Don't worry. I haven't gone away. Just there's little to report at this very moment in time in the line of pints, tunes, festivals, gigs and cds. I will return to you as soon as something happens.
Incidentally, I do have a few rants that I'd like to get off my chest at some point, some music related, some not so music related. Here is a basic list, so I don't forget them.
1. Bad drivers.
2. Smoking ban and the effect it has on the quality of sessions.
3. Celtic Woman.
4. CCE
5. "That's not traditional" - Innovation in trad.
6. What makes a good session?
7. Shitheads - you might be a great player, but seriously, with that attitude?
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Singing Career
My singing career begins tonight. I fully expect that you will have to pay about £120 to see me in the Point or somewhere next year, hopefully for a twelve night run. Enjoy the treat of hearing my melodious, dulcet tones while you can. These things won't be free for very much longer....
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Norn Iron Situation.
It's all great and friendly and the whole lot, but does anyone else still start slightly when they see Ian and Martin above, drinking cups of tea and being mates? It's still a bit weird, and when they're on the news, I can't help but shake my head in disbelief and cluck in amazement every evening.
In others news, a newsreader on the radio the other day consistently called Gordon Brown Blair in her report. Serves him right for having a surname that starts with the same letter as his predescessor.
In others news, a newsreader on the radio the other day consistently called Gordon Brown Blair in her report. Serves him right for having a surname that starts with the same letter as his predescessor.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Miltown apologies and summing up.
I just re-read those posts below and realised that they read more like a primary school 'What I Did On My Summer Holidays' (drank pints and slept in a car, teacher) essay than a blistering review of all things trad. I won't do it again, I promise. Plus it was an awful amount of typing for someone as pathologically lazy as me.
Anyways, to sum up Miltown. The problem is, there are just too many people there. The pubs are too packed, everyone is too drunk and any session with even shred of potential is quickly hammered into oblivion by either drunk participants or spectators. So the temptation is not to play and join the drunk people, and then of course less people play, leading to less music again. And that is a very quick sum up of what, in my wholly accurate, well researched and professional opinion, is wrong with Miltown.
The pints were good though. I'll have to give them that.
Anyways, to sum up Miltown. The problem is, there are just too many people there. The pubs are too packed, everyone is too drunk and any session with even shred of potential is quickly hammered into oblivion by either drunk participants or spectators. So the temptation is not to play and join the drunk people, and then of course less people play, leading to less music again. And that is a very quick sum up of what, in my wholly accurate, well researched and professional opinion, is wrong with Miltown.
The pints were good though. I'll have to give them that.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Miltown 2007 - part 2.
Now where was I? Asleep in bed until late o clock, incidentally, until I was woke all of a sudden to go to the gym. Boo.
Anyway, Miltown, Miltown, collect car, misery and misfortune....sunshine! That was the really strange thing about the week of willies this year - every second day was pleasant, while every other day (also every second day. It all depends on where you start counting from) was like something out of Angela's Ashes. Tuesday was the day for the luxury of the Belbridge (hup!) so between that and the sun, I was a contented kitten altogether.
No tunes at all Tuesday. This is something everyone seems to agree on with Miltown. Tunes are just not that great. Yes, it's a messy festival and there is savage craic to be had. But if you're looking for nice intimate tunes that lift your spirits and remind you why you play in the first place?... Go elsewhere. It's just naive to think that you'll be constantly entrenched in some sort of session to end all sessions below. It's not an ideal situation (didl-idl-idl-i) but once you accept it, and just enjoy meeting everyone you haven't seen all year, you're not too long getting over it.
So a few car loads of friends arrived on Tuesday, and we spent more time giggling in the campsite than anything. The crowd mainly consisted of primary school teachers incidentally. I'm trying to figure out if that means anything in a metaphysical, profound sense, but I'm having trouble getting off the ground with any theory of mine. It was off out to the Belbridge then. Several hilarious incidents involving carpet burn, a couch and a bet ensued (which I won't get into here - the involved parties know who they are). Then to BED for the night.
Can I repeat myself? BED FOR THE NIGHT. Special stuff.
