Published in the Irish Echo, Sept. 12, 2012.
Between the Lines / By Peter McDermott
In the 1976 film “All the President’s Men,” the character Deep Throat rails against the media’s “inexactitude” and “shallowness.”
The world learned in 2005 that Mark Felt, the FBI’s number 2, was the man who’d spoken with Bob Woodward more than 30 years before in that Washington DC underground car park. The screenwriter William Goldman hadn’t known that the character was an official in an agency whose stature depended to some degree on the shallowness of an adoring media.
The Felt of 1972, though, was disappointed that the White House appointed outsider and “political hack” Patrick Gray rather than him as acting FBI director following J. Edgar Hoover’s death, the month before the Watergate break-in. He was appalled, too, at the attempts to derail any serious investigation into the administration’s criminal misdeeds. He made the media his instrument by being a source on deep background for Woodward and his Washington Post partner Carl Bernstein.
The articles by the then 28- and 29-year-old reporters and their colleagues at the Post and other major outlets helped lead to President Richard Nixon’s resignation and to the jailing of several of his top aides and his attorney general.
Nixon had always believed that reporters were out to get him and thus was a natural at tapping into deep-rooted resentments about the media’s alleged “liberal bias.” Part of the issue here is that liberals believe in hearing multiple perspectives, while conservatives don’t have much patience with that approach and are more likely to hold that certain truths are self-evident. In any case, the president’s aides would have preferred if Walter Cronkite of CBS were more like a newsreader on Soviet TV.
Nixon’s brilliant media consultant Roger Ailes discussed with top aide Bob Haldeman (in his pre-prison days) ways of getting a pro-Administration network up and running. Part of the idea was that it would send out packaged propaganda, free, to local affiliates. Ailes went on much later to build Fox News into the powerhouse that it is, much to the horror of Cronkite in his last years.
Inevitably, it was this Nixon-era inspired right-wing media that accused Felt upon his death in December 2008 of betrayal rather than heroism — even though he’d never handed over files, and merely guided and encouraged the Post’s Woodward.
So, in this post-Cronkite world, how come the right wing, which is supposed to be for traditional values and condemns “moral relativism,” stands accused of being “post-truth”?
Well, bias like beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but propaganda is just that: propaganda. You might aim to be slick and to entertain millions, but once you decide you are backing one side you have an additional set of goals.
“It is not propaganda’s task to be intelligent,” Joseph Goebbels said in the late 1920s, “Its task is to lead to success.”
The Democratic and Republican parties twist the truth and lie in their efforts to persuade. But when a TV network’s commentary arm does it, and so blatantly, it just makes the politicians far worse. Many politics watchers were left scratching their heads at the GOP convention last month. They couldn’t remember an address quite like the one made by the vice-presidential candidate. One Washington Post headline captured the mainstream media reaction: “Paul Ryan’s breathtakingly dishonest speech.”
There were about five main objections to it from commentators, Democrats and groups like Fact Check.org. Let’s look at one of them. Here’s Ryan on President Obama: “He created a bipartisan debt commission. They came back with an urgent report. He thanked them, sent them on their way and then did exactly nothing.”
A presenter of public radio’s “On the Media” and an Advertising Age columnist Bob Garfield summarized in a Guardian piece the problem with that. “What a powerful anecdote – one that gets even more powerful when you know that Ryan was a commission member whose deciding vote against the report prevented it from being presented to Congress. Or that the president’s attempt at a ‘grand bargain’ with House Republicans exceeded the commission’s recommendations for spending cuts.”
For Garfield, the media that is able to pull up the man they now call Lyin’ Ryan on his departures from fact is a healthy one; he argues that it is less craven than it was in decades past.
It’s certainly true that the intellectually curious and the open-minded can keep informed. Take the insider accounts of what happens in the corridors of power that Woodward helped pioneer. They have their biases and there are disagreements over the interpretation of the information presented, but the sources are generally reliable. Nobody has disputed Robert Draper’s “Do Not Ask What Good We Do,” which has an account of a dinner on the night of the inauguration of the 44th president in January 2009; and it’s backed up by at least one other book.
The dinner was attended by a dozen male Republican politicians – seven House members, including Ryan and Newt Gingrich, and five senators, Jim DeMint and Jon Kyl among them. At the end of four hours, they’d pledged they would reject everything and anything that the new president proposed.
This sort of unrelenting obstructionism goes against how the American system is supposed to work. Yet, the hectoring, flag pin-wearing media help make it possible.
Published in the Aug. 15-21, 2012, issue of the Irish Echo
Between the Lines / By Peter McDermott
A Sikh man named Harpreet Singh Toor told me some years ago about an unpleasant encounter he’d had months before in the Wall Street area.
He recalled: “This gentleman – and I will still call him a gentleman – had a suit and tie, and no briefcase, so probably he worked around there somewhere, and was on lunch break with his colleagues. As he passed me by, he said: ‘Terrorist.’”
Toor was at that time working at City Hall and had a suit and tie himself. But he also had a turban, which, of course, is what drew the epithet.
I see from my files (that’s sounds organized, but they’re incomplete, alas) that I included his comments in a Newsday article dated Nov. 15, 1998. So, the incident was more than three years before the calamitous attack by Islamic extremists that destroyed the World Trade Center and killed thousands. It gives you some idea what Sikhs have faced since.
A Sikh gas-station owner in Arizona was shot dead before the week of 9/11 was out. Another Sikh was pulled by authorities from the Boston-to-New York train, and had to face the taunts of a hostile crowd, with, unfortunately, at least one policeman joining in.
I was drawn to the edge of that maelstrom on Sept. 13 or 14, when Newsday asked if I’d go down to Richmond Hill, in Southeastern Queens, to find more about reports that a Sikh had been beaten up in a diner. He was, it turned out, a man in his 70s who was visiting from India – and thus, a particularly soft target who didn’t fit any known stereotype of a terrorist.
