"Love Me Now While We're Alive" Pt. 2 - Compelling Performances On 'That Wistful Stage': Alan Plays A Benefit, Produces The Irish Descendants' "Southern Shore," & Travels To Russell Crowe's "Land Of A Second Chance" (Plus A Cool Open For A Cup Final Game)
A late edit-in, but impossible to resist. Could there be any better way for the Hockey Night In Canada pre-game to lead into a Stanley Cup Final Game than with Great Big Sea's song Play The Game?
This video clip is a version of that same tune as performed on CBC's Hockey Day In Canada last year:
Play The Game, Great Big Sea .mov file, 5 MB
I can't imagine how it could get much better for the writer(s) of that tune than hearing it played for the broadcast of a Stanley Cup Final game, except maybe being able to be out there on the ice making the game-winning save or goal, very much needed for this game.
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Alright, now back to the original beginning:
...that wistful stage, somewhere perched between sadness and hope, the goal on the horizon, and the port left behind. - Bob Hallett's Soundtrack Journal, May 26 entry about Max Webster's Let Go The Line
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Two audio files from Alan's recent solo performance at a St. John's benefit:
Sally Ann, Alan Doyle solo acoustic, St. John's benefit performance, May 2007 .wma file, 4.7 MB
When I Am King, Alan Doyle solo acoustic, St. John's benefit performance, May 2007 .wma file, 6.5 MB
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Many thanks to Alan Doyle. Alan has given us the album of a life time! - The Irish Descendants, liner notes for Southern Shore, their latest CD, produced by Alan.
Not For The Money Alone (O'Brien/Doyle), from Southern Shore, track 5
On my way to a man, I've done all that I can
I tried every job under the sun
How I dearly enjoyed, when yearly us boys
Convened for the cuttin' out tongues
It was the thrill of my life
When I first held a knife
And was told I could join in the gang
Making cash of my own with a bucket and stone
Makes a lad feel like more of a man
From daylight to dark, the work it was hard
Especially considering our age
But when I was a kid, that's what everyone did
On the beach and the wharf and the stage
We'd rush and we'd hurry
Through old guts and gurry
They were slippery and smelly old days
Oh, the money we got when the tables were topped
Though I think we earned more than the pay
Oh, it's not for the Money Alone
We whetted and sharpened and honed
With an old knife and steel
At the tables we'd kneel
No, it's not for the Money Alone
The air of that place on hot summer days
Was hard on the senses of some
But I never minded, my nose had been blinded
By a grand time and work getting done
Now there's no smell at all
From the Spring to the Fall
No loads to the gunnels to cheer
I look at my son and I think of the fun
That he'll never have around here
It's not for the Money Alone
We whetted and sharpened and honed
With an old knife and steel
At the tables we'd kneel
It's not for the Money Alone
Now don't get me wrong, not everyone longs
To join me as I reminisce
But just to be clear about what I'm stating here
It's not just the dollars I miss
It's that boys seldom rove down the banks to the cove
Young lives are no longer entwined
For to sharpen and hone, o'er the lather and foam
With a pail and a steel and a knife
It's not for the Money Alone
We whetted and sharpened and honed
With an old knife and steel
At the tables we'd kneel
It's not for the Money Alone
We whetted and sharpened and honed At the tables we'd kneel
With an old knife and steel
It's not for the Money Alone
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Chorus, Land Of The Second Chance (Crowe/Doyle), My Hand, My Heart
Burning Field
Bow my head and bend my back and I will kneel
I'll give the angels thanks
For bringing me here and guiding my hand in this land
The Land of the Second Chance
Screen caps (much more to come - these are mostly the best ones of Alan) from the The Land Of The Second Chance TOFOG video 
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It's taken me a long time to link up several trains of thought and write about Southern Shore, the new Irish Descendants (the website's not up to date, but it still has some useful information) CD produced by Alan and described by the band as their "album of a lifetime," which is indeed impressive praise of that album's producer, given the IDs won a rare-as-hen's-teeth-to-be-awarded-to-any-Newfoundland-artist-no-matter-how-deserving Juno in 1996 for their Gypsies And Lovers CD. And I am in wholehearted agreement with their own estimation: Southern Shore is the IDs album of a lifetime, so far at least.
