30 years ago today: It was about Cork, the Irish experience and U2 -- and the craic was lovely.

Previously: 30 years ago today: Skibbereen, Baltimore and our last days in the Irish countryside.

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Day 114 ... Friday, August 7
Baltimore → Skibbereen → Cork. Meet Tommy.

Day 115 ... Saturday, August 8
Cork. U2 concert.

On Friday morning, Barrie and I rode a bus from Baltimore back to Skibbereen, then changed to another one bound for Cork City, completing the southern Irish circle commenced eight days earlier.

As midpoint of the band's Joshua Tree Tour, U2's concert would take place the following day at Cork's Páirc Uí Chaoimh, and our newspaperman friend Tommy Barker had told us we could bunk with him.

Tommy was a newspaperman (Cork Examiner) roughly our age, with a girlfriend (now his wife, I believe), a van and a rustic cottage outside of the city. I don't remember it having hot water; there was a well or spigot outside for washing up.

It didn't matter at all. We'd been sleeping on haystacks in a barn in Baltimore and drinking stout as if we'd never find it again, so luxury wasn't tremendously important at this stage of the game. We weren't sober often enough to know or care.

On Friday evening, roughly a dozen of Tommy's friends came over. Everyone brought a snack and a bottle, and as guests, Barrie and I naturally were treated far too well. There may have been a radio, but there wasn't a television, and entertainment was provided by conversation. The “craic” in Tommy's cottage was excellent.

For the uninitiated, the Gaelic word “craic” means the quality of life, the warmness of conviviality, discourse and entertainment – often, though by no means exclusively, as applicable to pub culture.

Later, after a few rounds, it was suggested that everyone sing a song, each in turn, individually, a cappella. I was completely stunned by the uniform high quality of the voices in the room. It came my turn, and although I'd resolved to sing a Fats Waller number, I passed, utterly terrified.

As usual, Barrie was resolute and undeterred.

Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ...

Naturally, his Janis Joplin cover was the hit of the evening.

Eventually we went to a pub nearby, somewhat of a village roadhouse almost. I have no idea how far we were from the city at this time, only that last call came and went, and we remained seated, drinking pints of Guinness, with winks and nods all around.

Good craic there, too.

I have a final memory of this Friday evening at Tommy's cottage. During the conversational portion of the evening, the natives had launched into a discussion about Ireland. Would the country ever improve enough that folks like them wouldn't be looking to move elsewhere?

This obviously isn't the place for a detailed examination of the history of the Irish Republic, apart from noting that at the time of my first visits in 1985, 1987 and 1989, the "Celtic Tiger" economic boom was nowhere near on the radar screen.

"Celtic Tiger" (Irish: An Tíogar Ceilteach) is a term referring to the economy of the Republic of Ireland from the mid-1990s to the mid-2000s, a period of rapid real economic growth fueled by foreign direct investment. The boom was dampened by a subsequent property bubble which resulted in a severe economic downturn.

Ireland in 1987 remained a place where many more people departed than arrived. The Irish diaspora originating in the early 19th century waxed and waned, but it never really ceased until the 2000s.

There always had been wealth in Ireland, from grand manor houses to verdant agricultural areas. In fact, even during the Great Famine, Ireland was a net exporter of food. This gives you some idea of the extent of Britain's culpability in the tragedy, because the wealth either was owned by the British abroad, or by indigenous Protestants who held the local levers of power.

Once the the Republic of Ireland was established, albeit without Northern Ireland, the situation was reversed. Now the Roman Catholic Church dominated, enforcing a rigid social conservatism, and resisting change.

The economy remained stagnant, and revolutionaries and their heirs retained political authority. When Ireland became a member of the European Union in 1973, it became a prime beneficiary of development funds. Gradually these investments made a difference, although it wasn't easy to see it yet in 1987.  

30 years later, Brexit has made it complicated all over again. In 1987, at Tommy's cottage, Barrie and I were talking about our experiences in the Soviet Bloc, and finally someone spoke up: surely being in places like Bulgaria and Latvia had adequately prepared us for the scene in Ireland.

It made perfect sense at the time.

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Tommy had to work at various intervals on Saturday, although he thought it might be possible for him to catch part of the U2 performance as a member of the press contingent. Just before lunch, he dropped us off in the center of Cork, and we determined a location at which to meet him following the show.