Wednesday dawned with the miserable realisation that we were out of a room and Garda Two and the Pink Hovel were now our lodgings for the night. It was also miserable that it was the second of the second days (if that makes sense) and twas merrily teaming out of the high heavens, the previous days sunshine but a distant memory.
No tunes again on Wednesday. Boo us. Had to be forcibly removed from the Belbridge however, and arrived back to the Lady's Garden (the campsite I moved to midweek) via a circuitous route (a box player I know remarked that the bus trips home were more like a tour of Europe than a five minute jaunt down the road). Abdicated to the car for the night - the Hotel Seat Ibiza was ready and open for business. Not the worst of lodgings - at least she's dry.
We're on what day? Wednesday? Shite, the week was much longer than I thought. Thursday is left, right? Or right. Left, I mean, left.
Thursday I decided to spend some time with the parents, who despite their rather respectable appearance are a pair of screaming hippies all the same. The Aul Fella and I had a wee thing to do that morning, playing for a lot of primary teachers (again primary teachers. Still trying to find a tangible meaning. Maybe it's just that a lot of people are primary teachers). Lovely music, lovely crowd. After this, a stroll in Quilty was suggested, which I thought would be a great way to blow off the cobwebs from the Hotel Seat Ibiza.
The three of us set off for some secret beach Dad knew of, which you couldn't reach from the road. Apparently you can't swim there, but via the rocky road we arrived at some very comfy rocks, with the sea beating off them furiously. Of course, Dad lay down and realised that if you closed your eyes, it sounded like the sea was going to come in on top of you. Thus it was that my parents and I ended up lying on a deserted beach on a rock with our eyes closed, meditating. I have this problem about staying still, you see and was hopping up every thirty seconds to see if there was any action afoot. I heard once that staying still takes lots of practise and that's why people take meditation classes. Practise doing nothing. Hmmm. I like the sound of that.
Back we went, and after a short detour down to a deserted castle, twas back to get ready for another night of it. Gang were in Clancy's playing, and I joined them, only for the session to cave soon after I did. Basically the arrival of a rogue pain in the jacksie joined in and everyone split. Boo. The same rogue pain in the jacksie was spotted crashing another session later in the night, which fell apart in similar fashion. Now, as someone with a background (albeit a very broad and insubstantial background) in psychology, you just have to wonder about these people. I have NO problem with anyone, regardless of who they are, what kind of skill level they're at and who else is playing joining a session, quietly playing along and having the craic, with a general sense of cop on and decorum. I mean, it's not like people need permission to join in - all are welcome, lets be honest. But you just need to be cognisant of the effect you are having on all participants in a session - both musicians and spectators alike. All are welcome, pending a little bit of general cop on. It does take a special kind of 'musician' however, to cause the break up of not one but two sessions in as many hours. Like I said, if you're not getting the message from that....you really have to wonder.
Here's the embarrassing thing. In all my years in Miltown, I've never been to the Crosses of Annagh (I'll just pop away for a few minutes to duck all the missiles you're throwing at me - I'm perfectly aware of the disgraceful nature of this particular confession). Having spent Thursday night there, I'm really wondering why I never made the trip out before. Good madness, lots of tunes and the girls toilets were working (I heard somewhere that the mens' weren't. Poor boys - I felt sorry for you for all of two seconds.). The plan was loudly voiced by yours truly that we were all going to Coor, but you know what? Nah, I just slipped back to Miltown and to the Seat Ibiza, where I snoozed contentedly without any comprehension of the party that was going full swing not ten metres away until eight in the morning. I've said it before and I've said it again - I'm a fan of sleeping, and I'm very talented at it too.
Anyway, Miltown, Miltown, collect car, misery and misfortune....sunshine! That was the really strange thing about the week of willies this year - every second day was pleasant, while every other day (also every second day. It all depends on where you start counting from) was like something out of Angela's Ashes. Tuesday was the day for the luxury of the Belbridge (hup!) so between that and the sun, I was a contented kitten altogether.
