Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore By Niamh Clune

I grew up in London Irish pubs where music was inwoven into the fabric of daily life. One of my father’s few redeeming features was that he was a good musician, some would say fabulous, even. He played big band swing and bebop on sax and clarinet. When he wanted to torture my mother, he played Irish jigs on the silver flute (should always be played on the simple wooden flute) without feeling or nótaí ghrásta(grace notes). Basically, according to my mother, a bepob player should leave the traditional alone.

Musicians such as The Dubliners stayed with us in the pub we ran in Finsbury Park, The Sir George Robey, then known as The Clarence, and now derelict, and drank us out of house and home. Many exiled and lonely young men full of music, poetry, politics and idealistic intellect passed through our ever-open doors ~ bees to honey, the honey being my mother’s sparkling blue eyes, astonishing charm, and generous supply of home-cooking. They came also because the craic was great. Music pumped out of the bar every night, from Jazz and Bebop, to Blues, Country and Traditional Irish.

At a young age, my father hauled me up onto that stage to “sing us a song” to make the auld fellas cry and drown shamrock memories in copious amounts of the ‘black stuff.’ Children and mammies were remembered. Many had been abandoned for years and left to fend for themselves back in the auld country where there was little hope of employment. Paddy was forced to seek work in foreign, English climes. The lure of digging London’s Victoria underground tunnel superseded all other needs. Earn the Queen’s shilling and put a crust of bread on now distant tables, was the prayer of the day. Home parlours were replaced by my mother’s public bar, where navvy’s found refuge through smiling, non-judgmental, Irish eyes that lit cold souls and warmed exiled hearts.

As was the way with most Irish families, if you could sing, then sing. It was expected. If you could recite a poem, then recite. If you could make a speech and blind all with the power of your oratory then “Fair play to ye!” Just make sure it was passionate, rousing, fired with history and enough whiskey to whet a verbose whistle and incite the nationalist soul.

Because today is St. Patrick’s Day, I will sing you a song I recorded a while back. It’s on my CD Touching Angels…https://soundcloud.com/niamh-clune/red-on-white May the Uilleann Pipes fire your blood and make you get up and dance!