With five or six hours to kill, the pub crawl began. It's even conceivable that food was consumed. I remember it being a fine summer day, so at some point it was decided that buying beer to go might be a more cost-effective plan and lead to a picnic.

I'll never forget walking into some manner of jam-packed supermarket, seeing huge stacks of cans and bottles adjacent to checkout stations that were humming like hamsters on their wheels, and then realizing that almost all of the available products were either "extra strong" beers (more alcoholic than American malt liquor) or not beer at all, but hard cider.

As fast as Irish pounds could be exchanged for these beverages, they were flying out the door. It's about a mile and a half from the historic center of Cork to Páirc Uí Chaoimh, and by late afternoon a sea of youthful humanity was headed in that direction, on foot, lugging their Carlsberg Extra Strong Export Brews or Bulmers Ciders, and often pausing to rest, pass out, vomit or all three.

To Barrie, it was the Trail of Tears or the Bataan Death March -- irreverent imagery, though not unjustified given our own level of inebriation. We walked the walk, and the buzz eventually wore off, because there was no alcohol for sale inside the stadium.

My only major regret is that we didn't arrive early enough to see the Dubliners, which was to become one of my favorite bands of any genre. The Dubliners were the first of three bands opening for U2, and we found our seats just as the last of them, UB40, was starting.

When UB40 was finished, the roadies made their usual resets as the customary canned rock music could be heard. Then there was a pause, and Beatles tunes began playing with the volume noticeably higher. At once, the crowd stood and began singing along with the Fab Four. It seemed a cross between the national anthem and a church service.

The finale was John Lennon's solo cover of "Stand By Me," by Ben E. King, at which point U2 took the stage, finished the song, and the concert had begun. Here's the full set list from that sadly distant day.

Stand By Me (Ben E. King cover)
C'mon Everybody (Eddie Cochran cover) (last performance ever)
I Will Follow
Trip Through Your Wires
I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (with 'Exodus' snippet)
MLK
The Unforgettable Fire
Exit (with Van Morrison's 'Gloria' snippet)
In God's Country
Sunday Bloody Sunday
People Get Ready (The Impressions cover)
Help!
(The Beatles cover)
Bad (with 'Walk on the Wild Side' snippet)
October
New Year's Day
Pride (In the Name of Love)

Encore:
Bullet the Blue Sky
Running to Stand Still
With or Without You (with 'Shine Like Stars' coda)
Trash, Trampoline and the Party Girl
Out of Control (tour debut)
40

It never dawned on me until earlier in 2017 that there might be video and audio bootlegs of U2 playing live in Cork at Páirc Uí Chaoimh on August 8, 1987. Of course there are, although the audio link has been removed owing to copyright infringement. I'm sure it's floating around somewhere.

Here is a video excerpt.

Less than a month after seeing U2 in Cork, I set foot in Sportstime Pizza for the very first time, unaware that by doing so, the next thirty years of my existence were being presaged. It's almost exactly a half-a-lifetime ago since Cork, and I remain a huge fan of U2, and we were there at ridiculous expense at Papa John's Cardinal Stadium in June, when the 30th anniversary tour of The Joshua Tree passed through Louisville.

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The concert ended and we found Tommy at the appointed spot. I vaguely recall some manner of misadventure with the van -- engine trouble, or maybe we ran out of gas, but at any rate eventually the cottage came into view and we had a nightcap of Irish whiskey before collapsing on the couches.

On Sunday, it was back to Rosslare for the boat to France.

Next: We say goodbye to Ireland with hurling and Guinness on a Sunday afternoon in Rosslare.

30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Stouts galore in Cork, Kinsale and the Hibernian Bar, but in Ballinspittle, not so much.

Roger, Barrie and Tommy at The Spaniard, outside Kinsale.

Previously: ON THE AVENUES: Irish history with a musical chaser.

By my standards, surviving notes are positively florid.

Day 104 ... Tuesday, July 28
Rosslare → Cork. City Hostel, pub crawling w/Tommy, bearded Cyprus vet, etc

Day 105 ... Wednesday, July 29
Cork. Day with Tommy to the south -- Kinsale, etc

Day 106 ... Thursday, July 30
Cork. Walk to University College, up highlands. Political conversation at the Hi-B

I can't speak for the present time, but in far-off 1987, trains weren't tremendously useful in the Republic of Ireland.

Granted, they accepted Eurailpass, and this was occasionally helpful from a budgetary standpoint. However, too few passenger rail lines radiated out from Dublin -- not unlike spokes on half of a wagon wheel -- and they seldom were connected to each other in the hinterlands.

