The Fleadh
Randall's Island, New York, June 13 & 14, 1998
"I hope you appreciate the extensive lengths the organizers have gone to make this an appropriate Irish festival," quipped Englishman Richard Thompson during his set on the first day of the Guinness Fleadh (pronounced "flah") festival. "The rain, the mud ... totally authentic."
Indeed, in light of the lightning-related tragedies (and cancellations) plaguing the Tibetan Freedom Concert in Washington, D.C., over the same time, all of the rain and mud at the two-day Irish festival seemed like more atmospheric window dressing than a downer on the festivities. Although the relatively low turnout spurred the organizers to invite the first day attendees back for the second day gratis, in terms of "good crack" (the Irish-ism for fun), the Fleadh was a smashing success. It rained with a vengeance throughout the weekend, but the bands (all sixty plus of 'em) played on schedule, the modest but happy crowds jigged, slam-jigged and mud-wrestled happily, and the Guinness -- that creamy Irish nectar with the consistency of, well, mud -- flowed endlessly. And who the hell wants to guzzle that stuff under a blazing sun?
Of course, all-day, all-weekend festivals aren't everybody's cup of tea. "I like playing festivals, but I don't like coming to them," laughed Welshman Mike Peters, the former lead singer of the Alarm who turned in a solid set of sharply melodic tunes from a forthcoming solo album. "I was brought up on punk rock, and festivals meant hippies." But there was punk aplenty over the weekend -- courtesy of Patti Smith, a reunited X and Irish expat rebels Black 47 -- along with a healthy mix of traditional folk, country, rock and alterna-pop. Along with the expected Gaelic mainstays (Sinead O'Connor, the Chieftains, Shane MacGowan) were alt country kings Wilco, Texas honky tonkers Joe Ely and Nanci Griffith (an Irish favorite), and Lilith Fair veterans Tracy Chapman and the Indigo Girls. And while there was no act quite big enough to fill the godfather-sized hole left by the noticeable absence of Van Morrison (he headlined last year's Fleadh, the American debut of the festival), there was the small consolation prize of the better-than-you'd-expect Chumbawamba, whose fifty-minute set was not forty-five minutes too long, but rather too short.
On the Irish side, the Chieftains were predictably enjoyable, although the hipper, more fun Saw Doctors (performing both days) provided better overall kicks. Even the Corrs, a platinum-selling family act with three hot-hotter-hottest young sisters, stirred up highly danceable fiddle and tin-whistle jams, although their vocal numbers smacked of bad Wilson Phillips flashbacks. O'Connor -- commanding perhaps the largest crowd of the festival -- sported a shaved head again (sigh) and turned in an engaging performance that rocked ("The Emperor's New Clothes") and chilled (the Bono-penned "Thief of Your Heart").
And what would an Irish fest be without a bit of politics? Although there were no Tibet-style speech intermissions, opinions on Irish affairs were there if you looked for 'em. While Sharron Corr, the Corrs' Shania Twain-ish fiddle player, enthused backstage about the recent Irish peace treaty ("It's wonderful, thank God it went through..."), other performers seemed less ready to call bygones. "Are there any Catholics in the audience?" taunted Chumbawamba's Alice Nutter while getting jiggy with it in a nun's habit. ("Yeah, it's a regular part [of the act]," the Englishwoman commented afterwards. "Fuck the Pope.") And in this corner, Black 47: "Congratulations, Tony Blair ... now get the fuck out!" But nobody bellows from a soapbox quite like Patti Smith, who waxed on Tibet, national pride and the folly of buying into any corporate-sponsored event, particularly when the corporation (Guinness!) peddles a deadly drug (alcohol!). That one went over like gangbusters.
In the non-Irish category, Wilco and Billy Bragg -- performing separately and together -- premiered highlights from their forthcoming album of new tunes to newly discovered Woody Guthrie lyrics. The best by far was Wilco's "California Stars," although the band seemed to be playing on autopilot. "I don't have anything to say to you," shrugged Jeff Tweedy to the crowd. Playing like they actually gave a shit were Rosanne Cash, Nanci Griffith and Joe Ely, each of whom turned the second stage/tent into a smoking honky-tonk. Equally crowd pleasing were the Indigo Girls, who easily commanded the main stage like the Rolling Stones with charisma to spare. The biggest chills of the festival, however, where provided by Chris Smither's intense front porch blues and Richard Thompson's aching, harrowing "The Ghost of You Walks." As for the recently reunited X, the Los Angeles punk icons were as loud as any ten other Fleadh acts put together, firing a barrage of short, instrumentally sharp barn burners that were a welcome alternative to Tracy Chapman's earnest-to-a-fault power folk.
Given all the many musical highs of the festival, there was really only room for two significant complaints. One was the sadistic scheduling that frequently pitted strong draws like O'Connor and Griffith, Wilco and Cash, and Ely and Bragg directly against each other. Catching a bit of each competing act entailed a messy sprint across the shoe-sucking mudfields from one stage to another. From the pint-half-full point of view, of course, the three stages ensured that there was pretty great music happening *somewhere* at any given time during the weekend, but far too often a great performance had to be missed in favor of a better one. (Sorry, Bragg.)
And Shane. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!
"The last time I saw Shane was in Dublin," laughed Ely, who looked forward to seeing the former Pogue in action. "We get on stage and leave Shane in the dressing room. We come back, and Shane has drunk every bit of beer in our trailer. We had a case of beer and two bottles of wine. We get off stage and come back to our trailer all thirsty, and Shane's there going (drunken Irish slur), 'Awright guys, you missed it -- someone came in and drank all the beer! I tried to stop them -- I called in for the police and everything!' In one set!"
One laughs, but there was nothing laughable about MacGowan's performance Sunday night. While his talented band tried to work the "Shane"-chanting crowd into a spirited frenzy, the man himself just stood there, less the swaggering Pogue of yore than the corpse in Weekend at Bernie's, propped lifelessly against the mic stand. His vocals, mumbled faintly between drags on his fag and sips from his drink, lacked any sense of spit and vigor. Across the mudfield at the main stage, the Indigo Girls kicked his tired ass like a limp rugby ball. Knocked down, MacGowan didn't even attempt to get up again.
RICHARD SKANSE
(June 16, 1998)