It is such an excellent album - such a perfect expression of all that is strong and genuine and persuasive and true in the music of this particular band - that it caught me off guard with how much I liked it from the first listen and how much more I have been liking it with each subsequent listen. As the person who's not supposed to be overly fond of trad music in general, and considerably less fond of Irish-influenced trad music in particular, it's more than a bit bemusing to find myself completely captivated from the get-go by just that kind of music, and while I've been (repeatedly) indulging in the pleasures of captivation, I've also been taking some time to ponder its causes. Granted, more indulgence than pondering, and thus the delay in writing.
It's not that I didn't expect to like Southern Shore. I've been looking forward to it since the day I heard Alan was producing it; my first day here in town I was down at Fred's pestering them about the release date, and the day after it was released I was playing my just-purchased copy on my laptop while I worked. While I tried to work, but I kept stopping and listening instead. Captivated, right from the start.
Now, of course, I am not a bit objective, admittedly so. Southern Shore was produced by Alan, Alan's distinctive voice can be heard singing and his even more-distinctive guitar work can be heard playing all over the CD; best of all, there's even a excellent Con O'Brien/Alan Doyle co-written song on the CD. I like Alan's work a great deal and I like Alan even more: I chuckle when I hear him hooting at the end of a song and I smile when I hear his harmony part mixed up just a bit above the others; then that smile turns foolishly affectionate when I hear him playing a passionate guitar part and proudly affectionate when I hear an especially evocative lyric that comes directly from a dear and familiar voice. So it stands to reason that I'd think well of Southern Shore. I expected to think well of it. I suppose what's bemusing me so much is that I didn't really expect it to catch hold of my heart with a grip quite so tight and tenacious.
Again, though, I did expect to like it well enough, for good and even for objective cause. I've been impressed with all of Alan's production efforts so far; in each and every case when I can make a comparison between prior works and the CD produced by Alan, the artists he's worked with have wound up with exactly what has happened for the IDs with Southern Shore: Alan Doyle has given each and every one of those artists their album of a lifetime.
Since I went into listening to most of those Alan-Doyle-produced CDs with some reservations about all of the artists - Barry Canning appeared talented enough but woefully undermotivated, I thought Russell Crowe was bursting with wildly undisciplined potential, and the Punters seemed to be hiding behind the protective wall of ironic detachment (no comparisons for Michelle Doyle...she simply sounds great and fantastically versatile on her CD) - I had high enough hopes for Southern Shore because I really do like The Irish Descendants, genre likes and dislikes aside, especially when they do the songs that play to their greatest strengths - Con O'Brien's beautifully wistful and sweetly gentle vocal style, their overall multi-instrumental ability to set tone and create mood in their skillfull playing, and, perhaps most of all, an ineffable but undeniable feeling of sincere and deep-rooted affection and respect for the music they play. For most of it, that is.
Unfortunately, since none of those strengths tend to show up at their strongest or their best at many of the kind of live pub shows (with parallels for other bands at rink, arena and club shows) where the main purpose of many of the patrons is to get as rowdily shit-faced as possible - expecting the band to help them in their quest - and the main purpose of the pub owners is to kindly assist those patrons in achieving that financially-desirable-to-themselves rowdily shit-faced state - also expecting the band to help them in their own quest - and since what gets played in the pub (and winds up being shouted out for the most in the pub) inevitably winds up on the CD too, my impression of the IDs has been that when they do the kind of music that suits them the most and appears closest to their hearts, they excel, and when they do what appears more to be what they feel is expected of them by the kinds of crowds they are most likely to be playing for (have I ever mentioned that I get people searching for "Great Big Sea's Barrett's Privateers" on my blog a minimun of several times a week, every week?), they become more like so many other pub bands, with potential and talent - and most of all sincerity - waylaid by the relentless demands of expectation and mislaid by the pragmatic need for self-protection.
I''ve only seen the IDs a few times live, at least once in the stereotypical keep-them-buying-the-drinks type of pub and most recently in a small restaurant-pub that was far more conducive to an atmosphere that gave them the freedom to play to their considerable strengths, initially at least. They played well in the sterotypical pub and they clearly made the thoroughly inebriated and escape-seeking crowd happy, but what I came away from that show remembering the most was the look in front man Con O'Brien's eyes. In the midst of that very good performance, he looked resigned to and accepting of what is, but yearning for and hopeful of what might be otherwise; his was one of the more open and honest faces I'd seen on any stage, especially on any pub stage.
