For all the Soul Shakers

The late great baseball manager Yogi Bera was a true wordsmith. He once said  "90% of baseball is mental the other half is physical." The same could be said for music. Here are the lyrics to one of our songs written by Mikey McCrory. This song is an ode to the single life and the discovery that there is so much more to life than the thought of pursuit. We spend much of our lives pursuing. goals, desires, possessions, or a companion. Its easy to overlook the wealth of gifts we already posses. 

This is...

FOR ALL THE SOUL SHAKERS    

This is for all the soul achin', love taken heart breakers, 

bouncing in and out relations in a million situations, 

those lost broken pieces, from all of your teasin, 

your just losing your meaning time to do some heart retreving

Asking who are you

The grass is always greener on the other side, 

I dont mean to sound demeaning but that aint no place to hide, 

so I’ll be taken what I’m givin and I’m grateful for what I got, 

focused for al its worth on this one and only shot

To discover, just who you are, as you uncover your truth

delve down in yourself, deep breaths for your wealth, 

give thanks for your health, find a story to tell,  

find the light in those eyes where you've got light to give, 

don’t be standing in darkness nor trapped from within, 

confused 

learn how to use 

pereception detecting the inner-reflection 

come on and spark the fuse

Askin who are You

But whoa little darlin, there is so much to explore, 

i can hear you knocking, adventure right at your door, 

cuz we aint done, no we just begun, 

to grasp the true meaningful sum 

of it all 

You’re the grass you’re the green 

you’re the vision the scene, 

the future past present in everything! 

You’re illuminating power, spiraling dark energy, 

your laughter causes rushes of  theses endorphins, 

you’re the river you’re the ocean you’re the plunge in lake, 

you’re all that’s at stake, you’re the prison break, 

you’re the shudder, you’re the shiver that my heart makes, 

you’re the rumble you’re the tumble of the earth as it shakes

You are … a beautiful you.

While this one is not a story about the band it is a little poem written by mikey. hope you enjoy.

The Man With Watery Eyes

Wobbling Walter sent the bottle clinking
debauchery did damage to his thinking 
after Saturday’s seventeen pints sinking
stomping a stumble down the road

“Tweedle lee dee tweedle lee dum dee” 
came the boisterous voice thumping
foolish fat-hands fumbling 
for the fit of the latch on the door

then swinging round in semi spiral 
Walter looked up and down the side road
for his comrades, who were wanting waiting whiskey 
if he could just unlock the door.

Pursed lips thru one finger pushed the shush, 
and Walter in his drunken rush 
did not notice there was no one to hush, 
as he pushed open the door

Dragging dirt across the mat 
reached rosy round Walter for his hat 
which went wayward and fell flat 
halfway home along the road.

“Look lively lovely liquor,” 
shouted Walter the lonesome drinker 
luminous lights flashed as Walter shivered 
as fell a female voice from above

Walter once again hushed his hidden companions 
who were non-existent in their standing 
as he gazed towards the light on the landing 
to see if it was the wife who warned

then realizing there were no boys 
for whom to hush or lower voice 
he smartened up and declared his choice 
to have one more drink and no more noise

”I’ve gone and drunk myself a bit mad 
imagining friends I never had”

Walter laughed through whisky stained whiskers
as his hard trade hands covered in blisters 
pulled the blanket over his head
the couch for the night would be his bed

"ill just rest here, sure why would I bother
and run the risk of waking mother 
but I must rise at roosters calling
before they head for mass in the morning 
or ill be forced into going....ohhhh 
I’ll be well to wrecked for that"

“Tweedle lee dee tweedle lee dum dors” 
Mumbled words soon turned to snores

Now Walter wasted no time in winking 
his subconscious now did the thinking 
as he lay fastly sleeping,
dreaming of fresh water from the well, 

Dehydration is a devil, 
restless tussling makes the sleeper disheveled 
for the drinker sleeps uncomfortably wired 
and awakens twice as tired.
And that much thirstier ever more