When I spoke to his family members in the street, turbaned men milled around us, sensing perhaps that this might be a sympathetic ear. Certainly, the sullen demeanor of the cops posted at the end of the street, a key artery into the Sikh neighborhood, offered little comfort.
Remember that an unknown number of dead lay beneath the rubble at Ground Zero. We were all traumatized to varying degrees, and yet one’s heart had to go out to these people who had pinned their hopes on America.
I wonder how many those mainly young men continued to remain faithful to the symbols of their faith, known as the “five Ks,” which include not cutting one’s hair, and which they regard as the uniform of the “soldier-saint.” Most, if not all, likely experienced hateful abuse over the coming years.
One notices far fewer turbans these days, but it’s important to understand how much Sikhs value the uniform and how they see it as essential in their tradition to a disciplined and dignified bearing. In that 1998 piece, a bank executive told me he had stopped wearing the turban to avoid discrimination when working in Hong Kong almost 20 years before. But he expressed a desire to return to the symbols. “I want to. My heart is always there,” he said.
In contrast, Toor’s two sons, then 11 and 8, would say to him: “‘Why do I have to look different?” It was hard for them to understand the theology and the logic behind it.
What about the general public? Well, just as ignorance of the law is no defense in court, lack of knowledge should be no defense when it comes to bias and hatred. Certain sections of our media haven’t help much (note the ridiculous “Ground Zero mosque” controversy fanned by the Sean Hannitys, Bill O’Reillys and their ilk). Little wonder there was a palpable sense of relief in those quarters that the killer who attacked the Sikh gurdwara near Milwaukee on Aug. 5 turned out to be a neo-Nazi nut-job.
But the man with the suit who spat “terrorist” at Toor pre-9/11 was hardly a neo-Nazi, nor are most people that make life hard for Sikhs or Muslims or whoever doesn’t take their fancy.
What is the mentality that makes assumptions about people based on appearance? Well, partly it’s downright stupidity. In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, the U.S. relied on the Northern Alliance — Muslim guys whose garb would invite funny looks and adverse comment on the New York subway system — to fight the Taliban and al-Qaeda, and a pretty good job they did, too.
And, yet, obviously America can be wonderfully accepting. I remember a great 2011 story by the public-radio project Feet in Two Worlds (fi2w.org) that profiled girls and young women who left Turkey for the U.S. because they’re allowed here to cover their head in the school and college classroom.
What a pity the xenophobes have to sully the nation’s reputation for tolerance.
By Peter McDermott
Author J.D. Salinger was famously reclusive for most of his adult life. Back in 1940, though, you could easily contact him at his Manhattan home.
“He was living with his parents, but the phone was listed in his name,” said Maira Liriano of the New York Public Library, which has put the city’s telephone directories for that year up online as an aide to family researchers.
“I think it’s pretty funny,” she said. “It would be great if we could figure that out.”
The relevant entry is like any other; it contains the name, address, telephone exchange code and number: “Salinger Jerome D 1133 Pk Av SAcrmnto 2-7544″ (the capital letters, which in this case meant “72,” and the first number denoted the exchange).
Literary ambition may explain his accessibility. The 21-year- old was doing writing classes at night at Columbia University and would soon begin submitting stories to the New Yorker. Most were rejected, but one whose hero was Holden Caulfield was accepted, although ultimately it was shelved until war’s end. (He had yet to develop the fictional Glass family, whose roots reflected his own mixed Jewish and Irish-Catholic heritage.)
Salinger’s active dating life may have been another reason for his being in the Manhattan directory. In 1941, the man who would write “Catcher in the Rye” began seeing Oona O’Neill, the teenage daughter of playwright Eugene O’Neill. Before too long, to the horror of both writers, she’d married the 54-year-old film actor Charlie Chaplin.
If you could go back in a time machine, another cultural icon you might like to call is singer Billie Holiday (286W142 EDgecomb 4-4058), though not too early, as she was a night owl. And speaking of which, the man who would paint “Nighthawks” in 1942 is there (“Hopper Edw 3WashnSq SPring 7-0949″). It might have been hard to talk directly to Fiorella La Guardia, but he’s listed (“Mayor’s Office City Hall NY COrtland 7-1000”). The Manhattan directory also tells us that William Paley, who built CBS, lived in the most easterly reaches of Midtown before the U.N. set up shop there (“Paley WmS 29BeekmanPl PLaza 3-1442″). Meanwhile, Nathan Bader can be found in the Brooklyn directory (“Bader Nathan 1584 E9 DEwey 9-4418″). And who was he, exactly? Well, trace him to the census returns and you’ll see he had a 7-year-old daughter named Ruth. Today, she is better known as Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, a 19-year veteran of the U.S. Supreme Court.
The New York Public Library digitized the directories to coincide with the release this past spring of the 1940 Census returns, which were not indexed. “There was no way to plug in a name,” Liriano said. However, by pinpointing an address, a researcher can find the correct enumeration district (ED) to facilitate the search.
“We thought it would be a great service to have. We knew it would be very popular,” she said of the web site Direct Me NYC.
Since then, fierce competition between Ancestry.com and a consortium associated with Family Search.org has led to the indexing of most of New York State. But the telephone directories remain an important backup, Liriano said. A search for one of Pittsburgh’s most famous sons showed precisely how. She was asked if the Eugene C. Kelly listed in the Manhattan directory might be the same Gene Kelly (middle name Curran) who was making a name for himself on Broadway?