No tunes at all Tuesday. This is something everyone seems to agree on with Miltown. Tunes are just not that great. Yes, it's a messy festival and there is savage craic to be had. But if you're looking for nice intimate tunes that lift your spirits and remind you why you play in the first place?... Go elsewhere. It's just naive to think that you'll be constantly entrenched in some sort of session to end all sessions below. It's not an ideal situation (didl-idl-idl-i) but once you accept it, and just enjoy meeting everyone you haven't seen all year, you're not too long getting over it.
So a few car loads of friends arrived on Tuesday, and we spent more time giggling in the campsite than anything. The crowd mainly consisted of primary school teachers incidentally. I'm trying to figure out if that means anything in a metaphysical, profound sense, but I'm having trouble getting off the ground with any theory of mine. It was off out to the Belbridge then. Several hilarious incidents involving carpet burn, a couch and a bet ensued (which I won't get into here - the involved parties know who they are). Then to BED for the night.
Can I repeat myself? BED FOR THE NIGHT. Special stuff.
Wednesday dawned with the miserable realisation that we were out of a room and Garda Two and the Pink Hovel were now our lodgings for the night. It was also miserable that it was the second of the second days (if that makes sense) and twas merrily teaming out of the high heavens, the previous days sunshine but a distant memory.
No tunes again on Wednesday. Boo us. Had to be forcibly removed from the Belbridge however, and arrived back to the Lady's Garden (the campsite I moved to midweek) via a circuitous route (a box player I know remarked that the bus trips home were more like a tour of Europe than a five minute jaunt down the road). Abdicated to the car for the night - the Hotel Seat Ibiza was ready and open for business. Not the worst of lodgings - at least she's dry.
We're on what day? Wednesday? Shite, the week was much longer than I thought. Thursday is left, right? Or right. Left, I mean, left.
Thursday I decided to spend some time with the parents, who despite their rather respectable appearance are a pair of screaming hippies all the same. The Aul Fella and I had a wee thing to do that morning, playing for a lot of primary teachers (again primary teachers. Still trying to find a tangible meaning. Maybe it's just that a lot of people are primary teachers). Lovely music, lovely crowd. After this, a stroll in Quilty was suggested, which I thought would be a great way to blow off the cobwebs from the Hotel Seat Ibiza.
The three of us set off for some secret beach Dad knew of, which you couldn't reach from the road. Apparently you can't swim there, but via the rocky road we arrived at some very comfy rocks, with the sea beating off them furiously. Of course, Dad lay down and realised that if you closed your eyes, it sounded like the sea was going to come in on top of you. Thus it was that my parents and I ended up lying on a deserted beach on a rock with our eyes closed, meditating. I have this problem about staying still, you see and was hopping up every thirty seconds to see if there was any action afoot. I heard once that staying still takes lots of practise and that's why people take meditation classes. Practise doing nothing. Hmmm. I like the sound of that.
Back we went, and after a short detour down to a deserted castle, twas back to get ready for another night of it. Gang were in Clancy's playing, and I joined them, only for the session to cave soon after I did. Basically the arrival of a rogue pain in the jacksie joined in and everyone split. Boo. The same rogue pain in the jacksie was spotted crashing another session later in the night, which fell apart in similar fashion. Now, as someone with a background (albeit a very broad and insubstantial background) in psychology, you just have to wonder about these people. I have NO problem with anyone, regardless of who they are, what kind of skill level they're at and who else is playing joining a session, quietly playing along and having the craic, with a general sense of cop on and decorum. I mean, it's not like people need permission to join in - all are welcome, lets be honest. But you just need to be cognisant of the effect you are having on all participants in a session - both musicians and spectators alike. All are welcome, pending a little bit of general cop on. It does take a special kind of 'musician' however, to cause the break up of not one but two sessions in as many hours. Like I said, if you're not getting the message from that....you really have to wonder.
