Nandita To Nandini
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Sligo And The Singer free porn video
There’s truth and fiction in this story. My visit to both Irelands last year was a revelation. As always, my thanks to ErikThread for his helpful and expert editing. Any errors are entirely my own.
I was sitting in a bar in Sligo, a town on the west coast of the Republic of Ireland. I had just finished another ordinary evening meal. The Irish specialize in ordinary meals, I think. Anyhow, I am savoring a very nice Hennessey’s VSOP while the hired singer tunes his acoustic guitar. He had finished setting up his electronic synthesizers to reproduce the necessary background sounds of a five piece band, or something like it. I’m not really paying much attention to him other than to record that he has a passing resemblance to Paul McCartney. He only had a few years to go to catch up to Sir Paul’s age.
After a bit he began his set, and I almost fell off my chair. I recognize his opening number as John Prine’s The Speed of the Sound of Loneliness. Now, I didn’t know if anyone on this side of the Atlantic had ever heard of John Prine. Perhaps his Illegal Smile might have made it this far, but Speed of the Sound is truly obscure. It struck me as more than slightly odd that he would open with it. I knew I was going to have to learn where this bit of inspiration came from. I intended to ask him when he took his first break.
After two numbers, he was accosted by an aging, fat man in a white dress shirt and ridiculously short tie. I thought at first he was making a request, but I was sadly mistaken. He apparently had decided it was Karaoke Night, and he was entitled to ruin a perfectly good performance with his imperfect voice. While he was able to carry a tune, he was unable to maintain a recognizable key. His opening rendition of Danny Boy was painful in the extreme.
I had hoped he would recognize his limitations at that point, but again I was wrong. He launched into an even more off-key version of some little known Irish ballad and butchered it with the same wanton disregard that he had exhibited on the first number. Happily, he ran out of breath about the same time that he ran out of song.
I gazed in wonder at the audience as they applauded him for what they apparently thought was a virtuoso performance. All this time, I had held the belief that the Irish were a nation of song and singing. Famous tenors! World acclaimed groups! Surely they weren’t really saluting his talent. It must have been some kindness they bestowed on the old man.
It wasn’t long before the now well-lubricated crowd decided it was time for another performance by another local. This one, an Elvis impersonator in his own mind, was handicapped by his inability to remember the lyrics to most of the songs and his inability to find when to enter and exit the melody. It was another disaster and final evidence that the evening was going to hell in a handcart in rapid fashion. I switched my brandy for a Murphy’s Stout and hung on for the inevitable conclusion.
I was frozen in place by the sheer dreadfulness of the performances. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I did neither, and that was probably just as well for the crowd was getting a bit rowdy. The last thing I needed was some local taking umbrage at my attitude and deciding to go a few rounds in the traditional Irish fashion.
Finally, the musician that had begun the set gave up and decided on a break. He put down his guitar, and headed for the bar. I got up and walked over to the bar to see if I could talk to him.
‘Excuse me,’ I began. ‘I was curious about your first song. I didn’t ever expect to hear it here.’
He turned and looked at me with a weary expression. Then, as he absorbed the question, a knowing smile crossed his face.
‘It’s not a very well known piece. John Prine wrote it. He’s an American, as you probably guessed.’
‘Yes, I know the piece and I know John Prine. But he’s pretty obscure for this part of the world. How did you come to discover him?’ I asked.
He thought for a moment and then turned fully around to face me. ‘Someone gave me a CD of his ’70’s music. I ignored it and then one day, when I didn’t have anything else to do, I played it. I found it fascinating. He had these strangely serious but comic ideas. The topics were serious, but the songs all had this odd sense of humour.’
‘Do you have any more of his music in your repertoire?’ I asked.
‘Yes … a couple of tunes I really like. Unwed Fathers and The Torch Singer. He wrote so many, but only a few fit what I do.’
‘Well, my compliments. It’s unfortunate that you didn’t get a chance to perform. The dreaded Karaoke curse fell upon you,’ I smiled ruefully.
‘They’re gonna pay me anyway,’ he said absently. ‘I guess at my age, I should be grateful.’ He didn’t sound like he was grateful.
‘You’ve got a good voice, handy with the six-string, and some original or at least different music,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe there’s somewhere else you can perform.’
‘Yah … probably is, but Sligo is home, and I’m getting’ too old for the road, son.’ His watery eyes flicked back to the stage and we both noticed a quiet in the crowd. The unsponsored singers had disappeared.
‘I’d like to hear Unwed Fathers and maybe Fish and Whistle if you can,’ I asked.
He smiled at no one in particular and turned back to me. ‘Are we the only two in Ireland who know this stuff?’
‘Probably … but who gives a shit?’ I huffed.
‘Yah … who indeed?’ He put down his beer and walked back to the little stage, picking up his guitar as he stepped up. He checked the tuning, closed his eyes for a moment, and then began to play.
