youngraven: (mise mé fhein)
 After five years under new ownership, the Tipperary Inn has shut its doors. Call it another casualty of the dodgy economic climate. The place was rammed to the rafters last night, with the Whalers calling out for us to drink the pub dry. Shaddow and I had managed to establish ourselves in one of the snugs opposite the bar. I kept possession of it whilst Shaddow wandered. Once, a fellow leant in with a camera and asked whether I minded if he snapped a photo of the snug's glass panes. 

Everybody wanted something to remember. We walked away with several boxes of matchsticks that the venerated and infamous previous landlord, Martin Lombard, had ordered before his departure. Ricky took a stack of beer mats. We swopped him a box of matchsticks for a few of them. He'd worn a new hat for the occasion. Ricky's personal trademark is a leather hat a bit reminiscent of a Greek fisherman's cap. I've rarely seen him without it - even when he's fallen asleep in the midst of one of Linda's parties. The new hat was very much Ricky's way of dressing smartly. 

Since the announcement Tim sent round, I've been reflecting a great lot on what this place has been in my life. The original Tipperary Inn (now the Dubliner in Greenville Avenue) was my first seisiun. Even after Martin chucked me out one night, I managed to find a way back. Many of the people I now play with I met there. I remember the night Albert took me aside and, and in a quarter of an hour, changed the entire way I played the bodhran. 

I remember meeting a fellow with sandy-coloured hair who as his personal trademark wore one white shoe and one black shoe. I remember sitting across from him one night, and in an epiphany realising that he would be The One. After Martin shut shop in Greenville Avenue and moved to Live Oak and Skillman (and some of us still refer to it as 'the new Tipperary'), Shaddow and I had our first official date there (we'd gotten together at the Sweeneys' annual ceilidh). 

I recall the acoustics being vicious at the new Tipperary, but that never stopped us coming round. I recall Sessa and myself and Colin engaging in epic air hockey battles in the upstairs loft. I recall an eejit girl putting her foot through Michael's bodhran at the climax of some sort of spastic bounding fit. I also recall that she never managed to have it repaired for him. 

I remember being scolded by a barmaid for not eating my carrots one night. I think about that from time to time. I'd eat my carrots now. Hell, I'd likely eat your carrots too - if you didn't fancy eating them.

When Tim, Dutch, and Tudor took over, I had a band ready that could play the Tipp, and we were granted the first of many Saturday night gigs there. It was a comfortable place to play, really. The stage was wide, we never felt stuffed into a tiny corner. It was grand. I remember meeting John there and thinking 'Jesus wotta gobshite'; my opinion of him hasn't changed. 

I recall the chap who'd come out to St Pat's every year wearing a black shirt upon which he'd embroidered, in red letters, 'spank me, I'm English'. He always wanted to hear 'The Black Velvet Band', and speaking of the English, I recall the group of people who asked whether we knew any songs that didn't involve killing the English - 'that's us, just so we're clear'. Pardon me, but what part of 'cead mile failte' gave you lot the idea that perhaps this wasn't an Irish pub...

I recall Darren behind the bar taking the piss out of me for singing when I was clearly too ill to even speak. I recall my bandmates saying to me, 'I think you're done'. It was then that I realised that I'm never as young and indestructible as once I was.

I thought of other things as well, other places, other times, and how we've all been circling round each other for decades in this scene, waiting for our paths to cross.

And then Tim called for Time. 

Slan agus beannacht, agus go raibh mile maith agat. 

youngraven: (Default)
 After five years under new ownership, the Tipperary Inn has shut its doors. Call it another casualty of the dodgy economic climate. The place was rammed to the rafters last night, with the Whalers calling out for us to drink the pub dry. Shaddow and I had managed to establish ourselves in one of the snugs opposite the bar. I kept possession of it whilst Shaddow wandered. Once, a fellow leant in with a camera and asked whether I minded if he snapped a photo of the snug's glass panes. 

Everybody wanted something to remember. We walked away with several boxes of matchsticks that the venerated and infamous previous landlord, Martin Lombard, had ordered before his departure. Ricky took a stack of beer mats. We swopped him a box of matchsticks for a few of them. He'd worn a new hat for the occasion. Ricky's personal trademark is a leather hat a bit reminiscent of a Greek fisherman's cap. I've rarely seen him without it - even when he's fallen asleep in the midst of one of Linda's parties. The new hat was very much Ricky's way of dressing smartly. 

Since the announcement Tim sent round, I've been reflecting a great lot on what this place has been in my life. The original Tipperary Inn (now the Dubliner in Greenville Avenue) was my first seisiun. Even after Martin chucked me out one night, I managed to find a way back. Many of the people I now play with I met there. I remember the night Albert took me aside and, and in a quarter of an hour, changed the entire way I played the bodhran. 

I remember meeting a fellow with sandy-coloured hair who as his personal trademark wore one white shoe and one black shoe. I remember sitting across from him one night, and in an epiphany realising that he would be The One. After Martin shut shop in Greenville Avenue and moved to Live Oak and Skillman (and some of us still refer to it as 'the new Tipperary'), Shaddow and I had our first official date there (we'd gotten together at the Sweeneys' annual ceilidh). 

I recall the acoustics being vicious at the new Tipperary, but that never stopped us coming round. I recall Sessa and myself and Colin engaging in epic air hockey battles in the upstairs loft. I recall an eejit girl putting her foot through Michael's bodhran at the climax of some sort of spastic bounding fit. I also recall that she never managed to have it repaired for him. 