Here's the embarrassing thing. In all my years in Miltown, I've never been to the Crosses of Annagh (I'll just pop away for a few minutes to duck all the missiles you're throwing at me - I'm perfectly aware of the disgraceful nature of this particular confession). Having spent Thursday night there, I'm really wondering why I never made the trip out before. Good madness, lots of tunes and the girls toilets were working (I heard somewhere that the mens' weren't. Poor boys - I felt sorry for you for all of two seconds.). The plan was loudly voiced by yours truly that we were all going to Coor, but you know what? Nah, I just slipped back to Miltown and to the Seat Ibiza, where I snoozed contentedly without any comprehension of the party that was going full swing not ten metres away until eight in the morning. I've said it before and I've said it again - I'm a fan of sleeping, and I'm very talented at it too.
Miltown 2007 - part 1.
Five days is a very long time when you're camping in a hot pink tent that is clearly not waterproof and bedtime is regularly past three (if you're lucky). The biggest and baddest festival of the lot was last week and it has taken until Sunday night for me to feel healthy enough to write about it.
Sunday rolled around a whole lot faster than I'd intended (the previous week had seen a heavy work and gig schedule, and Saturday night was a birthday night out for a mate). The result of it was, somewhat inevitably, that packing resorted to grabbing a pile of clothes and a handful of socks, stuffing them into two bags and lobbing the whole lot into the boot. Onto this I threw my double duvet and a pillow, my pink pink pink tent (purchased in a fit of giddy excitement for €16 in Dunnes - I should have known) and a horrid cheap sleeping bag, the kind that sticks to your every move like some sort of creepy old man from the birthday night out the night before (twas Teds we frequented on the Saturday night. If you're from Limerick you'll know what I mean).
Miltown bound I was, and despite nearly being killed through no fault of my own on the dual carriage way on the way down, I arrived, fresh faced and innocent, to blue, blustery skies and sunshine. Boys were duly dispatched to put up my tent. They complained bitterly about the colour of course, but it was up and I was off to the Belbridge in a borrowed Limerick camogie jersey to watch the Munster hurling final.
Eep. Hurling. Not even close to having even a rudimentary appreciation for the fastest game in the world, I went into a room full of Waterford supporters who laughed at me when Limerick lost. I think I spent more time outside with my pint than watching the game (I'm more of a rugby girl really), but I did my duty for my county and spent the rest of the night proudly wearing my borrowed jersey.
Tunes were duly called for, and Brona and Eimear Graham, Mickey Dunne and a few others started up a session in a part of the Belbridge that had the unhappy distinction of being the most airless, sticky and humid place in the whole of Co. Clare. Still, we persisted, and in true Miltown style, about forty thousand musicians joined us, the whole thing descended into a bit of a mess, and I went off for pints. (Weight Watchers not being foremost among my thoughts, given the late hour.)
On the subject of pints, the Belbridge has no Heineken on tap. This was at first glance mildly annoying, but in retrospect I think it's kinda cool. A bit of individualism in a world of McDonalds, Walmart and chinese fiddles.
Anyways, the second day of Miltown continued in much the same vein. A short spell of recuperation (i.e. a shower and fifty three cups of tea in my parents' friend's mobile home) and back on it again. A civilian (that is, non musician) mate of mine came down (I was only mildly irritated with the thoughts of having to share my pink palace) and we hot-tailed it into Michael A's for a few tunes. There was one minor blip in the interim, however. We had heard that a family I know were going home a night early and they had very kindly offered us their room in the Belbridge for the night. It had started to rain like nobodies business in the meantime, so this was most excellent news. Happy days!! So I enthusiastically blagged a key from reception and all but ran up to my luxurious suite for the night, burst in the door, cries of triumph echoing down the carpeted halls behind me......
.....to find all three members of the family inside in the room, sitting about. They seemed very surprised to see me (as you would). It was with burning red cheeks I heard that in fact the room was for the following night and that I was going to be back in the pink tent that night. Horrors. They were very nice about it though, and my own parents thought that my complete lack of social grace was hilarious. They didn't hesitate to remind me of it either.
A long night followed with not many tunes, and a feed of pints (Carlsberg, not Heineken seeing as your asking). We were the last to leave the Belbridge (true to form) and ended up walking back to Lahiffs, where we were met by a puddle in my little pink hovel (a palace no more I'm afraid). Woke up soaked to the skin and had to walk all the way back to the Belbridge to collect the car. It's enough to make you shed a tear. And I think I did.
