Like many lovers of Ireland and music and Irish music, I was gutted yesterday when news of the passing of Glen Hansard reached me.
So many of us fell in love with Glen and Marketa Irglova in the stunning, raw movie "Once," and I'll never forget watching the duo perform as Swell Season at Maymandi Music Hall in Raleigh on the heels of that film. The complicated relationship between the two was explored in a heart-wrenching movie, aptly called "Swell Season."
The two would go on to perform together in a strictly professional relationship, with Glen's rough approach blending beautifully with Marketa's grace. We would go on to see Glen perform five other times, including in 2008, 2010, and 2023.
Every person who was touched by Glen's music has a different story that describes that impression. I will always remember his covers of Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic" and Pixies' "Cactus." I will always remember his audience participation, including allowing a fan to sing a verse on stage at the North Carolina Museum of Art. I will always remember seeing him last fall at the Durham Performing Arts Center and his rendition of "Parting Glass," which has taken on an even more poignant meaning today.
I will always remember his description of the origin story of "Factory Street Bells," which he wrote as part of the process of explaining to his toddler son why his father need to leave him and go on tour. I'll certainly never be able to hear that song again without crying.
Glen had a way of making you feel like you'd joined an impromptu jam at an intimate gathering of friends or stumbled across his appearance at a trad session at a pub in Doolin.
He was a storyteller, a bard, a troubadour in the true Irish fashion. He meant a lot to me and the best part of me.
We should all aspire to have our mourners dancing in the aisles at our funeral. One would have to imagine that Shane MacGowan of the Pogues would have it no other way.
Glen Hansard, Lisa O'Neill, and others sent MacGowan off in fine fashion, playing "Fairytale of New York" in a church in Nenagh, County Tipperary, Ireland.
"I'm just following the Irish way of life: Cram as much pleasure as you can into life and rail against the pain that you have to suffer as a result -- and then wait for it to be taken away with beautiful pleasure."
Having just visited Grafton Street in Dublin recently and witnessed the incredible busking scene there in person, this video was really touching. It's clear these two haven't played together a ton, but it's also there was some magic involved.
As someone who's been tearing through British crime dramas, I don't totally recall how "Red Rock" landed on my plate. But I'm now fully immersed in this never-ending series set in a fictional town near Dublin.
How to describe "Red Rock"? It's a procedural soap opera populated with flawed main characters, irresistible Irish lasses, stunning brogues, mind-numbingly repetitious mistakes, and isle-sized plot holes. Yet I cannot look away.
The pacing is stellar, as each episode runs 22 minutes, with mini three-episode (or so) arcs stacked atop some compelling through-lines. I recently completed season 1's staggering 80 episodes, and season 2 features 80 more, with season 3 totally slacking off at 70 epis.
It's a series not worth overthinking, and best to enjoy the craic and ignore the dodgy bits while you root for shifting with wagons in pubs, chasing skangers into their kips, and pursuing chancers while on obbo. All while downing a scoop o' Guinness.
Despite
the tragic nature of the story itself, one of the most enjoyable articles I’ve
read in Sports Illustrated was by “The Best Player You Never Saw,” by Michael McKnight. The piece covered the lost
potential of Brian Cole, a New York Mets phenom who died in a car accident.
Great writing, great character sketching and great research.
#2
Knowledge
is power: You simply have to appreciate 24 awesome things you likely didn’t
know about beer.
#3
One
of the least-studied enigmas of our generation: So how come there aren’t seatbelts on buses?!
#4
I’m
a bit of an Irish Coffee aficionado, but I’ve admittedly never tasted this particular blend.
#5
A
political party based on environmental focus and based on social media? Kudos, Brazil. You’ve got my vote.
#6
So
how much of “Lost” was ripped off of a 1969 TV series called “The New People”?
Judge for yourself.
#7
Chewbacca
cuckolding Solo: That sentence just happened.
When
“Rosemary’s Baby” goes horribly wrong—it’s a Wookie!—you need the
behind-the-scenes story on this interspecies love affair, via Harrison Ford on
Jimmy Kimmel.
#8
Toddlerhood
encompasses the balance between laughing hysterically and stifling the urge to
slap, as captured in this epic carseat convo.
