Friday, December 30, 2022

Ian Tyson, Revered Canadian Folk Singer, Dies at 89 - The New York Times


Since I first heard it in high school I've never stopped listening and loving Ian & Sylvia recording of Four Strong Winds.


Ian Tyson and Sylvia Tyson both kept performing, though never again achieving the iconic status of their great first album Four Strong Winds.  They went their separate ways, come what may, as the song predicts.  But, it turns out, the inspiration was another woman.  - GWC

Ian Tyson, Revered Canadian Folk Singer, Dies at 89 - The New York Times: A rancher for most of his life, he began his music career as half of the duo Ian and Sylvia and was also celebrated for his commitment to the culture of Canada’s ranch country.




Peter Applebome
Published Dec. 29, 2022Updated Dec. 30, 2022, 9:13 a.m. ET




Before Canadian musicians like Neil Young, Gordon Lightfoot, Joni Mitchell or Leonard Cohen, there was Ian Tyson.

Mr. Tyson, who began his music career as half of the folk-era duo Ian and Sylvia and went on to become a revered figure in his home country, celebrated both for his music and his commitment to the culture of Canada’s ranch country, died on Thursday at his ranch in southern Alberta. He was 89.

His family said in a statement that he died from “ongoing health complications” but did not specify further.

Mr. Tyson, whose song “Four Strong Winds” in 2005 was voted the most essential Canadian piece of music by the listeners of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation public radio network, lived most of his life as both a rancher and a musician.

Sunday, December 25, 2022

Discovery the History of the Hudson Valley's Irish Alps




Discovery the History of the Hudson Valley's Irish Alps

The Jewish had the Borscht Belt hotels, but the Irish also once claimed their own little corner of the idyllic Catskills.

In September 2010, the main building at the Blackthorne Resort in East Durham burned to the ground. The resort lost its office, dining hall, and bar in the fire, but Kevin Ferguson gained an epiphany.

Ferguson, 55, is a journalist in Arlington, Massachusetts. He grew up in Northern New Jersey. But much of his heart and soul resided at that lost building in the Catskills. As a child, he spent nearly every summer there among a clan of Irish immigrants and first-generation natives in what was known as the Irish Alps.

The National Was Stalled. Two Outsiders Got the Band Moving Again. - The New York Times

The National Was Stalled. Two Outsiders Got the Band Moving Again. - The New York Times

Friday, December 16, 2022

Brandy turns 50 and she's still a fine girl - NJ.com



By Ande Richards // NJ.com 

Fergus and I made new friends at the great Thomaston Dog Park.
His is Buddy - a 3 y.o. German Shepherd.  Mine is Larry Goldsmith - Buddy's dad.  Who tonight December 17 is in Red Bank at the reunion of Looking Glass - a band for which he was the road manager.  It's the fiftieth birthday of their now classic hit: 
Brandy - you're a fine girl.   You know it - it's THAT song.  The barmaid and girlfriend of dreams (kinda like Sugar Magnolia) "Brandy - you're a fine girl, what a good wife you would be...
Elliot Lurie, lyricist, and bandmates Larry Gonsky and Jeffrey Grob are performing tonight at the Count Basie Theatre in the Monmouth County town near where that other guy played at the Stone Pony. Larry is there, of course.  And they'll remember  "the band’s other songwriter and guitarist Pieter Sweval, who sadly died of AIDS in 1990."
Since, like me, you couldn't be there it would not be anachronistic to 
do as I did, roll a bone, put on my new Baux BLX earbuds, crank up the volume and listen to Brandy, you're a fine girl.



 




Wednesday, December 14, 2022

Mid-Coast Mid-December

 










Saturday, December 3, 2022

The Winding Banks of Erne - by William Allingham - Irish Arts Center Poetry Festival

 

Last night was the first session of the three day poetry festival of the Irish Arts Center at their new building on 11th Avenue.

