits fellas

I say unfortunately because we live in a world where so many people think it’s not.  And ironically, that would include a sizeable chunk of the Bandits’ followers, if the comments on the video are anything to go by.

Well done to the Bandits for moving on, although it’s a pity the song needed to be written at all but at least  these boys aren’t going to end up years from now  in a horrible music-industry time-warp where sad old bastards with shopping bags on their heads bemoan a lost world of musical greatness.

As for the fuckers complaining about the use of the word fuck in the song, well, fuck them.  They obviously never heard Tim Minchin’s Pope Song.

Hmm.   Now that I think about it, is there a vague family resemblance in those two ditties?