#9
Girl,
you’ve got chronic flatulence an ass that just won’t quit.
#10
There
are moments when my chosen profession redeems itself beyond pointless press
releases and embarrassing e-mail campaigns. This is one of those moments: sheer brilliance in the form of an anti-child abuse advertising campaign.
I
love Rolling Stone, but c’mon, Lena Dunham on the cover of a music magazine?
The disturbingly-quirky-and-shiftless-New Yorker vibe is well played out at
this point. I think we’ve definitely proven that ugly angsty isn’t the new
pretty at this point. Let’s move on.
#2
Not
that you should ever need additional incentive to be nice to your bartender,
but a little context could help.
#3
Few
days pass without me missing Ireland. A story about issuing drunk driving permits to rural residents points up one of the many reasons why.
#4
In
case you’re looking for further signs of the apocalypse, you just found one:
Duke assistant Scottie Montgomery is talking smack about recruiting in the
state of North Carolina.
Duke.
Football
recruiting.
Help.
#5
A
pretty little story about how love is rarely where you think you’ll find it.
Even in the case of a turtle.
#6
Proud
Sub owner. Proud dad. Totally not crying.
#7
There’s
a Devon Bookert (Florida State) AND a
Devin Booker (Clemson) in the ACC? Why am I only now finding out about this?
#8
So
Season 3.5 of “The Walking Dead” is off to a rather “ugh” start. But I do have
to admit that Lil’ Asskicker DOES
kinda look like Lori. Good casting ... I guess?
Thank
goodness Twitter exists to inform us that Charlize Theron is hot. Who watches
the freaking Oscars and actually goes, “You know who’s surprisingly
semi-attractive? That Charlize Theron. I never noticed that before.”
No
one has ever seen one-time actor Damon Wayans and ESPN anchor Cole Wright in
the same place at the same time. From “In Living Color” to “Sportscenter” is a
long way down, Damon.
#2
Some
good writing here about the last day of an Internet startup. Having faced
similar experiences, the emotion here is captured well.
Do
they test for PEDs in the NBA? Because I bet it is hugely rampant in that
league, but you never hear about it.
#5
For
some people, diarrhea is always on the menu. But what does it cost, really? And on a related note, sometimes
a fortune cookie knows more about your digestive system than you do.
#6
I
think we may have finally discovered the true meaning of the iPhone. Spoiler
alert: Elvis would’ve loved it.
#7
So
I found “The Crib Dribbler” terrifying on, oh, so many levels ...
#8
I
think the Irish have cornered the market on that perfect pick-me-up for the
sniffles (and hell, let’s be honest, just about anything else): Irish flu shots.
“The place that lacks its ghosts is a barren place.” -- John Hewitt
“Maybe if he had one more drink they’d leave him alone. Gerry Fegan told himself that lie before every swallow.”
“He told one of the prison psychologists about it. Dr. Brady said it was guilt. A manifestation, he called it. Fegan wondered why people seldom called things by their real names.”
I had seen “The Ghosts of Belfast” lauded in a few different places, with some clamorings that Stuart Neville had taken his place among the Irish crime writing heavyweights -- with his first novel, no less.
As we follow the search for redemption of an Irish hit man named Gerry Fegan, we can’t help but be reeled in by Neville’s gentle, subtle prose. Much of the book reads like a revenge fantasy gone backwards, a Dickensian plot gone way wrong -- but the tale incorporated a few unexpected elements, such as a budding romance and some paternal feelings on the part of the protagonist. Fegan’s unexpected emotions toward Marie represent his attraction to the outcast, the placeless such as him; yet it is in his surprising relationship with Marie’s child, Ellen, that the book finds it footing and elevates itself beyond a story purely about Northern Ireland violence and politics. Indeed, the moment when Ellen takes Gerry’s hand and forces him to embrace his humanity and vulnerability is arguably the most powerful scene in the entire book. [In fact, the European cover of this novel, titled “The Twelve,” is dominated by an image of a gun-toting man warily embracing a small girl.]
“Fegan battled within himself, part of him wanting to stay hidden, part of him needing to show itself. “He surrendered.”
