My sister Jean and me, in Dublin, the night the fuse blew at the disco, and all the lights went out, and all of the disco patrons had to stand out on the street while Irish firemen and garda ran about in all their hot-ness.
Siobhan, Jean, Me, in Dublin, same night. Here we are by the firetruck in the street, with our new best friend who had fallen in love with Jean about 10 minutes before, and was ready to beat people up on her behalf within 2 seconds of meeting her. And look at the random arms sticking up behind us. I have no idea who that is.
Here’s the great Jackie Wilson singing “Danny Boy.” It’s the only version you need to hear. Turn everything else off, sit back, and listen to that man go.
Elvis recorded it too (inspired by Jackie Wilson, an idol of his). The recording took place in in the Jungle Room in 1976 when things were not going well. The recorded version is slowed down, way down, and is beautiful (it’s a tough song to sing, daunting high notes launching out of nowhere) but I prefer the home recording of Elvis singing the song in 1959, while he was stationed in Germany.
His guitar playing is energetic and adorable, his voice is young, free, untrammeled, and passionate.
The song is important to me, and I feel so lucky that Elvis recorded it.
Now listen. I’m not a big St. Patrick’s Day fan, for obvious reasons. I grew up steeped in my Irish heritage. I grew up knowing about Brendan Behan and Francis Stewart and W.B. Yeats and Joyce and Michael Collins and Parnell and Black ’47. (My first published essay, in the “Irish Letters” edition of The Sewanee Review was about how my father drilled us in all things Irish.) My parents took us over there as kids for my dad’s sabbatical, and we went and found our relatives, one of whom lived in a two-room thatched cottage (one room for her, the other room for the cows), with an outhouse (no running water); on the wall were hung three things: A picture of John F. Kennedy. A picture of Pope John Paul II. And the colored ribbon/medal her husband wore as a member of the IRA in the 20s. This is my family. So why would I support a holiday that equates Irish-ness with being a drunk asshole?
Also, if one more person writes “St. Patty’s Day” instead of “St. Paddy’s Day” I’m crackin’ skulls.