A network of reasonably frequent buses linked them, but buses weren't on the Eurailpass, and one was compelled to pay by the trip.

So, Barrie and I were at there at the O'Leary farm in Rosslare, bound for Cork, and we made it there at some point during the day on Tuesday, though how we managed it eludes me.

I've spent an hour trying to determine whether we took a train from Rosslare to Limerick via Waterford, then south to Cork, or a bus for some or all of this route. Operational passenger trains are fewer in number now, and while my gut tells me we rode the rails the entire way, I cannot be sure.

Cork, the Irish Republic's second largest city, lies on the island's southern coast. The city was the home of Tommy Barker, a good friend of my cousin Don's, who in 1987 was a reporter for the Cork Examiner newspaper. In fact, he's still there, 30 years later, more recently covering the property (real estate) beat.

(My guess is that real estate writers are a recent phenomenon in Ireland, given the country's great leap forward during the 1990s.)

Once in Cork, we made a beeline for the City Hostel, which was a tad ramshackle but had available space. Our bunk beds came perilously close to disintegrating when we first climbed into them (balsa does that), and the coin-operated shower's slot mechanism was hanging from the wall by wires that may or may not have been live.

When asked about this, the good-natured desk clerk merely shrugged. Nothing much was connected to electricity, he said. Just turn on the water and have at it, but it probably won't get hot -- and we could pay him for the shower if we felt like it, or not.

The great thing about Cork is that it had not one, but two of its own classic Irish Dry Stouts: Murphy's and Beamish. Sadly, they've long since ceased to be independent, but add the ubiquity of draft Guinness, and the city was a stout-lover's dream.

One bar we found had all three on tap at once. By contrast, there may have been two Guinness taps in all of Louisville at the time.

Don had tipped Tommy to expect one or both of us, and I called him at the newspaper. He suggested we meet at a pub called The Long Valley, and it went swimmingly. I remember having sandwiches there, and wondering if I'd ever be able to grasp what the older local bar flies were saying, in English -- such was the local accent.

I also recall being fascinated by out-in-the-open, legal bookmaking. Casinos hadn't yet come to Indiana in 1987.

We'd already had at least two pints elsewhere on the way to the Long Valley, and after wrapping our session with Tommy, he made sure we found the drinking establishment both he and cousin Don had recommended: the Hibernian (Hi-B) Bar, which I wrote about earlier in 2017.

It was one floor up the stairs, with the restrooms halfway down a different set of steps.

THE BEER BEAT: The Hibernian (Hi-B) Bar, one of my favorite pubs in the world.

One of our temporary drinking buddies was a bearded and bedraggled veteran of Ireland's UN peacekeeping force of infantrymen force in Cyprus, circa 1970. When asked if he'd ever witnessed combat in the war between Greeks and Turks, he said no, not exactly; it had been his sensible expedient to turn and run whenever shooting broke out.

Somehow on Wednesday, we managed to shake off the lengthy Tuesday session and meet Tommy for a drive in his van to Kinsale, a town on the coast just 20 miles south from Cork.

The Spaniard (above) and the Armada House (now Armada Bar) are still in operation. Here's the street view in 2011.

The names of these drinking establishments refer to the landing of the Spaniards at Kinsale in 1601, resulting in a siege and battle.

Tongue perhaps planted firmly in cheek, Tommy also saw to it that we absorbed the cultural attraction at Ballinspittle. It is a grotto with a back story.

The explanation is here, in this period video.

On Thursday, Tommy returned to work and the Hoosiers embarked on a long walk through Cork, taking us to the university and hilly viewpoints to the southwest of the city center, and including the Beamish & Crawford brewery. There were no tours, but we were content to smell stout merrily cooking.

What is this overgrown thing? I've no idea, though I was a sucker for ruins.

At the Long Valley on our first day in Cork, Tommy had confirmed what we'd seen on posters around town: U2 was playing a show on Saturday, August 8 at Páirc Uí Chaoimh, the football stadium on the east side of town.

He had to work and couldn't attend, but Barrie and I duly purchased tickets and commenced an itinerary scheme. We'd head out into the Irish countryside for a week, then circle back to Cork for the concert. Tommy magnanimously offered to let us stay at his cottage for a couple of days, then we'd move in the direction of Rosslare and a boat ride back to France.

Next: Wonderful countryside and birthday pints while in Kenmare.