.Curated by Director Nick Laird, a dozen poets each read a single poem by another writer.  There was lyricism, tribute and humor. But the emotional high point was actress Melissa Navia - Erica Ortegas in Star Trek: Strange New Worlds -reciting The Winding Banks of Erne - in tribute to her late partner Brian Bannon who last year died shockingly young and  swiftly of leukemia. - GWC



The Winding Banks of Erne

by William Allingham

Adieu to Belashanny!
    where I was bred and born;
Go where I may, I'll think of you,
    as sure as night and morn.
The kindly spot, the friendly town,
    where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place
    but partly seems my own;
There's not a house or window,
    there's not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands,
    I'll recollect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you,
    tho' my back I'm forced to turn—
Adieu to Belashanny,
    and the winding banks of Erne!

No more on pleasant evenings
    we'll saunter down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly,
    the salmon to the fall.
The boat comes straining on her net,
    and heavily she creeps,
Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars,
    and to her berth she sweeps;
Now fore and aft keep hauling,
    and gathering up the clew,
Till a silver wave of salmon
    rolls in among the crew.
Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit,
    and many a joke and 'yarn';—
Adieu to Belashanny,
    and the winding banks of Erne!

The music of the waterfall,
    the mirror of the tide,
When all the green-hill'd harbour
    is full from side to side,
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns,
    and round the Abbey Bay,
From rocky Inis Saimer
    to Coolnargit sandhills gray;
While far upon the southern line,
    to guard it like a wall,
The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue
    gaze calmly over all,
And watch the ship sail up or down,
    the red flag at her stern;—
Adieu to these, adieu to all
    the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to you, Kildoney lads,
    and them that pull an oar,
A lug-sail set, or haul a net,
    from the Point to Mullaghmore;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League,
    that ocean-mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft,
    six hundred in the deep,
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge,
    and round by Tullen strand,
Level and long, and white with waves,
    where gull and curlew stand;
Head out to sea when on your lee
    the breakers you discern!—
Adieu to all the billowy coast,
    and winding banks of Erne!

Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran! and
    your summer crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy
    th' Atlantic-setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air,
    and sport among the waves;
To gather shells on sandy beach,
    and tempt the gloomy caves;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide,
    the boats, the crabs, the fish;
Young men and maids to meet and smile,
    and form a tender wish;
The sick and old in search of health,
    for all things have their turn—
And I must quit my native shore,
    and the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to every white cascade
    from the Harbour to Belleek,
And every pool where fins may rest,
    and ivy-shaded creek;
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks,
    where ash and holly grow,
The one split yew-tree gazing
    on the curving flood below;
The Lough, that winds through islands
    under Turaw mountain green;
And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods,
    with tranquil bays between;
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond
    among the heath and fern,—
For I must say adieu—adieu
    to the winding banks of Erne!

The thrush will call through Camlin groves
    the live-long summer day;
The waters run by mossy cliff,
    and banks with wild flowers gay;
The girls will bring their work and sing
    beneath a twisted thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts down the path
    among the growing corn;
Along the river-side they go,
    where I have often been,
Oh, never shall I see again
    the happy days I've seen!
A thousand chances are to one
    I never may return,—
Adieu to Belashanny,
    and the winding banks of Erne!

Adieu to evening dances,
    when merry neighbours meet,
And the fiddle says to boys and girls,
    'Get up and shake your feet!'
To 'seanachas' and wise old talk
    of Erin's days gone by—
Who trench'd the rath on such a hill,
    and where the bones may lie
Of saint, or king, or warrior chief;
    with tales of fairy power,
And tender ditties sweetly sung
    to pass the twilight hour.
The mournful song of exile
    is now for me to learn—
Adieu, my dear companions
    on the winding banks of Erne!

Now measure from the Commons down
    to each end of the Purt,
Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,—
    I wish no one any hurt;
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane,
    the Mall, and Portnasun,
If any foes of mine are there,
    I pardon every one.
I hope that man and womankind
    will do the same by me;
For my heart is sore and heavy
    at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends I'll bear in mind,
    and often fondly turn
To think of Belashanny,
    and the winding banks of Erne.

If ever I'm a money'd man,
    I mean, please God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place
    where youthful years were pass'd;
Though heads that now are black and brown
    must meanwhile gather gray,
New faces rise by every hearth,
    and old ones drop away—
Yet dearer still that Irish hill
    than all the world beside;
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam
    through lands and waters wide.
And if the Lord allows me,
    I surely will return
To my native Belashanny,
    and the winding banks of Erne.