More tomorrow lovlies. My nice warm BED in my nice warm HOUSE with a nice DRY blanket and a nice COMFY mattress awaits. You can see why I'm leaving the rest until tomorrow.
Sunday rolled around a whole lot faster than I'd intended (the previous week had seen a heavy work and gig schedule, and Saturday night was a birthday night out for a mate). The result of it was, somewhat inevitably, that packing resorted to grabbing a pile of clothes and a handful of socks, stuffing them into two bags and lobbing the whole lot into the boot. Onto this I threw my double duvet and a pillow, my pink pink pink tent (purchased in a fit of giddy excitement for €16 in Dunnes - I should have known) and a horrid cheap sleeping bag, the kind that sticks to your every move like some sort of creepy old man from the birthday night out the night before (twas Teds we frequented on the Saturday night. If you're from Limerick you'll know what I mean).
Miltown bound I was, and despite nearly being killed through no fault of my own on the dual carriage way on the way down, I arrived, fresh faced and innocent, to blue, blustery skies and sunshine. Boys were duly dispatched to put up my tent. They complained bitterly about the colour of course, but it was up and I was off to the Belbridge in a borrowed Limerick camogie jersey to watch the Munster hurling final.
Eep. Hurling. Not even close to having even a rudimentary appreciation for the fastest game in the world, I went into a room full of Waterford supporters who laughed at me when Limerick lost. I think I spent more time outside with my pint than watching the game (I'm more of a rugby girl really), but I did my duty for my county and spent the rest of the night proudly wearing my borrowed jersey.
Tunes were duly called for, and Brona and Eimear Graham, Mickey Dunne and a few others started up a session in a part of the Belbridge that had the unhappy distinction of being the most airless, sticky and humid place in the whole of Co. Clare. Still, we persisted, and in true Miltown style, about forty thousand musicians joined us, the whole thing descended into a bit of a mess, and I went off for pints. (Weight Watchers not being foremost among my thoughts, given the late hour.)
On the subject of pints, the Belbridge has no Heineken on tap. This was at first glance mildly annoying, but in retrospect I think it's kinda cool. A bit of individualism in a world of McDonalds, Walmart and chinese fiddles.
Anyways, the second day of Miltown continued in much the same vein. A short spell of recuperation (i.e. a shower and fifty three cups of tea in my parents' friend's mobile home) and back on it again. A civilian (that is, non musician) mate of mine came down (I was only mildly irritated with the thoughts of having to share my pink palace) and we hot-tailed it into Michael A's for a few tunes. There was one minor blip in the interim, however. We had heard that a family I know were going home a night early and they had very kindly offered us their room in the Belbridge for the night. It had started to rain like nobodies business in the meantime, so this was most excellent news. Happy days!! So I enthusiastically blagged a key from reception and all but ran up to my luxurious suite for the night, burst in the door, cries of triumph echoing down the carpeted halls behind me......
.....to find all three members of the family inside in the room, sitting about. They seemed very surprised to see me (as you would). It was with burning red cheeks I heard that in fact the room was for the following night and that I was going to be back in the pink tent that night. Horrors. They were very nice about it though, and my own parents thought that my complete lack of social grace was hilarious. They didn't hesitate to remind me of it either.
A long night followed with not many tunes, and a feed of pints (Carlsberg, not Heineken seeing as your asking). We were the last to leave the Belbridge (true to form) and ended up walking back to Lahiffs, where we were met by a puddle in my little pink hovel (a palace no more I'm afraid). Woke up soaked to the skin and had to walk all the way back to the Belbridge to collect the car. It's enough to make you shed a tear. And I think I did.
More tomorrow lovlies. My nice warm BED in my nice warm HOUSE with a nice DRY blanket and a nice COMFY mattress awaits. You can see why I'm leaving the rest until tomorrow.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Miltown imminent - financial status critical.
Will I afford it? Will I actually make it to any of the set dancing classes I intend doing? (Yes, I'm going to do the dancing. Decided that I needed a purpose for excusing myself from work for a week. Dancing is a nice healthy past time.) How long before I give up on the pink tent and bully someone into letting me squat in their nice indoor accommodation? Will Limerick win the match? Will I stick to my diet?
