Ireland isn't my most visited European locale, and there'll be times when the country fades from view for a little while, though never for very long. I'm not sure how to explain the lingering attachment apart from sheer empathy.
Seeking to live a life of the mind in New Albany implies daily oppression from the doltish ruling caste, and there is a certain lifting of the eyebrow when compared to the Irish experience. Not the same particulars, mind you, but a similar feeling of despair and alcohol envy.
I wrote about the band Lynched less than a month ago after seeing an article in The Guardian. Since then, my love affair with the Dubliners has been vividly renewed (stay tuned), and I've found myself binge-watching documentaries about Irish history. It's been a month and a half since the Lynched CD was ordered from somewhere in the UK, and there have been e-mails reassuring me there'll be new copies soon. At some point, I'll get one.
Until then, there is YouTube. Praise modernity -- and pray that some sweet day it comes to New Albany.
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Just know that the "button factory" refers to the dole office.
The band Lynched bears a self-description as "Dublin Folk Miscreants." The resonance is striking.
We always sing, even when we're losing
'Cos Dublin's drone is hard enough especially when you're down and you're boozing
We sing the Oul' Triangle and then the Tommy Ryan
'Cos all the world's a jail and we can't remember why
Why we agreed to live and lie in embers of a cold old fire nobody remembers
They hand the ashes back to me down the button factory, we're cattle at the stall
We look for signs that Dublin's heart's still beating,
That concrete and glass and peelers and mass, they haven't stopped the people from screaming,
Being trapped by all the cameras you're inclined to stay at home,
And forget some songs were written to remind you you weren't born
Born to live and lie and die in embers of a cold old fire nobody remembers
They hand the ashes back to me down the button factory, we're cattle at the stall
We see the cracks under the foundation,
Smoldering on the faces of the people on the drip of isolation,
We hear the sounds come streaming across the crackling air,
The broken words of swine who would tell us that we were
Born to live and lie and die in embers of a cold old fire nobody remembers
They hand the ashes back to me down the button factory, we're cattle at the stall
And when did we agree to live and lie and die in embers of a cold old fire nobody remembers?
They hand the ashes back to me down the button factory, we're cattle at the stall.
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Roger's Year in Music 2015 (Part 7): The band Lynched, and New Albany's perpetual drone.
Roger’s Year in Music 2015 (Part 8): How did I die? A WWI lamentation.
Roger’s Year in Music 2015 (Part 9): Kamasi Washington and his Epic.
Roger’s Year in Music 2015 (Part 10): But first, some 2014 leftovers.
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