“Unfortunately, it’s not our man,” she reported. The “Eugene C. Kelly” at 435 W 23rd St. was a 58-year-old unemployed native of Washington. “Interestingly, when I searched the indexed 1940 Census in Ancestry I could not find this entry,” she said. “I found it using the ED converter in the website and browsing the ED.”
The problem, it turned out, was that Ancestry.com had transcribed the name as “Engenia Kelly.” Added Liriano: “I saw other transcription errors on that page. This is the value of having an alternative way to look for people in the census.”
So, chalk that one up to Direct Me NYC.
And here’s another: “Considine Robt B 1W85 TRafalgar 7-0029.” Is that Bob Considine, who was born in 1906 to a Washington DC family with County Clare roots? He became famous for his prodigious output in books (like “MacArthur the Magnificent” in 1942 and “Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo” in 1943) and in news media.
Yes, it is, confirmed Liriano. The census says that the Considine in the telephone directory is a 33-year-old newspaper columnist from the nation’s capital. However, she said, if she had bypassed the directory and relied on the index, her task would have been rather more difficult: his surname there is missing its “e.”
We can find, Edward J. Flynn, one of America’s most influential political operatives at his office in Midtown (“60E42 MUrryhil 2-1411”). He preferred to continue to work as a lawyer rather that take up a position in the Roosevelt Administration. Said historian and Irish Echo columnist Terry Golway: “In 1940, Flynn was firmly ensconced as FDR’s top political advisor. He became chair of the Democratic National Committee that year, succeeding James Farley, who split with FDR that year because he, Farley, thought he should be the party’s presidential nominee. Flynn’s major task was to persuade voters that it was okay for FDR to break the two-term tradition.”
The census shows that the 48-year-old Flynn was living at 2728 Spuyten Duyvil Parkway in the Bronx, with his wife Helen and their three young children. The household also had an Irish-born cook, a Norwegian maid and an English governess.
Immigrants and working-class people appear in the census, of course, but many could not afford a home telephone. In any case, poorer people tended to be more transient, regularly moving from apartment to apartment.
The Census of 1940 revealed that 2 million of New York City’s 7. 5 million people were born in another country. Of them, 182,000 were from Ireland. According to the Census also, 288,000 New Yorkers had an Irish-born father.
Another Democratic lawyer, County Mayo’s Paul O’Dwyer, was in the former category. The Brooklyn directory shows that he had offices at 26 Court St. (TRiangle 5-3645). A few years later, his eldest sibling Bill succeeded Mayor La Guardia, and is still the last foreign-born occupant of the office; Paul O’Dwyer himself became president of the City Council in the 1970s.
The Manhattan directory has entries for the Irish Echo (“152E121 LEhigh 4-1560″), the American Irish Historical Society and the Irish Consulate – though none at its current location. Some institutions have stayed in the same place. Katz’s Delicatessen, for instance, is still on the Lower East Side at the corner of Ludlow and Houston. In 1940, it could be reached by calling ALgonquin 4-2246. Seventy-two years on, you can contact Katz’s by dialing the same seven digits (after the 212 area code).
Every page in the directories is packed full of information about the life and culture of New York on the eve of America’s entry into World War II. This stepping back in time is made possible, Liriano stressed, by the latest digital technologies. The people at NYPL Labs work hard to make that institution’s online content attractive and user friendly. But staff members believe that much credit also goes to two leading American computer scientists, both originally from New York, who’ve made their services free in the area of family research. Together, Stephen P. Morse and Joel Weintraub developed the free One-Step Webpages and the 1940 Census ED Finder.
“The genealogy world has been blessed with their brilliance and generosity,” Liriano said.
For the 1940 NYC telephone directories go to: http://directme.nypl.org.
By Peter McDermott
In 2004, following an international survey of genealogical research facilities, David Ouimette of the Genealogical Society of Utah / Family History Library, Salt Lake City, reported “the most impressive guidance we saw was provided by the Genealogy Advisory Service at the National Library and the National Archives in Dublin.”
That was high praise indeed from one of the leading powerhouses in the world of genealogy. However, the service was suspended on May 31, after the Association of Professional Genealogists in Ireland withdrew, unhappy with the tightening terms and conditions imposed in a new contract. It had already gone along with cutbacks last year – and even suggested some of them — that reduced the service to three and a half hours per day at the National Archives in Bishop Street.
The APGI, which only allows fully accredited professionals to join, said that the genealogy service “played a central role in enhancing the research experience and was a significant component in heritage-related tourism.”
Said Irish genealogy blogger Claire Santry: “The tone of the [APGI] statement is polite and suitably respectful, as you’d expect. But behind the scenes there is huge resentment.”
A writer on a Scottish-based genealogy blog said that “various terms of the new contract to continue the service went beyond the realms of reason.”
Santry said: “Incidentally, I was in the Reading Room last Friday week at about 1.30 p.m. when genealogist Rosaleen Underwood should have been finishing for the day. I stuck my head around the genealogy service door and saw there were still three people queuing to speak to her. She was still there half an hour later when I left the building. That’s dedication. And I know that all the APGI genealogists put in a similar level of commitment to help visitors from around the world uncover their Irish heritage.”
The APGI believed that any new contract would require them to leave that queue of people to help with microfilm machines and photocopying. Two rivals in previous contract bids, Eneclann and Ancestry Network, joined forces to put in the sole bid to work for the National Archives and the National Library.
“We built it up over nine years,” said one APGI member, “And they [National Archives managers] never even asked our advice on how to run it better.”
In a related story, the prominent author and UCD historian Prof. Diarmaid Ferriter has resigned from the board of the National Library, citing the “little clarity” provided for the reasons of its amalgamation with the National Archives and the Irish Manuscripts Commission. He said that he was “refusing to tolerate an offensive and disingenuous doublespeak” from the government. It paid “lip service” to the importance of the library and other cultural institutions while “it seeks to emasculate these institutions,” he said.