Now Walter was a funny one
ever since the doctor first slapped his bum 
he cried tears of a rare condition 
that caused one to look with awe

His cheeks so big and cheery still 
would cause the tears to collect and fill 
like little pools perched on a fleshy sill
until they would overflow and spill 
and fall down his face beyond his will

And though he was a jovial man
the irony down his cheeks ran
the tears that came every three minutes 
brought sympathy for Walter and laughter with it

Some say you could measure time 
with Walter’s tears though no-one tried 
he was much to friendly to poke fun at 
and damn good trades man after that

This condition that most found weird 
water running down throughout his beard
was Walter’s struggle through all his years
an over active optical duct of tears 
Did on occasion bring Walter great fear

Generally liked by one and all 
with his shoulders wide and his stature tall
though this gentle giant with tears in his eyes 
would be meek all week until the time 
Saturday would roll around again 
and he would remember his old friend Jameson

and though his wife hated him to drink 
he'd convince her “Its only the one i'll sink” 
and she would remind him of the week before 
and how stumbled through the door 
and he would promise once more
“Solo uno mi amor!”

This was the cycle every week through
Walter would drink till the morning dew
and stumble home and sleep on the couch 
waking with headache and pockets turned out

But every once in a while upon the moon blue
Walter’s eyes would close over in residue 
that covered his lids like a web that had dried
and Walter would scream and swear he'd gone blind

It was these moments that his wife would seize 
a missionaries opportunity
telling poor Walter to get on his knees

“pray for forgiveness to the god above 
repent your drinking and declare your love," 
to Jesus his savior and promise not to miss mass
and perhaps the good Lord would give him a pass

This Walter would do, convinced he'd lost sight 
both physically and spiritually, he cursed his plight
and prayed to the heavens a prayer so sure
then Margret would tell him that she had the cure
a bit of Holy water washed over the eyes 
and Jesus once more would heal the blind,
and this she did, though she knew right well
this residue was no sickness sent from hell
just another part of his condition
but if it kept Walter from the booze than this was her mission

Sure enough Walter would have a straight turn around 
and clean himself up, and head into town
all dressed in his finest he'd head right to the front pew
and praise the Lord Jesus who had cured him anew

Just as loudly as he sang the rebel tunes in the bar
he now sang out the hymns as if he was in the choir
and firmly the hand of the priest he would shake 
promising daily mass, without mistake,
and sure enough Walter would arrive there at mass
though throughout the week Walter seemed to slack

On Monday he'd sit a little further from the front, 
Tuesday his singing became a low grunt, 
Wednesday Walter would slink off to the back,
Thursday ‘twas obvious his enthusiasm did lack 
the same fervor it had just four days before 
by the end of the week he was at the door

How quickly his memory began to forget
the wondrous miracle and the promises set
but as Saturday approached
the bar staff went back to working 
like claws entrenched in his back
temptation came lurking
and by Saturday morning he barely showed up at all, 
he’d slink out the door before the final call 
to love one another as best as you can
by the final blessing Walter had a cold pint in his hand 
and as the first tear would trickle and fall 
Walter would remember the promises all
and stare down at his pint
then back out the door 
to all the church goers
then his eyes would fall to the floor,

But right where he stood
as if the devil had left it
was a twenty pound note,
and up he did lift it, 
“a round for everyone”
cried Walter with a grin
and then the whole cycle
would begin again.

So he continued with his big beardy smile
the tears flowing down in his humorous style
and his songs still may be heard coming from the pub
and his wife still heals him with spiritual Love

Though Walter wasn’t often in mass 
the good Lord still loves him and gives him a pass
‘cause with every tear from his eye Walter would say 
“I’m blessed with this life, a few tears aren’t much to pay.”

Old Walter of Galway who lived down the lane
Has passed on now but his memory remains
and often Galwegians say when it rains
"Feckin Walter is crying again."