“Fegan had the urge to run from them, from Marie and her child, but the little girl’s hand felt good on his. His skin felt clean where she touched it.”
“He pressed the phone to his ear and closed his eyes. When she answered, he felt some small warm thing burst and spill inside.”
Neville does a solid job of sketching character through second- and third-hand stories, reminiscences, and memories, while his fine usage of short, clipped sentences lend a helping hand to the building of tension. Throughout, Neville’s writing proves to be good, which is surprising only because his normal shorter, matter-of-fact sentences are interspersed and broken up with nifty turns of phrase.
With some of these occurrences, Fegan speaks to a generation of Belfast young adults who didn’t grow up in the terror of the “Troubles,” who have no concept of the constant fears and tensions of those days. In a sense, Neville is speaking to the underlying battle between the old world and the new generation in North Ireland: the unforgotten vendettas vs. the hopes for progress, the unforgiven grudges vs. the pleas for better and more.
“He hadn’t considered himself a craftsman, more a skilled laborer. Not like those assassins who made it art. It only took a certain hardness of the soul, a casual brutality, a willingness to do what other men wouldn’t.”
“Fegan closed his eyes again and wished for another way. As foolish as it was, he wished for another life away from this. He wished for peaceful sleep and bloodless hands.”
“They’re a bunch of has-beens who can’t accept it’s over. Plumbers and bricklayers who call themselves soldiers. They’re no use to anybody now, just dinosaurs who forgot to lie down and die.”
As the blank spaces of Fegan’s past are gradually filled in, we begin to gain an understanding of what lies behind his lack of self-worth, his self-directed feeling that he has no identity, being or goodness. When Fegan’s thoughts of suicide are put aside purely because the images of Ellen and Marie came into his mind, we see that it is not Fegan that is protecting and saving them -- it is they who are saving his life, literally and figuratively.
“‘Everywhere I go, people know who I am, where I’m from, what I did, and they judge me for it. I guess that’s why. You didn’t judge me.’”
Yet all along, surely by design, Neville forces us to ask ourselves questions: How are we really supposed to feel about Fegan? To the issue of fault, why do the ghosts blame all but the one who actually killed them? Are we supposed to view Fegan’s eventual standing up to the ghosts as an act of heroism or cowardice? Should we really believe that this ex-con has given up killing, alcohol and the only life he knows so relatively cold turkey? What should we read into Gerry’s seeming awareness of his own steady slide into insanity? Do the merciful vibes of the ending jibe with the rest of the book? The conflicts inherent in the answers to these questions and our feelings toward Gerry truly formed the backbone of the book for me.
“‘You’re just a drunk who’s gone soft in the head. So you turn against your own just so you can make yourself feel like a big man again. Is that it, Gerry? Is that what this is about? You’re just a lonely, drunk has-been who’s nothing without a gun and someone to point it at.’”
Yet the conclusion gains a bit of needed finality when the woman and baby ghosts -- who we are led to believe represent the good in him -- eventually turn on him at the very end, in a chilling and scary scene. The sudden disappearance of the ghost of the infant lends a bit of creepiness to the very end of the book as well.
“As she disappeared into the morning light beyond, she turned to look at Fegan once more. ‘Mercy,’ she said.”
“No shadow followed but his own.”
I have to admit that “The Ghosts of Belfast” lends itself to a movie, an opinion perhaps backed by the fact that Neville has already constructed a sequel, titled “Collusion.” Interestingly, in the acknowledgements, Neville thanks his online writing community -- a nod that truly puts this time in publishing and journalism into perspective. Elsewhere, there was a mildly off-putting grammatical convention (the continuation of a quote after an interrupting clause marked only by an apostrophe), but it was consistent, which leads me to believe it is an Irish or European stylistic matter.
With his gift for engrossing storytelling, versatile prose style, strong character-building and affinity for the region, Neville has ascended to a deserved lofty stature among Irish crime novelists. If my lone complaint was about the somewhat overused feeling evoked by the buildup to the end, that is certainly high praise -- especially for a first novel. I look forward to seeing Neville’s undoubted improvement in certain aspects as I follow his burgeoning career and potentially limitless success.
“‘God forgives all soldiers. John Hewitt wrote that. The poet.’”