All these answers and more after the fact. Pending my survival.
All these answers and more after the fact. Pending my survival.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Gig, Dolan's Upstairs, July 3rd 2007
A good night was had by all.
Blas, the summer school run by the IWMC (or is the IAWMD or the IWADM or the....I have every intention of referring to it as the IWMC regardless. I don't handle change very well) generally blesses those of us left in Limerick for the summer with a few decent gigs to see us through those dark weeks between festivals. Last night saw Niall Keegan and Sandra Joyce take to the stage with the divine Muireann MacAmhlaidbh and the equally divine Clive Carroll. Muireann's dad Fergus (a 100% bonafide gentleman) and Niall's sister Naoimhe fiddled a bit, while the MA flute class of 2002 - Kirsten Allstaff, Majella Bartley and Mick McCabe joined in for a very flute-y finale. I was breathless (see, what I did there was...).
Anyway, pints before tunes, as the saying goes (or at least the title of this blog). When we arrived we were shocked and appalled by the huge number of persons in at OUR gig. (Never be afraid to be self absorbed. It's a good lifestyle.) Anyway, we stood out on the terrace with our pints (beer in case you're wondering) and thus heard the first half of the concert through a solitary speaker, over the chatter of what seemed like thousands of European (Spanish? Italian? Not sure) students who, it transpired (via the slightly unreliable chatter in the smoking area), were all there as rent-a-crowd. Not very cool really - surely a gig that's three quarters full of dedicated gig goers is better than one too full of half arsed students who just want to get away somewhere to feel each other up in peace without the irritating whinge of folk music disturbing them.
Anyway, luckily, they all left for the second half, and we went inside. It kicked off with Clive Carroll. Now. Every single time I see this man play, I still find the stuff he does slightly unbelieveable - you find yourself sitting there, puzzling at the physics of the whole thing. Needless to say, I was spellbound, particularly by the furious rendition of the Hungarian Dance by Brahms (don't quote me on that. I'm fond of making up composers for pieces to make me sound knowledgeable). Next up, Muireann and Sandra did some singing. I rarely get to hear Sandra sing, and it's always such a treat.
Niall was awesome as usual - it's not exactly my favourite style of flute playing - rather too jazzy and complicated for my tastes - but I can really appreciate the technicalities of it. Niall and the flute class of 2002, with Sandra on bodhran, Naoimhe on fiddle and Clive on guitar finished the evening.
All good clean fun, but not amazing. I like lots, but I won't be raving about it for years to come.
In other news, Finbarr Dwyer is back in July - that was a great night the last time - should be good.
More personally (and self indulgently), I'm going back on Weight Watchers tonight. Yes. Before Miltown. Hilarious. So, it'll be more than Glasses of Wine and Tunes for a while. Pints still sounds better though - it's nice and pithy (not pissy, children). And I'll be back on them before the week is out.
Toodles, poodles.
Blas, the summer school run by the IWMC (or is the IAWMD or the IWADM or the....I have every intention of referring to it as the IWMC regardless. I don't handle change very well) generally blesses those of us left in Limerick for the summer with a few decent gigs to see us through those dark weeks between festivals. Last night saw Niall Keegan and Sandra Joyce take to the stage with the divine Muireann MacAmhlaidbh and the equally divine Clive Carroll. Muireann's dad Fergus (a 100% bonafide gentleman) and Niall's sister Naoimhe fiddled a bit, while the MA flute class of 2002 - Kirsten Allstaff, Majella Bartley and Mick McCabe joined in for a very flute-y finale. I was breathless (see, what I did there was...).
Anyway, pints before tunes, as the saying goes (or at least the title of this blog). When we arrived we were shocked and appalled by the huge number of persons in at OUR gig. (Never be afraid to be self absorbed. It's a good lifestyle.) Anyway, we stood out on the terrace with our pints (beer in case you're wondering) and thus heard the first half of the concert through a solitary speaker, over the chatter of what seemed like thousands of European (Spanish? Italian? Not sure) students who, it transpired (via the slightly unreliable chatter in the smoking area), were all there as rent-a-crowd. Not very cool really - surely a gig that's three quarters full of dedicated gig goers is better than one too full of half arsed students who just want to get away somewhere to feel each other up in peace without the irritating whinge of folk music disturbing them.