By Mikey McCrory

Misadventures of the Scallywags.

“If I only scrap a living, at least it’s a living worth scraping, and if there is no future in it, at least this is a present worth remembering.”

Mickey Smith

            As we once again prepare for a summer of tour dates around Ireland I have been reminiscing over past years and the adventures of the Scallywags. Life on the road means worn out tires, squeaky brake pads, worn out patience, packing and unpacking a car so filled to the brim with tents, sleeping bags, booze, food and instruments we can barely squeeze ourselves in for these long journeys. There is always a mixture of excitement and resignation as we set out on these trips around Ireland where inventing car games such as Castle, Tractor, Thatch, and Hot or Not, become valuable ways to pass the time. There is a lot of joy in playing music and it is an honor to be asked to play your tunes for people on the other side of the Island. This is something we have to constantly remind ourselves as we try to squeak out a living sharing our energy and spirit in the form of this rag-tag collective of musicians we call the Scallywags.

As we step into the Corolla we prepare ourselves mentally for a battle of leg and elbow space that we will go through as we tread country roads and carriage ways that have become so familiar to us after three seasons of touring. We know every castle ruin along nearly every road, and every thatch cottage that hides down country lanes. The first to call them out gets a point and for the poor bastard who calls out “castle” when in reality it is an abbey or just a big building they inevitably drop down a point or two. Eardrums are not often blown on stage but in the car rides with Juliana, as she screams “TRACTOR” whenever she sees one. 

This is a game the rest of the scallywags have abandoned as there are far too many tractors in Ireland and the game gets repetitious after a few minutes, but Juliana insists on destroying our hearing with her high pitched screams and proceeding giggles that bring painful grimaces and then reluctant smiles to us all. Unto this day Juliana has never successfully spotted a Castle before one of us see it.

Ivan will often take out his headphones and throw on some symphonic metal. We are generally all in accord with each others choice of music but Ivan is particular in what he listens to in a car, and so he is never without his mp3 player filled with Nightwish and whatever new Finish metal band he has discovered that week. 

We often don’t hear from him during the journeys, unless he wants to request a stop for tea or to serenade us with one of his impressions of Arnold Swartzneggar or sing us a song in the voice of a sheep. You can take the boy off the farm but you can’t take the farm out of the farmer. Often the sheep impression is “Bahh Bahh, mikey nooooooooooo” 

as he simulates some undignified act to an un-wanting sheep, or some song in which my name is featured. Being the front man I receive the majority of the slaggin in the band which keeps the ego in check and allows for the rest of the band to have a much needed source of venting. Tensions can get high amongst any band that spends countless hours traveling and sleeping on couches or in wet fields together, but generally morale is good and we all dish out just as much as we take. This isn’t the rock and roll dream that they promised us but we wouldn’t trade what we do for anything, though one can dream of nice beds and comfy tour busses all the same.

Brian drives fast and cant stand bad drivers. He also buys and listens to an album on repeat until he has heard and counted every beat and can recite it verbatim. This can take quite a while and so we heard Snarky Puppy’s album for nearly four months straight, but if you ask Brian where the tempo changes from 128 beats per minute to 150bpm in track 6, he can tell you the exact second of the change, or pretty damn close. 

Conversations about engineering, cars and Frank Zappa keep for a happy car ride with Brian and he is very knowledgeable on both topics. (Ha ha!) There’s only ever one spare seat in Brian’s car as he lugs most of the gear. Pauli rides shotgun on most trips with Brian and the two of them will discuss music theory and recording issues at great length. But give Pauli a bit of Buckfast and seat in the other car and prepare yourself for the goofiness to begin. Anything from covering the driver’s eyes to pouring ice cream down someone’s back can take place. Which is why we often like to prank call Pauli when he is in the other car. We once tested his loyalty to the band by pretending to be the manager of Sharon Shannon and convincing him that she was looking for him to play double bass on her American tour as Kelvin Busher couldn’t make it. As convinced as he was that he was looking at an opportunity to make big bucks, he didn’t waver and regrettably turned down the fake offer so that he could fulfill his commitment to the scallywags to play The Flatlakes festival. Pauli is our source of goofiness and the level head in the band that helps settle disputes. He is our councilor and band therapist, but his absolute disregard for decent and appropriate fashion is extremely questionable. I believe he wore dirty sweat pants rolled up to the thigh, with a puppy dog t-shirt, a fanny pack, muddy boots, and a child’s hat on stage last year at Body and Soul. God love um!