THE BEER BEAT: The Hibernian (Hi-B) Bar, one of my favorite pubs in the world.

It's been 30 years since I climbed the stairs to the first floor (in Europe, that's how they're numbered) and beheld the cramped majesty of the Hi-B. Somewhere up or down another set of stairs was the loo. The publican Brian O'Donnell was a legend even then, and as I write, it is my earnest hope that he's still alive and scowling.

Brian O'Donnell in 2008.

Barrie Ottersbach and I were in Cork, Ireland in 1987. In fact, we were there twice. The first time through town, we stayed at a ramshackle youth hostel and met briefly with a newspaperman named Tommy Barker. He's still at it.

After learning that U2 would be playing at Cork's soccer stadium in a week's time, we decided to wander the countryside and circle back. But first, Tommy directed us to the Hibernian (Hi-B) Bar, a legendary institution recommended to us by my cousin Donald Barry, who knew the Irish newspaperman when he was an exchange student in America.

We might have come back for second pint on another night. I can't remember, such was the merriment of what surely was the better part of an entire day spent drinking with a succession of incredible characters -- not to mention the proprietor Brian himself, with whom Professor Barry had become such good friends that they'd listen to opera together before, during and after hours at the bar.

One of our temporary drinking buddies was a bearded and bedraggled veteran of Ireland's UN peacekeeping force of infantrymen force in Cyprus, circa 1970. When asked if he'd ever witnessed combat in the war between Greeks and Turks, he said no, not exactly; it had been his sensible expedient to turn and run whenever shooting broke out.

Another, better groomed barfly at the Hi-B was a musician who modestly assured us that he'd played with every major pop and rock star of the sixties and seventies. His name didn't strike a chord, but there was an explanation for this, because he'd often appeared uncredited on albums to avoid tax and the prying eyes of ex-wives.

As the bar tab piled up (the two visiting Americans were happy to do the buying), I kept throwing names at the musician. From Van Morrison to David Bowie, and Rory Gallagher to Phil Lynott, he fielded them effortlessly, complete with record dates and concert gigs.

Finally, I thought I'd stumped him: What about Pete Townshend of The Who?

He paused, then admitted he hadn't ever played music with Townshend ... but one time he was driving on the motorway somewhere in England, and stopped to help some poor bloke who was trying to change a tire in the rain ...

That's right. It was Townshend, who offered the helpful good Irish Samaritan one of his guitars in return, but of course he couldn't accept it ...

So it went. We emerged in the wee hours reeking of cigarette smoke and walked back to the hostel, roughly 75 (Irish) Pounds lighter. Following are a collection of links, the most recent of which is from October, 2016.

Cousin Don has kept me posted about Brian over the years, and each update has warned of his friend's imminent retirement. The funny thing? My entire career as a curmudgeonly publican has come and gone since the last time I drank at the Hi-B ... and yet I'm not feeling retired quite yet.

Friends in Hi places lie low when Brian’s on warpath, by Dan Buckley (The Irish Examiner)

Saturday, December 01, 2012

... Yet every few years Brian has managed to attract a new generation to the Hi-B. This is just as well because every now and then he will decide on a mass culling of clientele, and if it wasn’t for the large proportion of young imbibers, there would be nobody left.

So why do people return again and again? Hardly for the decor and certainly not for the dungeon-like gents’. There is only one word for it — craic, beloved of hard drinkers and easy listeners.

And the more cracked you are, the better.

More recently ...

Hi-B, by Julie Daunt (The Culture Trip) 27 October 2016

Situated on Oliver Plunkett Street and up a flight of stairs is the renowned and sometimes notorious Hi-B. Its full name is the Hibernian Bar, but it is known far and wide by its shortened name. The bar is housed in what was once the Hibernian Hotel, and it is perhaps one of the most intimate and eccentric places to have a pint in Cork. What’s more, mobile phones are forbidden, meaning there is always a din of real conversation and laughter. This is enforced by the owner Brian O’Donnell, who is a Cork institution in himself. Fancy frills and sleek decor are left outside the door of this traditional pub. A step back in time, there is always a blazing fire, a cold pint of stout and story to be heard at the Hi-B.
Hi-B, 108 Oliver Plunkett Street, Cork, Ireland, +353 21 427 2758

Finally:

The Hi-B - my favourite bar in Cork City (Ireland), by Daniel M Doyle (Authors Den)

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

The golfer asked Brian to order him a taxi. After a few minutes a rather agitated taxi driver ran up the stairs, stuck his head in the door and announced himself - “taxi!” He was probably double parked on the busy street outside and anxious to get going. Still seated, the golfer slowly turned to address him and eventually said:-

“I’ll be with you ……..in…………..three ………… hours.”