At the small restaurant-pub show, the IDs put on a beautiful performance, filled with an impessive variation in tempo, depth of emotion, nuances of tone, and precision in playing - right up to the point when the group of drunken women visiting from Nova Scotia took over the show with the usual shouted-out requests for the kind of songs they could jump up and down to; as soon as those songs were played, out onto the postage-stamp-sized dance floor the lot of them marched, lurching about with sodden raucous laughter, twirling awkwardly and stomping gracelessly, crashing heedlessly into one another and pumping their fists in the air victoriously, thrilled to the core by the simple fact of having made the proceedings revolve around them and their notion of Fun instead of around such foolishness as the music. The show itself turned into Aural Pub Grub.
Once upon a time I was angered and appalled by such actions, but now I see them as inevitable, more "normal" for most pub settings - as well as for some fan groups - than not. What I do now during those times when the show has been taken over by the braying laughter and the pumping fists and the insistent demands is watch the performer whose stage and music have just been hijacked. What can be seen at those moments is fascinating, almost always moving, often frustrating, sometimes amusing; on occasion it is enough to break a heart, at other times to chill it. What I saw that night on Con O'Brien's face - true to my usual form, I had eyes only for the front man - made me hope that he and his band mates would find places to play where things might be otherwise, places where their songs could come straight from their own hearts and go straight to the hearts of those for whom they were playing.
I already knew Alan was producing the IDs latest CD when I saw that particular show, and that knowledge, coupled with what I had just seen and heard, made the hope all the stronger. After having been blown away by how Alan was somehow able to persuade The Punters to (temporarily, alas) abandon their wallow-in-the-idiotic-behaviour-of-their-typical-crowd-by-encouraging-it-so-they-can-feel-even-more-contempt-for-it-since-they-have-no-hope-of-changing-it suits of armor they wear to protect themsevles from just such idiocy, convincimg them instead to dare to take themselves seriously and play their music with an honest sincerity (as Alan so aptly put it, persuading them to see themselves as being extraordinary - and as I would add, persuading them as well to have the balls to show that they see themselves as being extraordinary), so much more seemed as if it might be possible with this group of performers who could still let their sincere love of their music and their as-yet-unjaded desire to share that music show, even in the presence of inattentive idiots.
So I had hope, and I had faith in Alan's skills - skills both in the tangible art of production and the intangible art of persuasion, the best possible and most effective combination for any producer. That Southern Shore still managed to so thoroughly exceed that hope and that faith says almost as much about the CD as does the Juno-winning's band's own "album of a lifetime" description, particularly since the genre of the CD's music is so far removed from what I'd be most likely to describe as my Music Of First Choice, so much so that it seems far past time for a re-definition of what it is that goes into the making of that First Choice.
Southern Shore has so much that's good going for it. It has impeccable playing and flawless arrangements that exist not as self-congratulatory ends unto themselves but instead as integral and necessary components that work together with lyrics and vocals to create mood and express meaning, at times the arrangement creates an aural picture of a song's subject matter (such as during the instrumental doubling that sounds like ethereal dancers that leads into the wistful reminiscences of quadrilles danced long ago in Pat Murphy's Meadow) and at other times the music provides a sure and steady foundation for the song's lyrics and vocals (best example of this is how the lilting instrumentals of We Laughed gives buoyancy to an emotional powerhouse of a song that could have turned into a maudlin tearjerker in less-skilled hands). The arsenal of instruments played by these accomplished musicians - guitar, accordian, whistles, fiddle, banjo, bouzouki, mandolin, harmonica, bass, bodhran, and percussion in a blissful variety of combinations and permutations - is used to its utmost potential to create the canvas upon which these songs are brought to life with consummate and expressive skill, sometimes in the company of lyrics and vocals, a few times all on its own.
Editing in what I should have put here to begin with, and shame on me for taking so long to do it: The Irish Descendants are comprised of Con O'Brien (lead vocals andf guitar), Mike Hanrahan (vocals. guitar, bouzouki, tenor banjo, tenor guitar), Glen Hiscock (vocals, fiddle, mandolin), Paul Hiscock (vocals, bass guitar), and Graham Wells (vocals, piano, accordion, bodhran, low whistles, harmonica. Guest performers on Southern Shore include Karla Pilgrim (vocals on We Laughed), Alan Doyle (vocals, guitar, percussion), Spencer Crewe (percussion), and Great Big Sea (Alan Doyle, Sean McCann, Bob Hallett) doing vocals on Downtown Girl.