in fairness none of us are exactly looking great that day

Alan is the faithful driver getting us to our destination safely and filling the journey with a slew of puns that help pass the time. He likes to call himself the peacemaker, and his general easygoing nature allows everyone to suggest mischievous side adventures that Alan will most of the time graciously oblige or even suggest himself. He has been known to keep a rotting sandwich in the glove box for weeks, though he tends to drive a clean ship and is always up for a detour to see the odd waterfall or to confirm that what somebody claims is a castle actually is a castle. He holds the car record for most castles called and is particularly fond of finding more thatched cottages than anyone else. His banjo playing isn’t bad either, and his fondness for the craic and craft beer is unparalleled. 

We have met hundreds of great bands, some of which we stay in touch with while others drift off and are never heard from again until they pop up on the radio and we all celebrate and curse their success simultaneously. (Ha ha) Jealousy of success comes with the game and one must fight it at every turn. Eventually, with a little bit of time and perspective you can honestly celebrate a good bands success and be happy for them, especially if they are nice people and have something to say to the world that is worthwhile. In general we are simply blessed with the ability to do what we love, and like the great photographer Mickey Smith said, “If I only scrap a living, at least it’s a living worth scraping, and if there is no future in it, at least this is a present worth remembering.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1swPZzxv0tI

Taking to the stage with this crew becomes the most important thing for all of us. We could be at each others throats just before the show starts but once we begin playing we become a band, and with every note the healing power and driving force that is music washes over us and all disagreements and frustrations seem to slide away at least momentarily. 

We are Scallywags in nature. What I mean when I say scallywag, is that thing that your parents called you when you were a kid and still full of wonder and mischief. That’s us. We marvel at the fact that we are trying to live the dream and we do our best to make the most of every grace filled moment touring together. Making art for oneself in this life is inherit in many of us, but the ability to share it with others and have them appreciate it and pay you for it, is a hard earned gift, and I hope we can keep receiving this gift for many years to come. That’s all for now, but I intend to share more adventures of the scallywags in weeks to come. There will be tales of late night sessions, meeting other bands such as Gypsy Rebel Rabble, and the great, terrifying, and mysterious tale of Who Farted on Stage? See you in the funny pages.

Mikey

The Roscommon Lamb Festival: Move over Fr. Ted, you couldnt script this event!

            In the few years that we have been together stomping around the country selling our songs in bars, street corners, and festivals all over Ireland we have had an amazing array of experiences. Some of them were great, some of them disastrous, and some of them down right bizarre. From big stages with drum risers and excellent sound, to standing on pallets in a field with no microphone stands we’ve seen it all. At least we thought we had seen it all, but nothing could prepare us for the Lamb Festival. You couldn’t script it. The writers of Fr Ted would have had a hard time imagining this fiasco of a gig, and we loved every minute of it.