If we had been playing ‘Name that Tune’, I would have been able to call out Unwed Fathers by the fourth note. I didn’t, of course, but I leaned back on my stool and let the bar support my back. I sipped my Murphy’s and listened. He wasn’t trying to sound like John Prine, but his voice was clean and clear. It had that unmistakable Indiana-Kentucky cut that was perfect. I don’t think he knew how good he was, or maybe if he did, it didn’t matter any more.
I made him to be close to mid-fifties and according to the poster behind the stage, his name was Adam Newmoon. I doubted it was his given name, but it was one you could remember easily. That was always handy when you were trying to get noticed. He was lean and in a rough sort of way, handsome, I guess. I imagined the ladies might be drawn to him – the older ones at least. I nursed my stout through the set and waited until he came back to the bar.
‘Allow me,’ I offered.
‘Thanks.’
The bartender knew him well, because he didn’t pull a pint, but filled a drinking glass with soda water, and then poured a shot of Jamieson’s, sliding them expertly down the bar toward him.
‘Cheers,’ he said softly.
‘Cheers. That was a nice set. I liked the mix. You’ve got a lot of different stuff in your repertoire,’ I suggested.
‘Yah. Comes from bein’ in the business for a while,’ he said simply.
‘How long?’
‘Off and on … thirty years.’ He had turned to me and was looking at me with a wrinkled forehead to match his wrinkled smile.
I stuck out my hand. ‘Lee North.’
‘Terry O’Hannrahan,’ answering the unspoken question.
I looked over at the poster and smiled.
‘I’m in disguise,’ he offered with a grin.
‘Works for me,’ I grinned back.
‘I wish it worked better for me,’ he said wistfully.
‘Can you make a steady living at this?’
‘Yah … today I can. For a few more years … as long as the voice holds out. It wasn’t so easy back in the day.’
‘How come?’
‘The Republic was an economic basket case. We had never recovered from the nineteenth century when we either left, or died of starvation. Took us two hundred years to get to here.’
I was getting my own personal history lesson. I knew of the Irish Potato Famine, but I never though
t of what it had meant to this small, verdant country. Its beauty was obvious, but its history was dark.
‘What changed?’ I finally asked.
‘The E.U.,’ he said simply. ‘When Ireland got its economics fixed, it got an invitation to join, and we’ve never looked back.’
‘I noticed all the new houses and … well … not much sign of poverty. That kind of surprised me,’ I confessed.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Canada … Vancouver,’ I answered.
‘Lovely place. One of my favorite memories,’ he smiled.
‘Oh … you’ve been there?’
‘Aye. Spent some time in the British Merchant Navy.’
‘British? Isn’t that … I mean you being Irish?’ I stammered.
He looked at me and grinned. ‘Yah … not exactly popular at the time. But it was a job where I got to see a goodly part of this planet,’ he said succinctly.
‘What do you do?’ he asked after a pause, and a sip of the Jamieson’s.
‘I’m a writer.’
‘And what are you writing about?’
‘The New Republic … the new Ireland. It’s a tourism thing for a company in Boston,’ I concluded.
‘Ah … well … how long have you been here? In Ireland, I mean.’
‘This is week two. I started in Waterford when I got off the ferry from Wales, and I’ve been working my way around the island.’
‘And?’
‘Strange … not what I expected. I wondered about … you know … the ‘troubles,” I confessed.
‘Yah … well … things are pretty quiet these days. Just hope it stays that way,’ he mused.
‘You get involved?’ I asked.
‘No … bloody fools, the lot of them. Killin’ each other for reasons that died eighty years ago,’ he spat.
‘Not everyone feels that way, I gather.’
He looked at me again with a blank stare, and then turned back to his soda and whiskey. ‘No … I suppose not.
‘Where are you headed from here?’ he asked, brightening up.
‘The Giant’s Causeway, Londonderry, Belfast,’ I answered. ‘I wanted to get a feel for Northern Ireland, too.’
He nodded. ‘It’s very different. Very … dark, in my opinion. You’ll see the murals in ‘Derry, I suppose. You’ll get the idea.’
I was pondering his comments, and wondering what I’d encounter in the British-run country. I decided this was too downbeat for me right now, and it was time to change the subject.
‘When were you in Vancouver?’ I asked.
‘Oh … about eighty-five, I think. I was getting near the end of my contract, and I was knackered. I think we were in port about two weeks, most of it waiting for a berth. The weather was warm and the people were nice. I really enjoyed my time. Met a nice lady there, too.’
‘But Sligo is home?’
‘Aye … it’s where I belong,’ he said simply.
‘You must have spent some time in the U.S.,’ I suggested.
‘Made about six or seven trips that had stops in the U.S., mostly on the east coast. Got to see New York and Washington. Never got to Boston though,’ he said with regret.
‘So, with all those travels and all those places, what did it do for your repertoire?’