Like the APGI, Ferriter was sensitive to the difficult economic situation, but argued that the government was working on the decade of centenary commemorations while it was “intent on doing untold damage to the very institutions which are the custodians of so much of that history.”
By Peter McDermott
It was a wet Thursday morning in Dublin in late April. But Lynn Shayler and Jennifer Moran hadn’t come to Ireland for the weather, or for the view of the mountains that a 5th floor office on Bishop Street affords. They hadn’t expected to be sitting reading their great-grandmother’s will either, but two days earlier a professional genealogist at the National Archives said she could get it. Now they were back and her colleague Paul Gorry went over the document with them. It gave them some names and leads to follow up.
Gorry teased out other issues with them, such as: how could Patrick Joseph Hand, a gardener from Kildare, and Mary J. Murphy, a cook from Meath, end up in Roscommon, where they married in 1882? In any case, the couple went back east again and ran a confectioner’s store from 1890 to about 1921 on Lower George’s Street in the seaside town of Kingstown in County Dublin.
At the end of that 30-year period, Kingstown became Dún Laoghaire. Meanwhile, one of their children, Alfred Patrick Hand, had gone to New York with his wife and daughter. A son was born to the family there. But the Dublin man died in 1929 and his widow brought the two children back across the Atlantic, eventually settling in England.
The New York-born Alfred Xavier Hand was Shayler and Moran’s father. He died in 1968, at age 48, when they were teenagers. Their mother died in 1969. Now the sisters, who live in Nottingham and Stoke, wanted to find out more about them and their families.
“So many people died. I never met my grandparents, and my parents died young,” said Moran. “I’m trying to put together something not only for ourselves but for future generations, so that they know the roots from where they do come. “
“These people here have been absolutely brilliant,” she said of the free service provided by the National Archives.
“We would never have got that for a start,” Moran added, referring to the copy of their great-grandmother Mary Hand’s 1936 will.
However, they arrived at the end of an era; the Association of Professional Genealogists in Ireland had become, after a nine-year association with the National Archives, increasingly unhappy with the terms and conditions of their contract. The service was suspended on May 31 and will be resumed this month in association with two groups that have formed a consortium, Eneclann and Ancestry Network.
“Each year, the genealogy service guided hundreds of family historians, both overseas visitors and Irish residents, who wished to do their own research,” said the APGI in a statement, “providing them with a strategy for their particular case and giving them time-saving tips.”
Gorry’s time-saving tip for the visitors from the English Midlands that Thursday was to forget about tracing the family background of the former Mary J. Murphy. The name was too common. He did, however, help them identify which Bartholomew Hand in the records was their great-great-grandfather, and gave them some suggestions about how to follow the line further back through Griffith’s Valuation.
“We didn’t know about that website he mentioned,” Moran said, referring to Askaboutireland.ie, which is a portal for Griffith’s Valuation.
Shayler and Moran’s itinerary for their time in Ireland was highly organized. And they approached their search the way the experts advise, doing everything they could at home online and offline before traveling. The sisters had been working for 18 months on their Irish roots, a cousin having already done much of the work on their mother’s, the English side, of their family.
They reached the conclusion that Mary Hand and her husband were hard workers, and that she was probably the driving force. Though the store had the name P.J. Hand, he was still listed in the 1901 census as a “landscape gardener,” while she was a “mistress confectioner.” (They visited the location in 2012, now occupied by a shoe shop.)
They sent their sons Bartholomew and Alfred to school at Blackrock College, which turned out to be a good source of information for Alfred’s granddaughters.
“We found out a lot about our grandfather’s teeth. He had quite a lot of fillings,” Moran said. “We put it down to living in the confectionary shop.”
Their father’s mother was from Belfast. She migrated with her family as a child to Dublin, where they had a house-painting business.
She remarried after leaving America. Her daughter later married a man named Molloy and settled back in Ireland. It was through that connection that young Jennifer and Lynn Hand went to Dublin in the 1950s with their older siblings and parents. Their aunt got their father, who had been an aircraft engineer during the war, a position in a textiles company.
“I don’t think it worked out,” Moran said of that three-year stint in the land of his parents.
But his daughters’ trip of 2012 certainly did. “It’s been a good journey, hasn’t it?” Moran said to her sister.
“Everybody has been very helpful,” Shayler said. “And they have pointed us in different directions.”
“The stuff we’ve got here in the last few days is what we haven’t been able to get in England,” Moran said. “It’s been absolutely fabulous.”
By Daniel Neely
For all the attention given the records of the 78 rpm era, few seem to really notice the number of banjos one hears. While aficionados may recognize names like Mike Flanagan of the Flanagan Brothers, Neil Nolan of the Dan Sullivan Shamrock Band and perhaps even Michael Gaffney (who recorded with flute player John McKenna) as being the banjo leaders of the era, people like Boston’s Joe Fahey (who made a single side with his brother John on fiddle), Jimmy McDade (who played with Ed Reavy in the Four Provinces Orchestra), James Ryan (who played with Paddy Killoran) and, later, George Derrane, were also active, their names lamentably lost in most discussions of the instrument’s history.
The players in this early era were spirited and full of character, but their approach seems to have been largely intuitive; if ideas about a teaching method for “Irish” banjo did exist, they haven’t been passed down in any cohesive manner. Sure, the banjo had a place in teaching – fiddle giant James Morrison used the banjo as a pedagogical tool in teaching his young violin students proper intonation (and probably wasn’t alone in doing that) – it wasn’t until Barney McKenna came along and revolutionized the instrument with the Dubliners in Ireland in the 1960s that the likes of Mick O’Connor, Mick Moloney, Kieran Hanrahan, John Carty, Gerry O’Connor, Cathal Hayden and many others began to think differently about how the instrument fit into the music.