The weekend began with a trip to the beautiful hill of Uisneach in the center of Ireland for the third annual Festival of Fire. The festival has been a great success and has served to re-establish an ancient Irish tradition of the lighting of the fires on May Day from Irelands central point. The neighboring county’s await the signal of the big flame and respond by lighting fires on their respective highest hills. It is a beautiful tradition and a wonderful spot to spend a weekend. Buckfast made its first appearance around midday filling our road-worn-bodies with a lovely burst of energy and intoxication. Our own little red-bearded-dwarf-extraordinaire Fergus Packman came with us to a festival to stand in on the double bass. This was our second year at the Festival of Fires and we were very happy to see that they had given us a proper big stage this year with excellent sound provided by Grouse Lodge Studios, though by the time they let us go on stage we only had a 30 minute set because the sound man was giving preferential treatment to a Grouse Lodge artist by letting him play his boring tunes, we will leave out the poor saps name, but this run of the mill singer songwriter didn’t seem to care that everyone was leaving the tent bored out their minds and so he continued well into our allotted set time.  Never the less it was a good show and we managed to get people in and the whole tent dancing.

Many bottles of buckfast later we were enjoying the sounds of Kila and shaking booty in a field to the songs of the Saw Doctors. You can imagine my surprise that night when I returned to the campsite only to find that my tent had disappeared. I was sufficiently warmed by the buckfast and spent the night on the patio of one of the other Scallywags tents. Little did I know that it was the sneaky Scallywags themselves who had moved my tent two fields over in amongst the cows and the bull who was not pleased at the sight of me crossing his field the next day to retrieve my portable house. Not a pleasant stroll with a hangover. My head was full of nightmares and regrets of drinking buckfast the night before. As the great Hermin Melville once said, “There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes his whole universe for a vast practical joke”

There was no time to delay the next morning, as we were due to play in Roscommon that afternoon for the Lamb Festival. We rolled onto the scene of the Festival set in the lovely grounds of Roscommon castle around 2pm. Stage time was 3pm so we didn’t have much time to observe the bizarre scene before our faces. Children passed by the stage with lambs on leashes; some of the lambs had football jerseys on them. The manner in which all the children poked, pushed, 

                                                          

and generally man handled the poor little lambs in the petting pen behind the stage was a weird sight.

We quickly took the stage, (a two-foot high shaky thing propped up on barrels of hay. From our precarious perch of a stage we had a view that overlooked the entire festival grounds. On either side of the stage there were 5-foot tall statues made of woven twigs in the form of Rams. Everywhere you looked there were sheep, and every food stall served up the other sheep’s cousins in a hundred different recipes, lamb stew, lamb curry, lamb burgers, kebabs, lamb with rice, and lamb steaks. Live sheep were made to walk past as one of their family members slow cooked on a spit.

We started in on the first couple of tunes through a small PA sound system and the crowd came and formed on the grass in front of us. Families milled around and half way through our second song a strong midlands accent came blasting over the castle grounds stereo system, which was five times as loud as our small PA. “Place your bets now folks for the sheep race starting in five minutes,” shouted the M.C. over the loud speakers. The interruption was so loud we nearly stopped playing but managed to hold on to the small audience we had gathered, but we hadn’t made it through half of the next song before the voice rang out again, “Okay folks, the race is about to begin! Gather round and get your tickets, as the first race is about to begin! Come on now folks, the big sheep race…” this rattled on so loud and so long that we were forced to stop playing. Two thirds of the audience got up and walked over and we all had to turn and examine the scene of this “epic” race. When everyone had gathered round a gate was lifted in this U-shaped pen where the sheep were made to run and jump over haystacks, while, (I kid you not) a man dressed in a wolf costume chased them up and hay stacks, hooting and hollering as he went.

Meanwhile the M.C. shouted the play by play but as the first sheep reached the finish line he realized that none of the sheep were marked with any type of ribbon or color to distinguish them from each other. The crowd shouted to know who had won, The M.C. simply pointed at the first through the gate and shouted down the mic, “That one.” Confusion ensued and everyone demanded refunds or that the race be re-run. The whole thing taking about fifteen minutes, and they decided to run the race again but this time with colored ribbons tied around their necks, and when all that was done we were told to strike back up. Which we were all too happy to do, but the interruptions wouldn’t stop there.

