I left the house at 10:45am after a cup of coffee. As I drove downtown to march in the annual parade, I figured I needed some more sustenance than that, so my options were limited, but I remembered the White Castle just off the Taft Rd. exit. It was too late for breakfast, so I got the 1 combo – 4 sliders, fries, and I ordered more coffee, their premium coffee. Getting to our parking spot downtown is always a hassle. The roads are blocked. There are huge floats, fire trucks, politicians in convertibles, and Sheriff bomb vehicles trying to get lined up to celebrate the 1500 year old Welsh-born saint of Roman parents.
My five layers of clothes kept me plenty warm as we waited for an hour and a half. We arrive so early in order to get close parking to the step off point for the parade. We got into block formation just before 1pm, and walked up to the start, just behind the Ancient Order of Hibernians with their flags, banners, and of course, statue of Patrick. Behind us were more Hibernians, older gents mostly, in kilts with various green tartans and white sweaters that resemble Aran wool, but probably came from Target or Wal-Mart.
We stepped off to the Irish set (3 tunes in a medley format that are all of Irish origin) and a crowd waited for us immediately up the street. They were jammed along the sides of the streets anywhere the sun warmed up a spot for them between the cold shadows of the buildings. Many people shot video of us, others were taking pictures. I just wonder how many home movies I am in, and how many times people actually watch those when they get home, and in future days and years.
As we rounded the corner to Vine Street, that block had the largest density of people. They always like congregating around Fountain Square, and since 5th Street is under repair, they chose the west side of the square, which was also the sunny side, to settle. Cheers and whistles met us as we played. Our 3 Scottish flags seem out of place for an Irish parade. I almost could picture myself in Northern Ireland being the target of a sniper who became disgruntled with such an imperialist display on this Irish religious holiday. They’d target me b/c I was in the last row, only to find out after the fact that I have Irish heritage of Finn, Foley, and Burns who escaped the famine to find temporary work in the coal mines of northern England for a generation before migrating to America where they settled in northern Illinois. This was my great grandmother Katherine’s parents that immigrated here. I knew her, surprisingly, for a great grandparent, as she lived to the ripe age of 98 or 99, depending on which records we believe show her proper birth year of 1890 or 1889. I digress. The grates on 5th Street that blow our kilts up were turned off this year, much to the dismay of the fans who set up shop there to witness the tartan striptease.
After the parade, a cursory photo of the band probably showed weary and exhausted faces. But the day had just begun. We convoyed over to the Westside for a band gig at Champions, a sports bar. It was crowded but not packed and the Xavier-Ohio State basketball game was on, so we got some food and drink and waited to play until after the game was over. Us drummers waited at the front door as the pipes got tuned up. As people came in, I asked for ID or a cover charge. There were no takers. We marched around the place and circled up by the front door. We gave them a 20 minute set and then marched to the back and played a few more tunes. Overall, the crowd was complacent. Maybe it was the shock of Xavier losing in OT, or maybe they weren’t drunk enough at 5 o’clock in the afternoon. With that, and the fact that our food and drink weren’t discounted, I think I’d rather not go back to that gig next year. There are too many other places that would have more enthusiastic crowd, possibly some free brew and snacks for us performers, and closer proximity.
At 7pm, it just didn’t feel right to go home after everyone else had left. But I got in the car and headed toward home. I got the crank phone call from Joe that he had been pulled over by the cops as he left the bar. As I started to turn around, it dawned on me that after 3 pints, I might be close to the limit and might not be able to rescue him. Then the phone rang again. Joe was laughing. He’s dead to me. So I called up piper Robert, and met him at O’Bryons Pub. We marched in playing and the cheers and yips started. They made room for us in the narrow room and we did a few sets of marches and the mandatory, When Irish Eyes are Smiling. Then we went upstairs and played some more. The requests always come in, Freebird ! "Do you know any" . . . . fill in the blank with the latest band . . . Robert learned a bit of "Stairway to Heaven" to appease such requests. It kind of worked. When we saw one of our fellow new drummers, John, and his girlfriend, Teresa, it was nice to have someone to talk to who didn’t want to know what I was wearing under my kilt, or want me to teach them how to play drums – although I always oblige with a 30 second lesson. Someone handed us a complimentary green beer and we toasted and drank. The alcohol dries up Robert’s throat, making it a horrible twist of fate that such a night provides him all the beer he could possibly want to drink, but would then render him useless to play the pipes after awhile. Moderation is key.