Because of these players, the “Irish” tenor banjo has developed substantially and now, a new breed of virtuoso player has emerged that has taken the instrument to new places. One of the players leading the way is Galway’s Enda Scahill. A member of the Brock McGuire band, Scahill has won four All-Ireland titles, guested with the Chieftains, recorded with Ricky Skaggs, and toured with Frankie Gavin and Stockton’s Wing. He has also recorded outstanding albums as a solo artist (“Pick It Up,” 2000), as a duo with Paul Brock (“Humdinger,” 2007) and in ensemble with the Brock McGuire Band (Green Grass Blue Grass, 2011).
If being an absolutely brilliant player wasn’t enough, Scahill is also a highly respected teacher. Not only have several of his students won All-Ireland titles for themselves, but since 2008 Scahill has published two separate (and well-received) banjo tutorials that introduce and codify a sophisticated approach to the instrument’s technique that players of all levels have found enlightening.
It’s fitting, then, that Scahill’s most recent offering, the tunebook “40 Solos for the Irish Tenor Banjo,” is not only pedagogical in nature, but includes two of his students, both All-Ireland winners, the brothers Martin and David Howley. (Ironically, credit for the Howley’s banjo skills go to another of Scahill’s students, Johnny Harty; Scahill reports he taught Martin the tenor guitar and David the mandolin, and considers them his “banjo grandchildren.”) Together, the trio is the group WeBanjo3. Formed in 2009, the group took much stronger shape this past September when the Music Network, an arm of the Arts Council of Ireland, gave them the “Young Musicwide Award,” which provides support and professional development assistance to emerging young artists. In addition to this book, they have a CD due out later this year.
“40 Solos for the Irish Tenor Banjo” is not a diegesis on technique, rather, it’s an outstanding resource for banjo players wishing to better know and understand ornamentation and variation. It is presented as two publications in one, and comes with two compact discs. The first part, “20 Tunes Guaranteed to Help You Win Banjo Competitions,” encompasses the first half of the book and provides a nice selection of well-known tunes that stay well within traditional music’s boundaries – perfect for fleadh competition.
Flip the book over as if you’re going to open the back cover and you’ll find the second publication, “20 Tunes Guaranteed to Get you Disqualified from Banjo Competitions.” Here, students will find a selection of original and old time- and bluegrass-influenced tunes, the sort that Scahill has been playing with his various groups, but also the kind Scahill has found (from experience) fleadh adjudicators typically do not reward. (One of the tunes in this section is a Niall Vallely composition; Scahill reports that Vallely was delighted to have one of his own included as a “disqualifier!”)
All the notated tunes in “40 Solos for the Irish Tenor Banjo” are note-for-note transcriptions (in both TAB and standard notations) of the performances the Howleys and Scahill recorded on the two CDs. Being able to see and hear the music is especially valuable because it makes it easy to follow the variations and ornamentations, and to better understand what they mean to the tune. The CDs are a brilliant part of the presentation.
With this tutor, WeBanjo3 has given us a resource young banjoists will undoubtedly turn to for years to come. In addition, Scahill continues his yeoman’s work in elevating the banjo in traditional music.
Published in the May 30, 2012 issue of the Irish Echo
By Orla O’Sullivan
It was not the ringing of the servant’s bell in Downton Abbey that summoned forth Mr. Bates last week. Still wearing black, but unencumbered by a limp, he climbed onto the stage set up in Mutual Of America’s Manhattan headquarters to honor Origin Theatre Company on its 10th anniversary.
It wasn’t quite “Philadelphia, Here I Come” for Brendan Coyle, who plays the lame valet in the hit TV series “Downton Abbey”. However, it was while performing in Brian Friel’s play about an Irishman emigrating to the U.S. that Coyle first met Origin founder and Limerick native George Heslin.
That was 20 years ago in London. The two shared a dressing room and a close friendship since. “I love George,” Coyle said in an interview at the end, adding that he flew to New York especially for Origin’s spring benefit.
Coyle’s presence not only helped draw close to 200 people to the $200-a-head event, but contributed $20,000 from one fan determined to have lunch with the maddening yet alluring Mr. Bates.
Sandra Doshner, a retired lab technician from Ridge, L.I., said she was partly spurred into making the winning bid by some of the other thousands of Downton Abbey fans on Facebook, ranging as far afield as St. Petersburg. “For $20,000, some said he [Coyle] should be dessert!
“I know that’s naughty, but the lid’s off the box,” added Doshner, who conveyed her determination to have fun after a life of much duty and sacrifice.
That stoic side she shares with Mr. Bates, arguably the most frustrating character in the period drama because he repeatedly endures hardship rather than speaking in his defense. Coyle, an Olivier-winning actor for whom the part was specially written, says, “There’s a stocism to Mr. Bates we don’t readily relate to today, and a ferocious loyalty”.
Coyle said he draws on these qualities in his father, “a working man” from Omagh. He got his introduction to method acting in Dublin’s Focus Theater, co-founded by his aunt Mary Elizabeth Burke-Kennedy.
Naturally, Coyle won’t be drawn when asked the question my sister, and others, ask: Did he kill his wife? Mr. Bates was found guilty and jailed at the end of the last season. Coyle blushes, but returns an inscrutable expression, when asked would he be crushed if Mr. Bates were cut from the series.
Oddly for an actor, he said, “I keep asking them to cut my lines. Less is more.” He adds, “Mr. Bates is a slow-burner and we’re going to see amazing things from him in series three”.
Although multi award-winning Downton Abbey is wildly popular on both sides of the Atlantic, and reportedly out-tweeted both the royal wedding and the Superbowl, Coyle, said he doesn’t necessarily consider Downton the apex of his career.