Every third song we were asked to announce the disappearance of some child, “Martin O’loghlan will you please come to the stage,” I would have to say across the PA system. “If any one sees a young boy in a checkered shirt named Martin please tell him his mammy wants him to come to the stage.” This process would be repeated every few songs, a different child with a different colored shirt, but the same annoying interruption that completely broke the flow of our show, but a gigs a gig and we were getting paid. When it came time for a break in the set another child had gone missing and Pauli finally leaned into the mic and said, “Thanks a lot folks, were Mikey and the Scallywags bringing family’s back together since 2010, see you in a few minutes after the break.”

                                                  

The break couldn’t have come at a better time as all of us could feel the effects of our previous days hangovers sweating out of us in the hot May Day sun. As we walked towards the shade of the castle wall the booming voice of the thick headed M.C. came blasting over the speakers, “Gather round for another race…Oh what?....What do you mean?” he says having a conversation with a woman I can only assume was his wife for the fierce look he gave her. “So there is no race now.” He shouts over the mic, “Right folks, Margret’s after telling me that there is no race now even though she told me a minute ago that there was and here I am sounding like and edjit because of her.” Some old fellas in Arron jumpers laugh in the corner and he proceeds to inform everyone over the loud speakers that instead of the race they were going to start the sheep shearing competition. Alan joked, “Their gonna shear the sheep to make them more aerodynamic for the next race.”

                                            

Joking was all we could do to keep our sanity at this point. Our quick two-hour set was now being delayed for another 45 minutes while the competition was being held. We climbed the castle wall to get a better view for this, (insert sarcastic voice,) “extra exciting” contest of intelligence and manliness. We watched as full grown men grabbed these huge sheep by their front legs and dragged them across a field to be shorn with the old fashioned shearing scissors. The sheep writhe around at first in an effort to escape, but surprisingly they become docile once they are placed in the shearing position on their backs. The odd woolen beast would continue kicking and would get a snip from the scissors causing blood to run down the poor sheep’s side. This went on for a good 45 minutes and then we were shuffled back on to the stage laughing at the situation we had landed ourselves in. The interruptions and the announcements of more sheep races continued to plague us throughout the second hour of tunes. Even the audience appreciated the fact that we were laughing at the disorganization of the whole affair. Occasionally the guy in the wolf costume would walk by making it hard to keep a straight face and sing at the same time. Jokes like,

“What did one sheep say to the other sheep?
"after ewe"

And,

I hear they have 2 new uses for sheep in England.

Meat and wool.

A ventirloquist cowboy walked into town and saw a rancher sitting on his porch with his dog.

Cowboy: Hey, cool dog. Mind if I speak to him?

Rancher: This dog don't talk!

Cowboy: Hey dog, how's it going?

Dog: I'm Doing alright

Rancher: (Extreme look of shock)

Cowboy: Is this your owner? (pointing at rancher)

Dog: Yep.

Cowboy: How's he treat you?

Dog: Real good. He walks me twice a day, feeds me great food, and takes me to the
lake once a week to play.

Rancher: (Look of disbelief)

Cowboy: Mind if I talk to your horse?

Rancher: Horses don't talk!

Cowboy: Hey horse, how's it going?

Horse: Not bad.

Rancher: (An even wilder look of shock)

Cowboy: Is this your owner? (pointing at rancher)

Horse: Yep.

Cowboy: How's he treat you?

Horse: Pretty good, thanks for asking. He rides me regularly, brushes me down
often, and keeps me in the barn to protect me from the elements.

Rancher: (total look of amazement)

Cowboy: Mind if I talk to your SHEEP?

Rancher: (gesticulating wildly, and hardly able to talk)...... Them sheep ain't nothin but liars!!!

                                          

In the end we finished our set and hit the road but not without seeing one more sheep race. That was the last time we played in Roscommon. We were asked back this year but were already booked for another gig and sadly didn’t get to go back for round two. I hope they managed to find all the lost kids without us. We look forward to the next one and the chance to be part of such a bizarre affair.

By: Mikey McCrory