Although Ireland has produced a number of prominent pop acts–U2, Van Morrison, Sinead O’Connor, World Party, and Irish Brits the Pogues and Declan Patrick McManus (aka Elvis Costello)–few of them have successfully incorporated the island’s traditional music. Given that music’s emotional and lyrical richness, this neglect is disappointing, but it may be that Irish culture is too well defined to mix easily with the rapidly mutating pop scene.
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Black 47 put across their crazy salad with ferocious energy, executing extravagant arrangements precisely–the happy result of three years playing multiple sets in a Manhattan pub each week. Trombonist Fred Parcells and saxophonist Geoff Blythe packed a wallop right from the opening fusillade of “James Connolly,” and they remained a focal point throughout the evening, flying into contrapuntal Dixieland jazz lines at the drop of a pin, as on “Fanatic Heart,” and trading solos with wild abandon on the likes of “Fire of Freedom” and “Black 47.” By the later numbers in the set, however–like “40 Shades of Blue” and “Maria’s Wedding”–their relentless jamming (perhaps meant in part to extend the set) began to wear on me.
Anchored by the drum machine and rooted in David Conrad’s spare, plunging bass phrases, the songs spanned quite a spectrum, from the reggae-rap-sea chantey melange of “Fire of Freedom” to the hip-hop “Rockin’ the Bronx”; a continuous thread of punky garage-rock culminated in an encore medley of Van Morrison’s “Gloria” and Bobby Fuller’s “I Fought the Law.” Byrne mixed in traditional Irish instrumentation throughout the set, playing at various points a hand-held tom-tom called a bodhran, uillean pipes, and the penny whistle (which Parcells also played). The uillean pipes–a small bagpipe with a single drone whistle–provided an elegiac setting for the mournful ballad “Fanatic Heart” and a ghostly introduction to “Black 47” (an account of the 1847 Irish potato famine). The rest of the time, however, Byrne’s flourishes were absorbed into the musical pandemonium, becoming merely another part of the band’s wildly eclectic sound.
Ironically, this Irish American quintet gave its 16-song performance on the day that commemorates the man who Christianized Ireland’s druids: the Drovers recall Celtic culture’s ancient pagan roots, summoning that culture’s Dionysian urges. From the show’s opening moments, the music had a primordial cast. Sean Cleland’s violin undulated eerily as Dave Callahan’s bass and Jackie Moran’s cymbals pulsed behind him, until the band segued into the mysterious Celtic dirge “Book of Songs.” A few numbers later, as Mike Kirkpatrick laid down a slinky guitar groove over Moran’s surging cymbals and snare flourishes and Winston Damon engaged in call-and-response field hollers with the audience, the music beckoned primitive and wild, suggesting a journey deep into a dark forest.