“TV and theater and very different,” he said, adding, “I hope my next theater production will be in New York with Origin”. That could be this fall, he said.
Origin created the 1st Irish Theater festival here in 2008. Within three years, 34 million people had heard of it, Artistic Director Heslin told the gathering.
Praise was shared from many quarters, including Mayor Bloomberg’s office; patron Tim Kennon and actress Geraldine Hughes were honored; and the Irish Echo even got mentioned in a rap reviewing Origin’s 10-year existence.
“Broadway, here I come!” was Hughes’ prediction for Origin 10 years from now. Much as how Coyle and Heslin had their play transferred from a theater-restaurant to London’s West End? It was, Coyle said, “a game changer.”
Traditional Music / By Daniel Neely
I love vinyl records. Cover art, gatefolds, paper sleeves, bonus inserts, colored vinyl, volvelles, secret lockgroove messages – they’re fun, and there’s a lot of real estate that can be dispatched to creatively enhance the music itself. New media – i.e. thinking beyond the CD as the primary vehicle for delivering music – has similar creative potential, as it gives musicians new ways to be creative while opening new ways of reaching out to their fans.
Take, for example, the Boston-based band the Ivy Leaf. Comprised of Daniel Accardi (fiddle, concertina), Armand Aromin (fiddle, whistle), Caroline O’Shea (flute, whistle, vocals) and Lindsay Straw (bouzouki, guitar, vocals), the group’s recently released self-titled first album features nimble playing and skilled arrangements that convey a great enthusiasm for traditional Irish music. Straw’s voice on “Raglan Road” and O’Shea’s on “The Night Visiting Song” are both lovely. She transforms material often associated with Luke Kelly in to something her own, striking a nice balance with the numerous instrumental tracks.
The savvy they’ve shown for thinking outside the jewel case in something many artists in trad music might take a closer look at. Like an increasing number of groups in other genres, the Ivy Leaf’s physical CD is a somewhat bare bones offering, including only thank yous, recording credits and the briefest of introductory notes. What they do, though, is direct people to their website for booking information, tour dates, bios and extended liner notes (which despite being fairly essential to Irish music, are too often overlooked in the world of downloading). There, fans will also find live performance videos, news updates, links to the group’s Facebook, Twitter, iTunes, CD Baby, Bandcamp and YouTube pages, a mailing list signup and a link to the Ivy Leaf’s EPK (electronic press kit) on the ReverbNation website. Essentially, the group puts the physical and the electronic versions of their album on equal footing.
This is a smart arrangement that might seem like overkill to some, but it ensures the group can be found easily, respond to fan inquiries quickly, and reach out directly when necessary. It’s a smart, tight presentation that integrates the various moving publicity pieces while reaching out directly to a younger (and hopefully growing) demographic that embraces marketing via social network and increasingly eschews physical product.
Ryan McGiver, a singer and guitar player well known in Irish trad circles, is another artist that has taken a unique and engaging approach to releasing his music. His recent “Troubled in Mind,” an album of American murder ballads co-produced with Shahzad Ismaily, is brilliant and features many of the New York City’s top, most seasoned trad musicians, including Cillian Vallely, Eamon O’Leary, Susan McKeown, Cleek Schrey, Pat Mangan, Dana Lyn and Matt Mancuso. Although it isn’t “Irish” music in style, it’s great music that’s been well reviewed in folk publications and was recently (and rightly) made one of fRoots magazine’s top picks.
What McGiver did that distinguished his album from others was to release it first on a USB “stick” drive. “It’s an easier and more efficient way of promoting music,” McGiver reasoned. “I was working on several things for the album, and I wanted to present all of it together in one place. The USB drive made that possible.”
With this format, McGiver could approximate – even extend – the kind of user experience long playing records offered. In addition to the full album, the drive includes a full-size PDF of lyrics each paired with an original Neil Driscoll painting, two professional music videos and a gallery of early recordings and cover art that inspired McGiver’s work. This material not only helps people better understand who McGiver is as an artist, but it gives his music visual element that enriches the musical experience.
Admittedly, this is somewhat unfamiliar territory for most. Many well established artists are not in any hurry to embrace the challenges this new media presents, especially when most trad fans still seem most comfortable with physical product. (McGiver even did a recent run of physical CDs for those who prefer them.) But keep in mind times are rapidly changing: Nielsen SoundScan’s 2011 year end update reported that digital music sold more than physical copy for the first time last year with 50.3 percent of all music purchases. This figure has been increasing steadily over the last several years (46 percent in 2010, 40 percent in 2009 and 32 percent in 2008), and will likely continue to rise.
If you’re a traditional Irish musician and wish to submit your music for review, please visit http://danieltneely.com and click on “Contact” in the right hand column to contact me. I prefer receiving submissions in MP3 form accompanied by a PDF of the album cover and liner notes, delivered via whichever file sharing or digital file delivery service you use.
Originally published in the March 10-16, 2004, edition of the Irish Echo.
By Peter McDermott
When it’s time to close the Irish Jewish Museum in Dublin, curator Raphael Siev performs certain rituals. The retired civil servant, for example, climbs a stepladder outside the front door at 3 Walworth Rd. and takes the tricolor down from the flagpole. He’s on familiar territory here in Portobello, beside the Grand Canal. He’s known this building since childhood when his family started going to the synagogue there, after the smaller one they attended folded.
In 1912, the Walworth Road Hebrew Congregation joined together two modest red-bricked terraced houses built in 1870. Services took place until 1970 on the upper level, which had been restored for visitors to see.
The ground floor was a community meeting place, which now houses the museum’s large collection, displayed thematically in tall glass cases. In an alcove there’s a preserved kitchen with the original 1870 stone floor and fire place. Subsequent layers, such as the sink and the two sets of presses to facilitate kosher cooking, were added long before Siev’s time.