‘Oh, I suppose I heard enough different music to make up a dozen good sets that would work for my voice and for me. I can’t sing if I can’t stay interested,’ he said simply.
‘Yah … I often thought about that when I went to a long-running play. How the hell did the actors stay interested and focused when every night it was the same thing? It would drive me nuts,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘That’s the trick of live entertainment. Sometimes, it isn’t the performance, it’s the audience. I met John Prine, you know,’ he said, in a complete non sequitor.
‘Me too. I went backstage to interview him a couple of years ago. I was struck by what a nice guy he was … very laid-back.’
‘Aye … that’s what I felt too. He’s a very bright guy, you know. Has some strong opinions, but never seems to let them get in the way of his sense of humour. I don’t understand a lot of his music, but … I like it … and I like to play it now and then.’
‘Anyone else … you have anyone else you admire?’ I asked, curious about what other performer influenced his talent.
‘Yah … Bob Seeger, Marc Cohen, John Ondrasik, … there’s a few more. I have what someone once said was ‘eclectic taste,’ whatever the fuck that means,’ he laughed.
‘I think it means you’re all over the map … a real mix of unrelated styles. Bob Seeger?’ I must have had a funny, surprised looked when I said his name.
‘Aye … honest man. Says what he thinks. Rock and Roll ballads, if there is such a thing,’ he said with pursed lips.
‘I guess there is. You’re right … he is a story-teller of a kind. Who is John Ondrasik?’ I asked.
‘Calls himself ‘Five for Fighting.’ Another guy with interesting ideas about songs.’
‘OK, I’ve heard of them … or him? Isn’t it a group?’
‘No … he’s a loner. Been at it a long time. Like Marc Cohen. Years and years to become an overnight success,’ he snorted.
There was a lull in the conversation and finally, he raised his shot glass, finished the soda water and nodded this thanks. His third set was just as mixed as his second and just as unpredictable. There was little in it that would be called mainstream. I got the impression that was the idea.
I stayed until he finished for the night, gave him my card and wandered off to my room. I had planned to move along the next day, but I was beginning to have second thoughts. Perhaps another night of Adam Newmoon wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I had no real immediate deadline. I could spend the day pounding out a couple of thousand words on my laptop, detailing the people and places of the west coast of Ireland.
When I returned the next night, he was already into his first set. Happily, there was no repeat of the previous night’s interruption. The crowd was quiet and appreciative as he played, and they applauded appropriately for each song. They had revived him. He was clearly enjoying himself much more than the previous evening.
Sitting near the stage was a lone woman at a small table. She was very beautiful, not in the movie star or model category, but extremely attractive just the same. At the end of his first set, Terry walked over to her, leaned down and kissed her cheek and then headed for the bar. I waved to him as he arrived and he smiled and walked toward me.
‘I thought you were movin’ on today?’
‘Changed my mind. Wanted to hear what you had in mind tonight. You sound very up … very with it this evening,’ I complimented.
‘My wife’s here. She’s always good for my ego. She always gives me a boost,’ he smiled.
‘I can see why. She’s very beautiful.’
He nodded and sipped his soda water. ‘Siobhan’s been with me a long time. Eighteen years. Keeps me young, she does,’ he grinned.
‘Lucky man,’ I said sincerely.
Again, I stayed for the remainder of the evening and not a single song from the previous night was repeated. He played with enthusiasm for the responsive audience and I could see what he meant about the audience influencing the performance. They were with him tonight and he was out to please them. I walked away with a wave and the feeling that I had been well entertained once again.
I spent the next four days working my way north and then east as I entered Northern Ireland. I visited the amazing Giant’s Causeway and then to Londonderry and finally Belfast. The murals in ‘Derry were stunning and proof that ‘the troubles’ were far from a distant memory. Somehow, the north lacked the color and vibrancy of the south. There was a distinct change in attitude among the people.
I left Northern Ireland in a quandary about what I should write. It was fascinating and yet depressing. I felt like I was visiting a battleground where the war was not yet over. Prosperity had not yet made it to the north. I wondered to myself if it ever would.
I was sitting in a pub in Dublin
, reading the local paper when I spotted a headline on page three.
‘Sligo Terror Pair Arrested’ it said. I read the first three sentences and stopped cold.
‘Garda operatives arrested terror suspects Terry O’Hannrahan and his wife Siobhan yesterday afternoon on suspicion of plotting to murder peace activist Ryan Monaghan. The raid on the O’Hannrahan home took place Wednesday afternoon. Evidence was taken apparently linking the two to a plot to silence Monaghan.’
The rest of the article went on to describe Monaghan’s role in promoting peace and his quest toward the cessation of violence in both the Republic and Northern Ireland.
I sat silently stunned as I absorbed the information. It didn’t seem possible, and yet here it was in black and white. It was another reminder of how little we know about each other, and how appearances can be deceiving. I would have another story to write when I got back to Vancouver. This one would be stranger than fiction.
Maddy
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