New York neighborhoods used to be measured by the quality of their saloons. One of the reasons Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge always hovered near the top of my list was Tomorrow’s Lounge on 86th Street.
It was a Donegal joint, owned by Jimmy Morrow (hence the name) and managed by the dapper Tony Harkins when I first visited back in the 70s.
Tomorrow’s was like paradise to Turner & Kirwan of Wexford. It sported a piano for Pierce, we bought a Fender amp for my guitar, stuck two Shure microphones into it and, voila, we were a happening band with our own PA sound system.
We had already snagged a Manhattan Thursday residency at John Mahon’s Pig and Whistle (frequented by a bevy of Radio City Rockettes, no less). We were on the pig’s back!
But Bay Ridge was the making of us. Within weeks, staid Tomorrow’s piano lounge was rocking to a whole new clientele of twenty-somethings singing along to Dylan, The Dead, Simon & Garfunkel, T Rex and our own thorny songs.
It was a whole different world to Ireland, socially and otherwise; we were unleashed and liberated by this lovely neighborhood. We played at least four hours a night and got better by the minute.
On one of our first breaks I was standing by the jukebox when a lovely young woman murmured, “Wanta dance?”
I looked over my shoulder. There was no one behind. Could she really mean me? I had never been asked to dance before, not even at a ladies’ choice back in Ireland. My life changed, American women were open and friendly, they worked long hours and didn’t have time to beat around the bush.
My brother, Jimmy, soon arrived from London, the three of us, along with our best friend Bob Schwenk, got a roomy apartment on Ovington Avenue. Now we could really explore the wonders of Bay Ridge.
Back then, the three main ethnic groups were Italian, Irish and Norwegian with sprinkles of just about every other nationality. In the more commercial areas it was a rare street corner that didn’t house a bar, each with its own steady clientele.
These saloons functioned like clubs, everyone was on a first name basis, and you were made to feel at home as soon as your butt hit a barstool.
Bay Ridge food too was splendiferous, especially in the Greek diners and Italian restaurants, while the Sicilian and Calabrian young ladies vied to take you home for dinner, so their families could delight in your “cute accent.”
On nights off you’d stroll hand-in-hand with one of these sultry beauties down by the broad Narrows and marvel at the sea-going vessels inching by.
“The Verrazzano hangs like a string of pearls in the night
I’ll steal them for you, darlin’, wear them tomorrow
Make everything alright.”
That line from "Brooklyn Girls" still echoes from those innocent days, while across the river Staten Island brooded mysteriously.
Word of Turner & Kirwan of Wexford was spreading. The Daily News devoted two pages to us, we bought a van and began to play from the Jersey Shore to The Hamptons, all through Queens, up into the stormy Bronx and beyond to New England.
In an odd way, my heart always remained in Bay Ridge and those early days of acceptance. We released an album and WNEW-FM played it often.
In Bay Ridge no one ever called us Turner & Kirwan of Wexford, we were just Pierce and Larry – still are to those who remember.
Many of our original following got married, and moved off to Staten Island, Jersey and Pennsylvania. But every now and again I hop what used to be the RR and walk the old streets.
Vestiges of the past still remain, The Three Jolly Pigeons rocks on, The Canny Brothers still sing their Bay Ridge anthems, the local “wise guys”, once so formidable, are all old men now who shuffle down 86th Street for espressos on 3rd Avenue.
New nationalities abound in the carefully kept side streets, all friendly when smiled at, and why wouldn’t they be? Bay Ridge is still Old Brooklyn, a little paradise nestling at the mouth of New York Harbor where apartments are large, and rents lower than in trendy “new” Brooklyn.
As for Tomorrow’s Lounge. It’s long gone but lives on in the hearts and minds of all who ventured there.