Video credit

Many readers had not been born the last time U2 came to Louisville.

It stands to reason that this U2 clip from Werchter (Belgium) in July of 1982 would be familiar to anyone who saw the band in Louisville at the old Louisville Gardens just a few months before. I wasn't among them; the band only came to my attention with the release of War the following year.

35 years later, Jeffrey Lee Puckett picks up the story at the Courier-Journal.

Bet you don't remember U2's first L'ville show

U2's June 16 show at Papa John's Cardinal Stadium will mark only the second time the band has performed in Louisville, and you're forgiven if you can't remember the first.

That was March 3, 1982, and one of history's most iconic rock acts was just getting its start in America and opening at Louisville Gardens for the J. Geils Band, then riding a huge wave of popularity thanks to its "Freeze Frame" album.

Bono "bounded around the stage like a pinball on acid," according to the Courier-Journal's Michael Quinlan ...

When U2 next returned to Kentucky, the band was a certified international phenomenon. On October 23, 1987, U2 performed at Rupp Arena in Lexington during the second leg of the Joshua Tree tour.

I didn't attend U2's second Kentucky show, either, but this time there was a better excuse: I'd already seen them play in Cork, Ireland just prior to this, on August 8. Barrie Ottersbach and I were there at the Páirc Uí Chaoimh, having spent a glorious summer day draining pints of Murphy's Stout and watching the young kids vomiting from too much hard cider intake.

My only regret is not realizing the Dubliners were the first of three bands opening for U2; consequently, we took our seats just as UB40 was starting. Here's the set list from that sadly distant day.

Stand By Me (Ben E. King cover)
C'mon Everybody (Eddie Cochran cover) (last performance ever)
I Will Follow
Trip Through Your Wires
I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (with 'Exodus' snippet)
MLK
The Unforgettable Fire
Exit (with Van Morrison's 'Gloria' snippet)
In God's Country
Sunday Bloody Sunday
People Get Ready (The Impressions cover)
Help! (The Beatles cover)
Bad (with 'Walk on the Wild Side' snippet)
October
New Year's Day
Pride (In the Name of Love)

Encore:
Bullet the Blue Sky
Running to Stand Still
With or Without You (with 'Shine Like Stars' coda)
Trash, Trampoline and the Party Girl
Out of Control (tour debut)
40

It never dawned on me until now that there might be video and audio bootlegs of U2 playing live in Cork at Páirc Uí Chaoimh on August 8, 1987. But of course there are. Here is an excerpt.

A month or so after seeing U2 in Cork, I set foot in Sportstime Pizza for the very first time, unaware that by doing so, the next thirty years of my existence were being presaged. It's almost exactly a half-a-lifetime ago since Cork, and that's scary.

I'm admittedly a huge fan of U2, and we'll be there at ridiculous expense at Papa John's Cardinal Stadium in June. I haven't seen the band live since 2002, indoors in Indianapolis -- between Cork and Indy was a show in Prague during the Pop Mart Tour in 1997.

The members of U2 are my age, and their journey always has been a source of fascination to me. In this fractured world of increasingly brief attention spans, U2 currently seems almost as unfashionable as Phil Collins (unfairly in both instances, I think), and yet the band also is among the last of the rock and roll dinosaurs able to sell out stadiums, albeit on the strength of rock anthems from the past, reminding us that the era of such songs uniting audiences is finished.

I lament their passing. There were many indefensible aspects of human life in 1987, but as Barrie and I watched the stage being set for U2 in Cork 30 years ago, the volume on the PA suddenly went up. Beatles songs began playing, and as though it were the national anthem, everyone stood and began singing along. We joined in.

If we've evolved past this point of communal communion, too damned bad for us.

Today's Tribune column: "Celts on the Ohio River, too."

Have I though to mention that there's a Celtic music show at the amphitheater on Saturday?

BAYLOR: Celts on the Ohio River, too

Back when Ronnie Raygun was still President and Ginger Lynn everyone's preferred First Lady, my friend Barrie and I were in Ireland, conducting scholastic research on the foundation and practice of one of the world's most enduringly popular religions, Guinnessism.