For use: Sunday, March 18, 2001 and thereafter

mfinley.com: "The Greatest Party Ever Held"

by Michael Finley

[Explanation: I am a volunteer for a Twin Cities folk music group which brought the Boys of the Lough, the world's most loveable traditional Irish/Scots band, to town to perform last night, St. Patrick's. Afterwards, we celebrated at my home.]

We did not break up until four o'clock.

By that time Cathall O'Connell had sung thirty songs, Louis Killen had matched him note for note, and Brendan Begley and Charlie Piggott had locked horns in a button accordion battle.

Word-killer all-everything fiddler Aly Bain told me in the most confidential forehead-against-chest manner how much he loved whiskey ("I'm not saying I just love whiskey, I'm saying I really -- love -- whiskey. I love it, man. I love it.") Claimed he hadn't had a drop in weeks, and he was just making up for lost time.

Gerry Harrington informed me darkly of his fear of having his fiddle stolen. "And then where would I be? Eh?" Mandolinist Dave Richardson explained the strategy of sending holiday cards. And a dozen other musicians, and a half hundred friends and volunteers crowded into our house to dance and sing and tell lewd stories and flirt.

There have been notable parties. My 50th birthday this past summer was a torrid affair, with 100 degree heat to fan people's anniversarial ardor. Our annual holiday party has had some high highs. But this was the party to end all parties, featuring the whimsy and splendor of world's preeminent Celtic band.

People drank and drank and drank -- whiskey and beer, but also cola and water and tea. Two hundred chicken legs, that had basted in their own brown sugar and soy sauce for two days, lay down for the eating. Around 1 AM the remaidner of three kegs of good, wholesome Summit Great Northern Porter was wheeled onto the porch. We smoked 50 year old cigars from pre-Castro Cuba on the porch.  (It "tasted" wonderful -- really!) We counted the stars above the wintry trees.

Blithe and gentle Charlie Piggott in his cups displayed a violent accordion style the likes of which you can't imagine, unless you saw Ozzie Ozborne bite a bird's head off onstage. It had that ... flavor. Charlie churned and slammed that machine until I thought it would rupture and spill out its guts on the parquet floor.

And the Folk Theatre Vocal Ensemble lit up the night with their mad howling Bulgarian music, which made me think of a frosted layer cake made of equal amounts of mountains and valleys and cloud. This is not music for the faint of heart, it is music of murder and witchery and knives. They told me they dare not explain what the words of their songs mean -- people would run from the theaters, weeping and tearing at themselves!

And I contemplated all the times I had called the police on our neighbors for wreaking havoc after the appointed havok wreaking hour, and here was payback time, but the fierceness of our humor prevented retaliation. Or the police were submerged in party calls and could not get to ours.

I think we might have come close to breaking even for the first time. Deb Martin told me it was the greatest night ever, and I think she meant in the three-year history of  the current amalgam.

I was proud of myself because I took the stage halfway through and conducted a hat raising fundraiser that netted seven huge bowls of checks and large bills. People were worried that the audience would be put off by the request (having already paid $15 for tickets).

But the opposite happened,and money came raining down on us, "It's a Wonderful Life" style. (Which I've always wanted to live to see happen, and now it has happened, so now I can, like Edward in the ancient Scots ballad, lie doon.)

What I said was this: that the reason the Boys, and all the musicians, introduce each song by referring to whom they got it from, what old record, or acquaintance, or recollection  -- irrelevant information to most of us  -- is that this is what the business is about, passing knowledge forward to the future. And by passing the hat, that is how we do the same thing, keep the music alive for our kids, and with luck, for their kids, and theirs. And what a favor that will be in a country and culture, which while we love, are empty and hollow without news from the past.

Four o'clock came and there was much back-patting and hugging, protestations of devotion and invitations to come visit. ("What," I protested, "I have to pay airfare! What kind of invitation is that!") We finally peeled Cathall away from the girls and inserted him in the back seat. One by one they all drifted out into the Midwestern night.

It was great, it was grand, and I will remember it all my life. The Boys of the Lough in my house, seemed to baptize it for future use. They were wonderful, just wonderful on stage, and they were even more wonderful by the stove. Many thanks to all who came and helped out! Thank you to St. Patrick's breastplate and cross, and thank you also, St. Paul.

Love, Michael

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