After O’Bryons, and a pass of the hat for some tips, thanks to Teresa, we went to Hyde Park Tavern where Robert had another gig lined up. They had a tent set up for overflow revelers, with a band playing. So we went inside and played a set. As we stood there surrounded by bar patrons, a girl dropped something in front of me, and picked it up. Later, she came over to us and admitted she did that on purpose so she could take a picture up my kilt. That was a first in my 14 years of playing (that I know of). Hope she had the wide angle on (buhaaaa). Then we went outside and played next to the tent. There were torch stands for heat and a wood fire that poured out smoke burning my eyes. As we played several people came over to enjoy the tunes. One red-headed girl was brave and/or drunk enough to start dancing to the music. It quickly escalated from dancing to grinding. The grinding was against Robert as he tried to continue to play. Ah, the pipers . . . always in the spotlight. Some bearded middle aged man struck up a conversation with me about Irish ancestry as we gazed at the spectacle. Luckily, he didn’t go into great detail about his lineage. As we chatted, we just marveled at the ability of our red-haired maiden to groove to the skirl of the pipes, and Robert’s fortitude to continue playing with those hips attached to his sporran. We had Teresa help pass the hat at this bar too and she took on the task with the fury of an IRA operative. John played a set with Robert and I guess that would be his first pseudo-official public performance. He also did some nice drum rolls for the group next to us that wanted to do some chugging. When we were getting ready to leave, I spotted the first of several familiar faces. I decided not to say hello to this person. In 1995, as a sub at Indian Hill HS, I had this person suspended for 10 days when he brought a Gatorade bottle laced with alcohol into class. I felt if I said hello, he might seek his long awaited revenge. Perhaps I should have just offered a complimentary brew as a peace offering. He obviously liked to drink.
We decided at 12:30am that we had enough energy to walk down the street to Hap’s Irish Pub. It’s a narrow bar and very crowded on this High Holy day. We walked in playing and got the biggest cheer of the night. We squeezed by folks who crammed against the bar and the wall to make room for us. Once in the back, we stopped in front of the juke box which continued to belt out some tune as we played our sets. Robert needed a break. His throat was turning to mush. Then a short young guy came up to me with his tall blond girlfriend and asked if we were going to play. I didn’t know if he was serious since we had just finished 20 minutes of non-stop playing, so I said our piper was taking a breather. He looked at me grinning (another drunk, right?) and he said, you don’t recognize me, do ya? I looked at him, and my mind was racing . . . previous student . . . former co-worker, um, he had a Cincinnati Kelts rugby shirt on . . . . I had to admit – NO. "It’s Ryan Taylor". Ah yes, nearly 10 years later, going through puberty, going through the Marines, and a new short haircut later, I could see the former teen-aged drummer. His step Dad, Tom Mandrackie, also played with us for many years. Holy cow. I put my arm around him for proper St. Paddy’s day greetings and promptly spilled his girlfriend’s beer to the floor. I apologized, reached over to Robert, who was just then getting a complimentary beer handed to him, and grabbed it to replace the one I spilled. Ryan gave me his card - Personal Trainer. That could be a good person to know. We played out of the bar later .. chatting some more and as we stood out front, got more requests. Some 40/50ish lady just wanted Robert to play his favorite riff. That’s what she said, "riff". He started playing something, and she sort of started dancing, feet moving like a jig would go, but at half speed. Then her arms began moving as if she were meditating, finding her chakras to align with the vibes of the drones. Another one to chalk up as a first. Scary thing is, I don’t think she was inebriated.
Somehow or another, I’m not sure why, we decided to go in to play some more. This time we just played in the front of the bar. I had to give a cursory lesson to a girl that just knew she could do a roll. I explained that it takes 6 months to get a roll going. She wouldn’t accept that and announced that she is a fast learner. I gave her the basic grip technique and she banged away, much to the chagrin of my ears and those around us. It was going on 1:30 at this point. No one could really do any wrong now. I saw a guy walking out of the bar as we played this last encore, and it took me a minute to register his face. Ah yes, Chris Coyne, a fellow Miami U. marching band member. This time it wasn’t 10 years since I’d seen the person, but more like 20. He either didn’t recognize me, or care, and by the time I realized who he was, it was too late. The folks just kept coming in to add to the pack. Haps is a bar where young and old come together in equals amounts. One older gent with a Guinness sweater came in and started chatting about being an old snare drummer. He claims to have worked at a Catholic High School with a piper I know, Frank Lowden. He had just gotten off work down the street – so he doesn’t work at the school anymore, I wonder why. He reminded me of a priest, the ones you hear about on the news, though (defrocked). He mentioned attending a gig years ago when the statue of St. Patrick is stolen from Mt. Adams on Good Friday. He remembers playing the gig with Frank, and another piper with an Italian last name. I said "Palladino" and he said yup. The name won’t go away, not even almost a decade after being run out of town.
We probably could have found one more place to play, or stayed there and shut down the bar, but we’d been on our feet since 11am, more or less. Crowleys in Mt. Adams would have been good to shut down as we did a few years ago. Maybe next year.
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