“Everybody pays,” Fegan said. “She said sooner or later, everybody pays.”
“Leap Year” has two things going for it: Amy Adams and Ireland. Beyond that, well, you’re on your own.
As yuppie stager Anna Brady, Adams is more than a little caricature-ish throughout the first half or more of the flick, but she possesses the extraordinarily rare gift of winning you over with her charm. In almost every movie she’s in, she forces you to sort of fall in love with her, no matter how bad the flick, unbelievable the plot or farcical the story.
I’m not going to get too in-depth with this review because the movie was pretty shallow (zing!), but I will say that it was a little disappointing that what was represented as Dingle, Ireland, was not Dingle, and it was primarily filmed in Wicklow, Dublin and Galway. Also, the ending was a bit sudden and cheesy, which put a bit of a damper on the flick as a whole, especially since it had a little underrated streak running through it for a while.
The usage of Ireland as a character worked well simply because the land is so beautiful and amazing, and for that reason, it was worth checking out. Throw in Adams and “Leap Year” grew to a somewhat bigger height than the expected chick-flick fare, but I admit that, as someone who got engaged in Ireland, I’m more than a little biased. If you don’t have a place in your heart for Ireland or an appreciation for Adams’s gifts, steer as clear of this as you would of the Cliffs of Mohr on a windy day.
The wildlife death tally does rise As fast as the number of BP lies The right would rather BP defend Will the spill ever come to an end? Somewhere, Mother Earth softly cries
Graeme McDowell, well-played, sir Phil, Ernie, Tigger couldn’t make a stir Par was good there at Pebble The Open course played like a devil Guinnesses were raised o’er Ireland, sure
McChrystal ran things in Afghanistan Then earned himself a shitcan Involved in the Tillman coverup Then didn’t know when to shut up Anyone know how this war should be ran?
Bad calls made us all fret Missed shots on an open net Up until the final minute When Donovan finally did win it USA won their group? You bet An 11-hour match I did root Between Isner and a Frog, Mahut Because of darkness delays It extended over three days Played so long I wanted to boot
When I saw the Swell Season in downtown Raleigh at Meymandi Concert Hall in 2008, I considered it, overall, maybe the best concert experience I had ever had. Flash forward two years into the future, think about a band that is truly refining its sound and substitute the setting for an outdoor venue at the beautifully renovated North Carolina Museum of Art, and in my estimation you have an even more incredible show by a truly amazing band.
Most still think of the Swell Season as the redheaded offspring of Glen Hansard’s the Frames and the landmark movie “Once,” with Hansard and the immensely talented Marketa Irglova taking their on-screen romance into real life and, well, on-stage again as the Swell Season. But even that tremendous movie discounts not only the individual talents of Hansard, the ultimate showman, and Irglova, the sweet-voiced pianist, but also the incredible array of skills offered by the rest of the band: Colm Mac Con Iomaire (violin), Rob Bochnik (guitar), Joseph Doyle (bass) and Graham Hopkins (drums). While the supporting cast changes from time to time, the music is always spot on.
This overall tightness is even more remarkable when you consider how spontaneous the set list and transitions can be, with Hansard often inspired to pull a song out of the vault to match a moment and relying on his bandmates to be on key and in lock step with him. A hysterical example of this is when a pair of drunken lesbians were essentially kicked out of the front of the audience because they kept standing up directly in front of Hansard, blocking views. This led Hansard to allow them to stand at the back of the stage as he laughingly played a tongue-in-cheek solo of “Leave.”
The story of Thelma and Louise: Part Butch was part of a larger, slightly combative atmosphere created from the start of the show between the band, the venue and the audience (partly bolstered by an over-emphatic black dude who appeared to be, um, attending a rather different concert than everyone else). Just moments after the Museum of Art’s director sternly asked that no one enter the 30-foot chasm between the front rows of the amphitheater out of respect for the big donors just before introducing the band, Hansard came out and said that folks could fill in the empty spaces because he was a bit freaked out by the disconnection between band and audience. This led to a mass rush of people from the lawn to grab the select seating just in front of the band, which led to some moaning from the stodgy, older big-money folks, who had no idea who the Swell Season were but knew damned well that they had paid big scratch for the right to ensure that no hippie kind rubbed elbows with them or obstructed their view.