I remember being scolded by a barmaid for not eating my carrots one night. I think about that from time to time. I'd eat my carrots now. Hell, I'd likely eat your carrots too - if you didn't fancy eating them.

When Tim, Dutch, and Tudor took over, I had a band ready that could play the Tipp, and we were granted the first of many Saturday night gigs there. It was a comfortable place to play, really. The stage was wide, we never felt stuffed into a tiny corner. It was grand. I remember meeting John there and thinking 'Jesus wotta gobshite'; my opinion of him hasn't changed. 

I recall the chap who'd come out to St Pat's every year wearing a black shirt upon which he'd embroidered, in red letters, 'spank me, I'm English'. He always wanted to hear 'The Black Velvet Band', and speaking of the English, I recall the group of people who asked whether we knew any songs that didn't involve killing the English - 'that's us, just so we're clear'. Pardon me, but what part of 'cead mile failte' gave you lot the idea that perhaps this wasn't an Irish pub...

I recall Darren behind the bar taking the piss out of me for singing when I was clearly too ill to even speak. I recall my bandmates saying to me, 'I think you're done'. It was then that I realised that I'm never as young and indestructible as once I was.

I thought of other things as well, other places, other times, and how we've all been circling round each other for decades in this scene, waiting for our paths to cross.

And then Tim called for Time. 

Slan agus beannacht, agus go raibh mile maith agat. 

youngraven: (sprig)
I suppose the lesson to be learnt here is never to shoot the lot by the second set. 'Cos you never know when the clock at the bar might be off by an hour, and you might actually have to play your fourth set - having just limped through your third.

Well, it wasn't exactly limping, but there was a palpable drop in whee after set two. At the break between sets two and three, I remembered what the girl in Paisley Close had said about four-hour pub gigs. Oish. Ten years ago, I was better equipped to push thro' it and carry on. Ah well, eh?

After set four, and we'd made our goodbyes, &c. [livejournal.com profile] typsygypsy and I sunk down to the ground, thus beginning the splat portion of the night. Oish again. Today has been little other than a prolonged splat - there's no whee in this house to be had. I suppose it doesn't help that it's pretending to rain.

All things considered, last night went well. My voice failled me at the top of set three, but I was expecting that so it didn't come as much of a shock. Michelle played in with us for a few tunes, and that made for an amazing wall of sound. 'Whenever I stand on this stage, I get a hot flash', she announced to the audience. That's our Michelle - utterly lacking in internal censors. Eee.

We had dancers. Dancers are brilliant.
youngraven: (Default)
Last night went over really well. Ah sure, there were a few challenges to be met - the occasional argument between the flute and the sound system, the 12-string pick up's decision to act the diva and refuse to perform, the almost obscene placement of an instrument mic for and the lead singer forgetting and/or misplacing a few needful pieces of equipment - but overall, it was grand.

We'd a loud, responsive crowd (cheers to all of youse who came out in support) composed of people we knew and people we didn't. It was brilliant to see so many faces willing to brave the death of summer. Standing on the stage, I completely forgot that not twenty feet away from me (and just beyond the door) people standing on the pavement were evaporating into little puffs of steam.

To my own credit, I made it the entire show without launching a single tipper. I dropped a plectrum, but since it was before I'd actually picked up my guitar to play, it doesn't count. The last time I played bodhrán in a performance capacity, I dropped a tipper once per set. I've changed my playing style a bit, and I'm still working out how to control my tipper. Sure, I could go on, but the physics of bodhrán playing is hardly a gripping subject (oh dear, a pun - shoot me).

So, for any of you lot who missed us this time, we'll be at Grapefest on 7 September at 3pm (one set on the Hummer Stage - rarr!) and then at Trinity Hall on 22 September for the last O'Flaherty benefit. I don't know the time for that one yet, only that it begins at 6.00pm. The O'Flaherty Irish Music Retreat is an amazing thing. [livejournal.com profile] shaddowshoes, [livejournal.com profile] typsygypsy, and myself came out to the first one, and we all of us were really impressed. In short, it's certainly a worthy cause and a chance to have a listen to some of the finest talent the local Irish scene has got to offer.

Alright, enough of my preening - only, it's joying to bask in the glow of all of our efforts. :)

In other news, we've chosen a studio, so we'll be booking time for that soon. We're still hoping to have something ready for Celtic Heritage Festival in October; I'll do my endeavour to keep everybody apprised of our progress. I may well even post studio photos - 'cos that's always entertaining.

Slan, youse.
G.
youngraven: (spriggan)
It's the absolute death of summer - you know that time of year in which it's hot as Hades, your lawn has vapourised, and your dog has flown north in search of a cooler clime.

There is one solution, however: beer. Beer is renowned the world over for its heat-reducing properties. Grand, you say, but where will I find this beer of which you speak? I'm glad you asked - beer can be
found at the Tipperary Inn. By no small coincidence, Spriggan can also be found at the Tipperary Inn - on 19 August 2006, to be specific.

So, come out, drink beer, have a listen to music that comes from a colder part of the world, and give your brain something to do besides melt for a few hours.

Here are the details again...

Spriggan
The Tipperary Inn
5815 Live Oak Street
Dallas TX 75214
214.821.6500
19 August 2006
8.00 PM - 12.00 AM

Tell your friends, their friends, and complete strangers to come out - it'll be a blast.

Slan,
Spriggan

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