The CD's songs range widely, including humorous story-telling tunes about town-terrorising hounds from hell to recalcitrant engines and their unlikely masters to once-highly regarded suitors who are now less-well-thought-of in-laws, as well as a tale about a flatulent breathalyzer avoider. There are two very different versions of women whose behaviour is less than exemplary, one more or less a self-involved little twat who "you'd best steer clear" of (Jim Fidler's Downtown Girl) and the other the amorously amoral lassie from the Town Of Bally Bay, whose passion for life does indeed give her a story worth the tellin'. Among many delightful lyrics on the CD, these from the latter song are so delightful as to be themselves worth the price of that CD:
She said she wouldn't dance
unless she had her Wellies on
but when she had them on
she could dance as well as anyone
she wouldn't go to bed
unless she had her chemise on
but when she had it on
she would go to bed with anyone (lyrics by Tommy Makem, Town Of Bally Bay)
As with the deeply emotional songs, the humorous songs are played with a self-effacing air, not once going over the top into posturing and posing, no bluster at all and even less insincerity. The poignancy comes across with a gentle earnestness and the humour with an unassuming dexterity in both sound and substance, absolutely the perfect approach for this particular group of musicians. The songs, the arrangements, and the overall tone all fit the band like a hand-tailored garment of exquisite craft and skill, with neither a metaphorical stitch nor a literal note out of its proper place.
There are two instrumentals on Southern Shore - one emphasising the accordion (how I would dearly love to see Newfoundland set dances done one day, better yet to learn how to dance them) the other the fiddle (with one tune in this set coming from Rufus Guinchard), and also a traditonal tale of the multigenerational heartbreak of Ireland's political strife that is both haunting and chilling in its relentless beauty. Then there is the song that I think the best of a very good lot: the co-written Not For The Money Alone, lyrics above, a heartfelt and loving remembrance of youthful participation in a rite-of-passage tradition that has been irretrievably lost to the present generation, a quiet and tender elegy to a bygone way of life that looks back to what once was while still accepting what now is, a quintessentially Newfoundland song, also an excellent example of "that wistful stage" Bob referred to in his journal entry, "somewhere perched between sadness and hope, the goal on the horizon, and the port left behind."
That Soundtrack Journal entry was most impressive in several respects. Not only did Bob make a song I have never heard that was done by a band I have never heard of (Kim Mitchell, yes, heard of and seen perform, but not Max Webster, not at all) come alive in my mind, he also wrote this particularly evocative passage that put several thought processes into motion:
When you pull away from the wharf, "let go the lines" (or more likely, "cast off") would be a command to release the ropes keeping you tied to the dock. It would be an exciting act: the nautical equivalent of "start your engines". It might also be frightening - the ocean here is fierce, and very dangerous. No one takes a sea voyage lightly. Casting off might also be an act of regret: on any voyage the crew is divided into two camps, one being those who are sailing towards, the other being those who are sailing away.
Whenever I read good writing - be it lyric or prose - I wonder about the images and experiences that might have started the writer along the path that eventually led to an especially effective image or turn of phrase; when I read this passage the first time and got to the crew of two camps, each with its own directional definition, one group sailing towards and the other sailing away, I didn't even need to close my eyes to see a tour bus rolling inexorably down an endless road. Then I got to the part about that wistful balancing point between sadness and hope (and I so enjoy the play that is possible with the word "stage"), and those words rang true, not in regard to the song I've never heard, but as an apt description of what I was hearing as the fundamental strength of the songs on Southern Shore.
"Somewhere perched between sadness and hope" is also an apt description of what immediately and irrevocably drew me to an unknown songwriter I stumbled across on a Canadian television show six years ago, as well as of what I consider to be the very best of what that songwriter's band comes out with. It even does well to describe much of the strength of that now-favourite songwriter's performance dynamic - with his own band, with other performers, and perhaps most especially by himself, that eager and self-effacing, sweet and endearing man I just saw a bit ago at the local benefit here - and also his collaborative work, particularly with Russell Crowe, including Land Of The Second Chance, along with all of the other songs on My Hand, My Heart. There might even be a place for my equally bemusing love for so many of the songs of Fergus & Dermot/Ryan's Fancy beneath the umbrella of that apt description. For me, the draw and the appeal of those artists whose work comes from that place is a response to their work, and to that place, as being consistent with my own personal belief in and appreciation of what is to me both genuine and true.