“It’s important to show there was a vibrant, active and integrated Jewish community who put down roots here, who became part and parcel of Irish life,” he said. “We’ve played our role — this is what the museum is showing.”
It’s not that difficult to get to Portobello. About a mile south of Dame Street and the Temple Bar district, one must negotiate Kelly’s Corner, a confluence of streets that has been transformed more than any patch of the city by the frenzy of building of recent years. Tall 21st century glass and concrete structures rise above the streets that twist and turn for reasons long forgotten.
However, off to the right is a boulevard, Harrington Street, extending into the South Circular Road up to Leonard’s Corner, that has remained largely the same for decades, other than the great diversity of its pedestrians.
Most immigrants are probably unaware of Portobello’s previous experience with multiculturalism, when Catholics, Protestants and Jews coexisted for generations. Siev reeled off the locations of the smaller synagogues: Haytesbury Street, Camden Street, Bloomfield Avenue, Oakfield Place. His own family went to Lombard Street West. There was one in an attic on Lennox Street, another in a backroom on St. Kevin’s Parade. “Joyce mentions several of them in ‘Ulysses,’ ” he said.
The right turn at Leonard’s Corner leads into Lower Clanbrassil Street, “Little Jerusalem,” the famous commercial heart of the Jewish community in Dublin, and the beginning of a back route into the city center, via the Liberties and the city’s great medieval cathedrals, Christ’s Church and St. Patrick’s Street. There were Jewish grocers, butchers, dairies, drapers, shoemakers, delicatessens, tobacconists, bakers, liquor stores and others.
“It was a great center of activity every day except Saturday,” Siev remembered.
Joyce had his hero Leopold Bloom born a few yards in the other direction, on Upper Clanbrassil Street, which was never particularly Jewish. In any case, his year of birth is placed some time before immigrants were identified with the neighborhood. But nobody’s complaining, not least the museum at Walworth Road, which proudly devotes one glass case to one of literature’s most famous Irishmen, who is also one its most famous Jews.
There were 341 Jews in Ireland, according to the census of 1861, presumably of Central and Western European origin. But most Irish Jews, who came later, like most American Jews, were Yiddish speakers from the Pale of Settlement, that part of Greater Russia, including Lithuania and much of Poland, to which they were confined.
The assassination of Czar Alexander II in 1881 was followed by ferocious state-directed pogroms against the Jewish people, which in turn sparked a decades-long migration westward.
The overwhelming majority landed in North America, but at least 0.1 percent of the new Diaspora made their home in Ireland, and the Jewish population of the country increased tenfold within the space of a few years. Among them were Raphael Siev’s Lithuanian-born maternal grandparents, who settled in Limerick before the turn of the century. In that city, a series of lurid and bigoted sermons by a Redemptorist priest the Rev. John Creagh, beginning on Jan. 18, 1904, set off the worst anti-Semitic episode in Irish history. Though there were some assaults on people, causing serious injury, it’s best known for the economic impact on the Jewish people.
“The full effect of that was that most of the Jewish people living in Limerick, only about 30 families, were impoverished because there was an absolute boycott,” Siev said.
“They had to live on charity sent in from Dublin, England and America. The vast majority left. But my mother’s parents decided to stick it out. They lived through difficult times, but stayed until the 1920s.”
A few more immigrant families took a chance on Limerick, so they weren’t alone. “The boats were still coming,” he said.
Siev’s father was born in Liverpool, spent his teenage years in Drogheda, Co. Louth, and moved to work in Dublin by his early 20s, in the years before the World War I. “He was in recycling, which is very fashionable today,” he said.
Albert Siev had a wheelbarrow and went around six mornings a week to pubs and cafes, where he collected whiskey bottles, beer bottles, Guinness bottles and jam jars. “He would bring them to a small garage he had in Summerhill [in the north inner city] and he would wash them and sort them, put them onto trays,” his son said. And he sold them back to Guinness’s and the other breweries, the distilleries, Fruitfield jam company and other factories.
On his rounds with his wheelbarrow on Easter Monday, 1916, Albert Siev, stood amazed like other passers-by who’d stopped outside Liberty Hall, headquarters of the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union, as a contingent of the Irish Citizen Army announced its revolutionary intentions before walking up to join the Irish Volunteers at the GPO. Among the Citizen Army’s ranks that day was one J. Weeks, who was Jewish. He died in the fighting a few days later.
Albert Siev moved in time into trading secondhand furniture. The family settled on Emorville Avenue, off the South Circular Road. There were no incidents equivalent to the events in Limerick and community relations were harmonious, on the surface at least. However, Siev’s childhood and youth, coinciding in part with the war years, was not free of anti-Semitism. He was hit more than once. And, on occasion, pupils from the Jewish day school, who learned their subjects through the Irish language, were attacked by stone-throwing boys their own age. “I was told I was a ‘dirty Jew,’ ‘go back to you where you came from,’ ‘you don’t belong here,’ ” he recalled. “They were just repeating what their elders were saying and thinking.”
For Siev, this hostility was reflected at the official level. “Not one Jewish person was admitted into Ireland between 1933, when Hitler came to power, and 1939, when immigration had to cease from mainland Europe,” he said.
He referred to two examples of the policy, which the museum documents. In one, the minister turned down a plea from refugee groups in Geneva for Ireland to accept some leading engineers.
“These were top engineers, who would have been of benefit to any country that wanted to establish industry,” Siev said. “We lost great opportunities in this country.”
The other concerned a man who owned a hat factory. “He was allowed to stay, his wife was sent back to Paris,” he said. “She was caught [by the Nazis].”
