I Suppose You Had to Be There...

I’m preparing a speech for the not too distant future, when destiny finally grants me my wish for revenge. What I’ve penned so far:

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I plead guilty to the cold-blooded murder of Mark McCabe. I dismembered him, flayed him, and removed his still-beating heart. He died in agony at my hands. I squeezed his liver into pate, though the gaps of my fingers. However, ladies and gentlemen, I stand here with a clear conscience and with no regret in my heart. McCabe committed a heinous crime against humanity. Such was the gravity and monstrousness of his crime that I could no longer allow him to reside among the peoples of the Earth. He should have known better; he should have held back and done nothing. I refer, of course, to his abominable creation, Manic 2000. When the crime took place, I was too young and weak to take action. The mobs that followed him and bought his accursed CD seemed too strong and overwhelming. It was a parochial affair, really, and it (fortunately) didn’t escape the confines of this island. If I was older, I could have fled to another country and forgotten about it. How wonderful it would have been to known that the majority of the world didn’t suffer as I suffered. And I did suffer.”

Too much, you say? Oh, ye of short memory! Try watching the video without flinching. You may well have participated in the crime, but you cannot justify saving this man’s life.

I mean, look at him; he’s a so goofy looking and he’s spouting tired phrases from Ye Auld Book o’ Rayver Incantations in what appears to be a pseudo English accent. Even the most parochial DJs of school hall discos would cringe at such painful lines as “put your hands in the air… like you just don’t care” or “Oggy, oggy, oggy! Oi, oi, oi!”. This stuff was dire ten years ago, never mind now, and despite being a teenager, I knew well of how pathetic it was. It was all-invasive though. Emigration wasn’t a real option for me at the time, and I just had to suffer the tune of what now sounds like a circa 2005 ringtone.

What the hell was up with that accent anyway? I don’t understand how someone expects to be considered cool by impersonating the accent of another country. It makes him look like a small-timer, someone easily dazzled by cosmopolitanism. Anyone who has ever listened to a 2FM DJ (which McCabe once was) understands what I mean. They’re all like an overly pally uncle who thinks he needs to relate to your generation, and throws out a few Americanisms to show he’s still hip. This mystifies further – who has ever been impressed by someone pretending to be American? I doubt Americans do; they often ridicule such people in their films and TV shows. But this is something these DJs aspire to, as if they want to look like someone who was bowled over by an episode of Friends.

Anyway, the best explanation for Maniac 2000 is that McCabe wanted to make a song that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but rave, hoping he would be immortalised in the curriculum of every sound engineering course, as a typical example of the genre. I’m pretty sure I could reproduce the song on an unsophisticated piece of software now, and I bet virtually all the lyrics would be available to me to place along the bars of the archaic rave sounds. Except that truly bizarre declaration in the middle of the ‘song’: “Life: it has no meaning!” He seems so sure and happy about it. I wonder if he’ll still be so happy and sure, when I slip my knife into his gullet and repeat the words back to him.

So, after four minutes of painfully cringeworthy lyrics, which are below the talents of a 12 year old (That’s only referring to the lyrics I understand – the song proceeds mostly like drug-induced blabbering.), we get “come with me to the place to be.” The song ends. The place to be is a post-Maniac 2000 world, where McCabe is a one-hit wonder who is largely forgotten. If destiny doesn’t grant me the opportunity to take revenge, I can always console myself in the knowledge that McCabe’s greatest hour was with a song he has largely disowned. What was cool (even though it never really was) has now passed into what is dated and pathetic. McCabe tells us he’s embarrassed by the ‘song’, as he is still trying to chase a reputation of being hip and contemporary. Some people never learn.

Folk Song Reviews: Dublin in the Rare Old Times

"You cannot step twice into the same river." – Heraclitus

As with the above quote, Dublin in the Rare Old Times is concerned with change. Both Heraclitus and the song’s narrator step into the same river only once; the pre-Socratic philosopher steps into the river of the universe, where change is the only constant, the narrator steps into the Liffey to rid himself of his worldly sorrows (or at least we can imagine him doing so). Despite the cryptic character of Heraclius’s philosophy, it seems evident that change was not regrettable or tragic to him. The narrator, on the contrary, mourns virtually every change that occurs since he was young enough to sing Ring a Ring o' Rosie.

Dublin in the Rare Old Times was written by Pete St John during the 1970s. St John’s other notable composition is the Fields of Athenry, a song about English occupation, now sung by Liverpool FC fans (you can also experience a dance version in the world’s shittest discos). St John is the worst kind of person known to mankind: the ex pat who returns home to criticise everything. In The Rare Old Times, he is critical of the economic progress that took place in 1960s Ireland. These economic changes happened under the stewardship of Seán Lemass, an actual Irish patriot who put his balls on the line by fighting against the British in the war of independence. So satisfactory was Lemass’s service as Taoiseach that he’s largely forgotten in the Irish psyche (because we only seem to remember the bad ones). You could almost be forgiven for thinking he derived his fame from being the lovechild of Clark Gable and Phil Lynott, and not for being one of our Taoisigh. One wonders what he, a true Dubliner of an even rarer and older time, would think of the negative sentiments expressed in Rare Old Times.