When the duo mentioned before were admonished by fellow fans (who were sitting where they weren’t supposed to be as well), Hansard intervened to invite them on stage. By way of explanation, he said that he wasn’t trying to be sarcastic or controversial, but he felt that people at a concert should be able to stand or sing along if they want. “It is a rock show, after all,” he said, completely pissing off a couple score of upper-crust prepsters -- while simultaneously encapsulating his entire musical philosophy in seven words.
Because what is apart and above about the Swell Season is that indelible and sacred bond with the audience, a forged camaraderie that is just not seen in bands these days. So many acts are about themselves; the Swell Season is about you, the crowd. They realize and value the idea that they are there for you, that you have paid for the right to be a part of their entertainment, and they truly cherish and honor that dynamic. The fact that they love what they do seeps through their music, and it is a truly refreshing sight to see—and sound to hear.
Heck, Hansard spends much of his time asking for audience participation, whether that is to harmonize a chorus, sing along or offer up a song request. The collaborative feel pinnacled when, during an encore cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Drive All Night,” Hansard called up a dude out of the crowd who delivered a couple chorus repeats before introducing the band and thanking them on behalf of the crowd. It was a hilarious moment—leading to a hug between Hansard and the dude and Hansard remarking that the guy just performed an “intense act of bravery”—and one that is special and unique to the Swell Season.
At this point, you may have noticed that I have spoken almost exclusively about Hansard and not Irglova; well, you are right, and that’s no accident. Throughout the show, Irglova, sporting super-short hair, seemed very reserved and subdued. She has always been shy, but she seemed to be put off to the side and not as involved as usual, leading me to speculate that there had to be some reason for the seeming disconnection and detachment. Well, sure enough, I later learned that she and Hansard, who had a two-year romance, split up relatively recently (he’s 40, she’s 22). I have to wonder whether Hansard’s outsized personality has now completely overpowered and swallowed up Irglova, who is more low-key and introspective. He dominates the stage and the band, and while that can’t be held against him, it seems to have forced Irglova into kind of a submissive role of sitting quietly next to the piano and waiting to contribute every seven songs or so. I even thought Hansard should not have provided backup on Irglova’s “I Have Loved You Wrong”; his voice detracted from Irglova’s and was wholly unnecessary.
The latest album, “Strict Joy,” is much more melancholy than much of the work of the Frames and Swell Season, and Hansard admitted that a big reason why is the breakup of he and Irglova; apparently they had to add in a couple of up-tempo songs in order to save the entire thing from sounding like suicide folk rock.
It’s possible I’m reading too much into what I construed as some tension between Hansard and Irglova, because one article indicated that they both agreed on wanting to continue to tour and play together to see how it felt. However, part of me is hoping against hope that I’m wrong in thinking that Irglova may eventually strike out on her own in the not-too-distant future.
As to the actual music, the Swell Season is among those oh-so-rare bands that is better live than recorded. Among the highlights were a tremendous cover of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic,” a repeat of a favorite from the 2008 show, the Pixies’ “Cactus,” a kickoff with the sticks-with-you “Low Rising,” an all-to-the-front rendition of “Gold,” a frantic playing of “The Verb,” and a very moving version of “When Your Mind’s Made Up.” I wasn’t a fan of the selection of the Springsteen tune, but with a 45-minute encore, who the hell am I to complain?
The bottom line is the Swell Season live is one of the most phenomenal musical experiences you can have. The raw power of the band is in direct reciprocation of you as the audience -- they encourage, inspire and feed off the energy of the crowd. It’s what music is truly supposed to be about.
As Hansard himself said, “It is a rock show, after all.”
"May the road rise to meet you May the wind be always at your back The sun shine warm upon your face The rain fall soft upon your fields And until we meet again May God hold you in the hollow of His hand."
"St. Patrick was a gentleman Who through strategy and stealth Drove all the snakes from Ireland, Here's a toasting to his health; But not too many toastings Lest you lose yourself and then Forget the good St. Patrick And see all those snakes again."
"Here's health and prosperity, To you and all your posterity, And them that doesn't drink with sincerity, That they may be damned for all eternity!"
