Black 47'S Greatest

Black 47’s Greatest Hit The band that never breaks up t 6 o’clock on Monday morning, the six musicians of Black 47 pile into a white van outside Larry Kirwan’s apartment in midtown Manhattan. Tours always start and end at Larry’s place. It’s day one of their record release tour, and the band is A on course to crisscross the Midwest. The Celtic rock band calls the van their pirate ship. It’s hardly a ship; it’s not even a tour bus. But in it the band will drive 535 miles nonstop to Ohio, a nine-hour trip. They’ll stop at service sta- He still writes and produces original songs, tions to fill up with gas and smoke cigarettes. fusing Celtic music played on Uilleann pipes with Lunch along the way consists of mini-mart fare— rock, reggae, hip-hop and jazz harmonies. The Combos crackers and beef jerky washed down with effect is a high-energy, eclectic sound that makes Red Bull. It’s a routine. The road manager, P2 people dance. It’s sort of a cross between Dixieland Dreher, drives the van. Most of the guys doze off. jazz and Bruce Springsteen with a twist of Irish Excessive chatter is prohibited in such close quar- jigs. Larry plays the Stratocaster backed up by a ters. It’s an unspoken rule. But some of the witty rhythm section consisting of bass and drums. His musicians bounce jokes off one another anyway. horns section includes Uilleann pipes, saxophone Van space shrinks after a few hours on the road. and trombone. Larry, the band leader, sits in the corner of the Black 47 ascended the charts with their hit back seat of the van, watching the familiar banter song “Funky Céilí” in 1993, at the high point of between the guys. They mimic famous people and alternative music. They played on “Late Show with random characters who have crossed their paths at David Letterman” in 1993 and “Late Night with one point or another. Larry chuckles but abstains Conan O’Brien” in 1994. Black 47 sold out shows from joining in. He has to preserve his voice for across America and Ireland. the evening show. But when alternative evolved into grunge, the Fifty-six-year-old Larry has held Black 47 band ceased to fit comfortably into a genre. Without a niche, they dropped off the charts and BY DENISE CARSON failed to get radio play, in part because of the explicit political lyrics detailing the injustices of together for 15 years. For a brief period in the the Northern Ireland conflict. Black 47 slipped 1990s, the band was riding high, traveling in style from the spotlight after producing their third on EMI Records’ dollar. Those days are long gone, album with EMI. Larry remembered the day in but the band found a formula for growing old 1994 when an executive of EMI Records said, while continuing to play rock ‘n’ roll. Or, rather, “You’re out.” Larry did. “We’re out but we’re not breaking up,” Larry In the early 1990s, throngs of New Yorkers told him. “We still have a living to make.” He flocked to Paddy Reilly’s pub in Lower Manhattan swore the gigs would go on. He didn’t need a to hear Black 47. A line would snake around the record label to make music. In the fast, ephemeral dive bar most Friday and Saturday nights. It was business of broken dreams, Larry grounded the not uncommon to spot Brooke Shields or Matt band. He balanced its economics and fine-tuned Dillon in an audience of young urban dwellers the individual dynamics of the band. mixing with working-class Irish. Larry, an Irish “When the lights blur, you have to figure out a immigrant, derived the name Black 47 from the way to make a career as a rock musician,” Larry n e m blackest year of the Irish potato famine, 1847. The says in a gravelly, thick, Irish brogue. “Most bands a r band was known for playing an emotionally are in it for the glamour, to indulge themselves in B charged live show at Paddy Reilly’s, where they being rock stars or start-up rock stars. But you a s i earned the nickname “New York’s house band,” have to understand the absurdity of the music L which attracted EMI Records. business to survive in it.” y b Larry was never the typical MTV leader of a h rock band. His wavy reddish hair frames a boyish Black 47 is now on its 12th record release. The p a r face etched with deep laugh lines. He wears wire- band has driven this route to Ohio dozens of times. g o framed glasses and stands just 5-foot-8. But he has Not one day of the tour is spared for rest. It’s called t o h a presence on stage. “guerilla touring” in the music industry. P 32 man looking out for the others. Page: 33 “It’s all about backing IN FLUX: up Larry,” explains Goodsight. “Larry’s a Wherein the lucky guy to have guys bond gets like us looking after him. knotted, It’s tough to find musi- growing up or cians, well ... ones you get going awry along with.” Goodsight speaks from experience; he is also a front man for his own band, Musichead. Black 801 47’s dynamic is rare, he says; Goodsight has seen musicians sabotage gigs because they had no stake in the band or the music. But in Black 47, Fred Larry Kirwan, left, and his band Parcells, the trombone player, will pick up a pack of Ricola candies to soothe Larry’s vocal cords play at The Knitting Factory before the show. “It’s like being on a creative team,” Larry says. “Or you might equate it to on St. Patrick’s Day being in a boys gang, us against the world.” This attitude dates back to the early days of Black 47, when the band played in rough neigh- borhood pubs in Irish enclaves across the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn. Many a night, they were Roughing it. The band travels by day and plays booed and hissed to get off stage. Larry was shows by night. Touring on the cheap is just one of singing about the plight of working-class immi- the many ways Larry has kept the band together. grants, who complained that he was distorting tra- Most marriages don’t even last this long. ditional Irish music. But when they heard the calls At around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, the band of “you suck,” the band just turned up the volume arrives in Columbus and books into a Days Inn to drown them out. hotel. It’s certainly not as luxurious as the four-star Before the show at Byrne’s Pub in Columbus, accommodations they once enjoyed. They all share Ohio, each of the band members unwinds alone at rooms, except for Larry, who gets a room of his different spots around the pub. Fans pour in for a own. When they arrive, he follows up on leads for pre-St. Patrick’s Day celebration. upcoming gigs and answers e-mail from fans. Larry wears black jeans with a tucked-in black “Larry is always working; he never stops,” says T-shirt and his trademark green suede shoes. He Andrew Goodsight, who has played the bass in has combined the record release tour with the Black 47 for the past 11 years. “He’s really good at release of his latest book, his memoir, “Green self-promotion.” Suede Shoes: An Irish-American Odyssey.” It tells Most bands hire people to do promotions, his story of immigrating to America from bookings and publicity. But Larry does most of Wexford, Ireland, in the mid-1970s. Fans gather this work himself, Goodsight says. It helps save around, asking him to autograph their copies. money. Larry had to streamline the band’s spend- Larry drinks his usual pint of Guinness and min- ing to increase the musicians’ paychecks. None of gles with his fans. the members have day jobs; they make their living Thomas Hamlin, the drummer, drinks his playing music. They see Larry as their chief execu- usual too, a non-alcoholic O’Doul’s. He’s in his late tive officer. He makes the decisions on the road. 40s and his long, graying locks cascade down the They follow his cue on stage. Each one has had to back of his black muscle shirt. Known in the band find his role in what Larry calls the “incestuous as “Hammy,” Hamlin was the percussionist of world of Black 47.” Larry’s former rock band, Major Thinkers, in the Still, Larry thinks fondly of the time when he 1980s. They toured with Cyndi Lauper’s band at could afford to write songs by day, then carouse the height of her career. and jam till dawn. It was easy when rents were Fred Parcells, the 50-year-old trombonist, who cheap in New York City. In the ’70s and ’80s, rock quit drinking nine years ago, sips a cup of coffee musicians could play two gigs a week and make a while meandering around the stage. Parcells’ wire- decent wage. Of course, he and the others didn’t frame glasses and slicked-back hair give him the worry about health insurance back then. But these appearance of an orchestra instrumentalist rather days, the maturing musicians of Black 47 need a than a rock musician.

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