St John bemoaned the economic progress made in the 60s, as it deprived him of his romanticised view of an idyllic 1950s Ireland, and so he composed Rare Old Times to give expression to his totalitarian will to keep a culture stagnant for the sake of his childhood memories.

Let’s wade through the misery-infested lyrics to get a better understanding of the level of sanctimony, melancholy, and self-pitying that warbles drunkenly from the song. Keep in mind that we are supposed to sympathise with the narrator of the song.

(The song, for those who haven't heard it.)

Raised on songs and stories, heroes of renown,

Ah, the passing tales and glories that once was Dublin town

Nothing objectionable so far. Detached from the melody and rest of the lyrics, one might suspect this was the beginning of an epic ballad, one where the hero leads a depressed people to glory. Only the word ‘passing’ clues us in to the misery ahead.

The hallowed halls and houses, the haunting children's rhymes,

That once was part of Dublin in the rare old times.

For those of you who don’t know, Dublin was a tenement dump, where children had to play on the street. While it may not have been a bad life, the ‘heroes of renown’ fought to change these conditions. Lemass wanted economic progress to change these conditions. The old codger who narrates the song wants to hold on to these days so badly that he almost equates further industrialisation with the apocalypse in the chorus:

Ring-a-ring-a-rosie as the light declines,

I remember Dublin city in the rare old times.

Ring a Ring ‘o Roses (or Rosie), a nursery rhyme, is synonymous (albeit incorrectly) with the Great Plague of London, and the declining light could represent some after-effect of nuclear war as much as it represents the mind of the narrator. The whole premise seems to be that the new Dublin no longer holds the charms of the rare old times. That’s quite a message to be passing on via a folk song. The concrete changes in the city cannot be undone by one man, but perhaps he could give us a glimmer of hope. After all, some of us have to live here. Selfishness, as we’ll soon discover, is the least of his vices.

My name it is Séan Dempsey, as Dublin as can be,

Born hard and late in Pimlico, in a house that ceased to be

As Dublin as can be, Dempsey? I would have thought that being born raised in Dublin was enough to be considered as Dublin as can be. No doubt the ‘heroes of renown’ would appreciate such useful social stratification.

By trade I was a cooper, lost out to redundancy,

During an economic boom? It seems so unlikely. The vital clues to this puzzle come later in the song.

I courted Peggy Diegnan, as pretty as you please,

Oh, the rogue and a child of Mary from the rebel Liberty;

I lost her to a student lad, with skin as black as coal,

When he took her off to Birmingham, she took away my soul.

Whenever I hear these lines in the company of a foreigner, I cannot help but cringe. I used to try comfort myself with the excuse that the composer needed something to rhyme with ‘soul’, but no excuse can save the song from sounding racist. Why the superfluous detail? To make it sound like an authentic story, perhaps? One could well imagine a contemporary version of this song, where a backing singer interjects soulfully with “Nothing wrong with that” to soften the blow of the abrasive line.

In any case, it’s abundantly obvious why Peggy left for Birmingham. Who would you prefer; a travelled, intelligent man who offers you the prospect of a more prosperous city, or a whiney, drunken layabout?

Ah, the years have made me bitter, the drink has dimmed my brain,

For Dublin keeps on changing, oh, nothing seems the same

As we all know, years make people bitter and alcohol forces itself upon you. Neither of these activities require the agency of a person. Where does Dempsey get the cash for drinking anyway? I thought he was made redundant. Let’s examine the evidence:

1. He was a cooper, so he made barrels and the like, probably for transporting beer.
2. He lost out to redundancy, or so he tells us. His account may not be accurate, given…
3. The gargle dims his brain.

This leads me to believe that he was sampling the product while working, became alcoholic, and got fired for being no longer able to do an adequate day’s work.

The Metropole and Pillar are gone, the Royal long since pulled down,

Here we find a lie by omission: the Pillar (or Nelson’s Pillar) was blown up by the IRA in 1966, not swept away by economic progress.

Farewell, Anna Liffey, I can no longer stay,

A hint that he’s going to drown himself in Liffey. I’d call him selfish if he wasn’t so burdensome on everyone else’s lives.

And watch the new glass cages that rise up along the quay

Your prison cell is your self-imposed captivity in the past, not the new buildings in Dublin.

My mind's too full of memories, too old to hear new chimes,

I'm a part of what was Dublin, in the rare old times.

What a lousy excuse for not living your life. I bet that Dempsey’s no older than 46 and would run to his old age if he thought it would bring it any faster.

The worst part of all is, if you enjoyed or sympathised with this song, you’re an enabler of nostalgic alcoholic. Either that or you’re singing it in Temple Bar, in a nice clear accent for the tourists, or even worse, you work in Temple Bar and have to listen to this song everyday. Someone should write a folk song for those poor bastards.