I thought about it some more, and it all finally began to make some sense to me. To reach that place, "that wistful stage," as Bob has termed it, to be able to create and play music (or create any kind of art) from a place that is perched between sadness and hope - as well as to fully appreciate and enjoy any work of art created from that place - there has to be an full acknowledgment of and open acceptance of the concurrent and continuing existence of both the sadness and the hope...in other words, there is no room for the protective guises of ironic contempt or blustering insincerity or reality avoidance in such a place, neither for the artist nor for his audience. That wistful stage is a place that insists upon a genuine and heartfelt effort to be met with a genuine and heartfelt response.
All of which might not be an impossible achievement in a pub environment, but certainly an unlikely one. When I hear new songs, I tend to think of them in terms of their being played live - "That one will play well in the pub"... "I can see the light show that they'll do for that song at the rink"..."Now there's a tune that will leave the theatre hushed and the crowd in awe"..."That one will have them jumping around half-cracked at the club" - but with Southern Shore, more often than not I kept thinking about the songs being played for such a mixed group that no specific kind of venue came to mind at first.
I can hear children laughing along to the "Bow Wow Wow" chorus of Mickey Relligans' Pup and see daughters reaching out to put a trembling hand on their mothers' shoulders during We Laughed, suddenly too choked up to sing along. I can see young fathers gazing wistfully at their babes and toddlers while Not For The Money Alone is played, and then squaring their shoulders and singing loudly (and perhaps a bit defiantly) along. Downtown Girl - and having GBS singing along on this one feels much less like a "guest appearance by" and more like "now it's your turn to share in with the singing" - and Town Of Bally Bay seem as if they would be the occasion of much eye-rolling and lip-pursing by the Good Girls and the Nans, though they'd all still sing each and every bawdy line with gleeful gusto, with a twinkle or two to be seen in the rolling eyes and the quirk of a wicked smile dancing across more than one pair of pursed lips.
Pat Murphy's Meadow would cause the older couples to smile and draw closer to one another, Four Green Fields might cause a chin to lift a bit higher and make a pair of eyes shine with pride, and Mick Maguire would result in fits of (barely) suppressed laughter as glances were directed at the most thoroughly dysfunctional in-law relationship to be found in the present company. The instrumentals brought images to mind of dancers whose grace and skill are the end result of a long familiarity with their partners and with the dance steps, light feet stepping sure and nimble, laughing faces red from exertion and excitement, rather than from excessive inebriation.
I'm a bit reluctant to say this, because it seems reasonable to expect that the IDs will be playing these songs in pubs both local and on the Mainland, but I believe the greatest strength of this album is that the music on it has an honesty and sincerity that would be far more likely to be found in the home than in the pub, though all the better to find it in the pub as well. This music plays genuine, with the vulnerability of an open and trusting heart and the warmth of an affectionate and accepting embrace. I am coming to realise that this very well might be a much better description of my own Music Of First cCoice, regardless of genre or place of influence. Though there does often seem to be a certain consistency when it comes to the pervasiveness of that Alan Doyle Connection, and perhaps also to some extent a Southern Shore connection as well, the man being so inextricably a part of the place from which he comes.
And since listening to The Hard & The Easy - especially Tickle Cove Pond and French Shore - while travelling up and down the length of the Northern Peninsula deepened the pleasure in the music and the appreciation of the place, we're heading off again this weekend - bearable weather permitting - to do the same with the Southern Shore and this Irish Descendants album of a lifetime that seems such a articulate and persuasive expression of the place in which those who created the album - band members and producer alike - grew up, the place where it's clear a good part of their hearts still abide.
But no flipping the car outside Cappaheyden this time out. This time it will be the more-usual version of doing the Irish Loop. And I have a feeling that this time it will be Not For The Money Alone that's getting the lion's share of play, though I'm sure Pat Murphy and the Lassie from Bally Bay will get a fair hearing too, and all the rest as well. Still, Not For The Money Alone is sure to be heard up and down that road. When Alan's semi-mythical solo CD finally comes out, maybe he'll have his own version of that song on it. Or maybe he'll perform it at some future Songwriters' Circle. Perhaps GBS might even do a version of it one fine day; from how Bob describes Let Go The Line, both of those songs might go very well together in the Days Of GBS Yet To Come. Who knows? It might even happen on their album of a lifetime.
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I'll put up some more of the Land Of A Second Chance screen caps in a few days and the photo album link too, once I get that finished. I'm thinking of doing the D.C. Warner Theatre show pictures next, totally out of all of my many broken sequences, to be sure, but the pictures are gorgeous and the show was grand; gorgeous and grand always trump orderly and disciplined.
Unmistakably Alan Doyle 