Anyway, luckily, they all left for the second half, and we went inside. It kicked off with Clive Carroll. Now. Every single time I see this man play, I still find the stuff he does slightly unbelieveable - you find yourself sitting there, puzzling at the physics of the whole thing. Needless to say, I was spellbound, particularly by the furious rendition of the Hungarian Dance by Brahms (don't quote me on that. I'm fond of making up composers for pieces to make me sound knowledgeable). Next up, Muireann and Sandra did some singing. I rarely get to hear Sandra sing, and it's always such a treat.
Niall was awesome as usual - it's not exactly my favourite style of flute playing - rather too jazzy and complicated for my tastes - but I can really appreciate the technicalities of it. Niall and the flute class of 2002, with Sandra on bodhran, Naoimhe on fiddle and Clive on guitar finished the evening.
All good clean fun, but not amazing. I like lots, but I won't be raving about it for years to come.
In other news, Finbarr Dwyer is back in July - that was a great night the last time - should be good.
More personally (and self indulgently), I'm going back on Weight Watchers tonight. Yes. Before Miltown. Hilarious. So, it'll be more than Glasses of Wine and Tunes for a while. Pints still sounds better though - it's nice and pithy (not pissy, children). And I'll be back on them before the week is out.
Toodles, poodles.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Welcome...
Ah high hopes and good intentions! All qualities I possess in abundance, but in reality...
See I can't even finish that sentence without sort of losing my way halfway through (see what I did there was...). Anyway, welcome to the sordid details of my wanderings. Not that sordid, I fear, trad circle is so small that any delicious insults aimed at my fellow musicians would only get back. And really, if I'm going to go to the trouble, I'd much rather do it face to face. The reaction would be just too good to miss.
Anyway. I probably won't write here very much, but here's hoping. To get you interested, here are some recent exploits. Missed Inis Oir Bodhran festival due to real life work commitments (real life work is not impressing me in the slightest, by the way. I can't believe I have to actually exert myself and commit time in order to earn money. Some people have no sense of humour), by all accounts it was amazing, and I was jealous, so so jealous. So I'm counting on Miltown to be AMAZING (and I mean AMAZING in bold and italic and capitals, just so you realise what I'm expecting). Heading down on Saturday and hoping to stay for a long time. Mothers lock up your sons, publicans lock up your cellars and all that jazz. I mean for the whole experience to be fantastic. If it's not...well I'm just going to have to write about it here, thus ruining the reputation of Miltown and crushing the value of this festival. My omnipotence should ensure that....
If you ever hear from me again. Now that would be AMAZING.
See I can't even finish that sentence without sort of losing my way halfway through (see what I did there was...). Anyway, welcome to the sordid details of my wanderings. Not that sordid, I fear, trad circle is so small that any delicious insults aimed at my fellow musicians would only get back. And really, if I'm going to go to the trouble, I'd much rather do it face to face. The reaction would be just too good to miss.
Anyway. I probably won't write here very much, but here's hoping. To get you interested, here are some recent exploits. Missed Inis Oir Bodhran festival due to real life work commitments (real life work is not impressing me in the slightest, by the way. I can't believe I have to actually exert myself and commit time in order to earn money. Some people have no sense of humour), by all accounts it was amazing, and I was jealous, so so jealous. So I'm counting on Miltown to be AMAZING (and I mean AMAZING in bold and italic and capitals, just so you realise what I'm expecting). Heading down on Saturday and hoping to stay for a long time. Mothers lock up your sons, publicans lock up your cellars and all that jazz. I mean for the whole experience to be fantastic. If it's not...well I'm just going to have to write about it here, thus ruining the reputation of Miltown and crushing the value of this festival. My omnipotence should ensure that....
If you ever hear from me again. Now that would be AMAZING.
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