He added: “It’s unbelievable that even a partner of a man who was allowed to open a factory here, ran it through the war, and he lost his wife. It boggles the mind that this policy was so rigid.”
Rise and decline
It was in the years after the war that the Jewish community reached its peak in population, 5,500. Many Jewish families saw their economic situation improve from generation to generation. The immigrant might be a peddler, his son would own a small store, and his grandsons would be groomed for the professions. “That’s the way with all migrant communities,” Siev said.
The 1950s saw an Irish Jew become more famous, at least for a time, than Leopold Bloom. Bob Briscoe was appointed lord mayor by his fellow members of Dublin Corporation in 1956.
Ben Briscoe, who inherited his father’s Fianna Fail seat, in the Irish fashion, was joined by two co-religionists in the Dail in the early 1980s: Alan Shatter of Fine Gael and the Labor Party’s Mervyn Taylor. The community seems particularly proud of the popular, mild-mannered Taylor, who reached cabinet rank, serving as minister of equality and law reform between 1994 and 1997.
But many families, the Sievs among them, would not see fourth and fifth generations staying in Ireland. Raphael Siev became a lawyer, working for most of his career in the Department of Foreign Affairs, mainly at home in Dublin, but also serving abroad for a five-year period, as deputy head of mission in Copenhagen in the early 1980s. Now he and his brother Stanley are the end of the line.
The reasons for the terminal decline have been debated endlessly. There were recriminations and soul-searching: had the elders done enough to keep the young people in Ireland? Siev himself believes that the message that the state he loyally served gave the wrong message at a crucial moment in its history. Others argued it was difficult for a small religious minority to feel fully at home in a country where identity was wrapped up with the Catholic religion and the soil. And that it was easier to be religiously observant in bigger communities in Britain and America. While some said it was just another Irish immigrant story: there were better opportunities elsewhere.
In time, Jewish Clanbrassil Street, the emotional center of the community’s experience in Ireland, disappeared slowly, store by store. The last butcher’s shop, Ehrlich’s, was kept afloat for years by the Jewish Representative Council until it closed in 2001. The street in any case had been widened in the 1980s and bore little resemblance to what was once there. There are just 1,000 Jews now in Dublin. And as Ireland attracts immigrants and temporary workers from every continent, the Irish-Jewish story has become something of a curiosity.
On a recent winter afternoon, there was no shortage of visitors making their way to Siev’s door. Among them were two German-American sisters from the Midwest, with grown children in tow. One of the women converted to Judaism after she married. A Chinese man, visiting with his wife, reminded Siev that his home city of Shanghai was a refuge for many European Jews fleeing the Nazis. All were impressed with what they saw at Walworth Road.
Siev has been moving force behind the museum since the idea was first mentioned 30 years ago. He was a strong supporter of turning the old synagogue into a museum. It might not have seemed the ideal project to put to a community already a little traumatized by its decline. But Siev was determined. And he cooperated with another man, Asher Benson, who was also building a collection.
Silja Mueller, a non-Jewish Swiss-born woman, who volunteers once a week at the museum, hinted at one reason for its success. She initially went to Walworth Road to research an acting role. When her work was done, and she was leaving, apparently for the last time, Siev said to her: “You’ll be back next Sunday?” She did come back. “Raphael can be very persuasive,” she said.
(Admission to the Irish Jewish Museum is free. It is open Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays from 11 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. from May 1 through Sept. 30. From Oct. 1 through Apil 30 it is opens Sundays only from 10:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.)
By Peter McDermott
Anne Rodda’s surname is English, courtesy of her late husband Jim’s Cornwall roots. She herself is German and Danish on her father’s side, but it’s to mother’s Irish heritage that she has always returned time and again.
It helped that after the Roddas had raised their four children, she embarked on a career as a genealogist. Then, two years ago, she took the ultimate step of relocating from Little Falls, N.J., to Tuam, Co. Galway.
“Jim and I visited here many times over a period of about 10 years, and we both loved the place and couldn’t really say why in particular. We just felt comfortable here,” she recalled. “We loved all of Ireland, traveled about to all the counties of the Republic on different trips, but always included a week or two here in Tuam.”
Said Rodda, who grew up in Brooklyn in the 1940s and 1950s: “I came here first because my grandmother was from Kilbannon and I was curious. I then kept coming back because we had developed friendships, [and] found some of my cousins, and we seemed to have a connection to the place.”
Rodda, who had obtained a B.A. and a Master’s degree over the years, decided after she was widowed to study for a D. Litt. with an emphasis on Irish studies at Drew University.
“I had finished the course work, two years’ worth, and started the dissertation when I began to think it was time for me to move somewhere else,” she recalled, “and the idea of Ireland kept coming back as I thought about the choices open to me.
“It seemed like a good idea to go to a place that was different enough for starting a new life, and yet where I felt as if I belonged,” said Rodda, who stays with her daughter in New Jersey during her trips back to this side of Atlantic.
Rodda said of Tuam: “The people are friendly. There is an energy: people bustling about with things to do, but always having a minute to stop and chat if you meet in a shop or on the street. It has a small-town feeling but not dull — busy enough as the center of things in this part of County Galway, and near enough to Galway City to spend a day there.
“And Tuam is in easy reach of so many beautiful spots in the countryside and all along the glorious West Coast of Ireland,” she said. “I think it’s important to live in a town where you have roots. There is that feeling of a link to the past, and of course as a genealogist and historian I couldn’t be in a better place. Being on the committee of the Old Tuam Society has been a great way to be with friends who share those interests.”
Now, Rodda and the committee are organizing “The Irish-American Link: People, Places and Culture” for the weekend of July 13-15. “This conference is expanding that circle [of friends] and it’s always nice to be part of a constructive venture,” she said.