Seesea Travel Blog

     

Travel Location: Belfast,United-Kingdom

Travel About: big-city,historic,music

In the early hours of the morning the bus crosses the border. We pull up into a town called Newry soon after and I hop off to get some fresh air. The mist creates a thick blanket of white and I can’t see very far ahead of me. As I exhale my breath warms the air around and rises up, which I like. Back on the bus, I talk with Michael Dooley, a stout old Irishman with snow white hair and sea green eyes. “Call me Mick now willya” he chirps out. I like the way Michael is said in Gaelic, Mi-hail, so I tell him that’s what I’ll call him. “That’s mighty fine o ya boy, that is me real name after all.” He tells me of his life growing up in Belfast during The Troubles, of having to hide his kid sister under the bed when the Police would tear through the streets, of times when he and friends would hurl rocks through the Protestant houses. He was a such great story teller and so interesting that I was dissapointed to have to get off the bus at Belfast. He had business in the city before heading north to Derry where he lived. So we parted ways and I went off to explore.

As I leave the bus station I walk out onto Bruce St, and I laugh and start taking pictures. The car parking attendant gives me a few funny looks. Later on the map I see that it becomes Hope St a little further up, but to my disappointment I can’t find any signs. I’ve already managed to secure a ticket to the show the next night,so this leaves me free to see the city. I spend the day exploring the Western part of the city where a lot of conflict has been centred. There is a “Peace Wall” that divides the unionist and republican areas. It’s covered in murals and signatures are scrawled everywhere, a lot of which are from Australia. I think about adding mine but I can’t think of anything to write so I don’t. One mural proclaims “NEW LIFE”. It has a cemetary in the middle of the two words. The wall splits two suburbs, the Falls and Shankhill. As you walk in Falls the kerb is red, green and orange and the murals are Replubican. On the Shankhill side the kerb is red, blue and white and Union Jacks fly high on masts. Along one street in the Falls they have non-Irish themed murals, a few supporting the Palestinian cause, a few anti-Bush, one even claims NO IMPERIALIST INTERVENTION IN IRAN, which I sign my name to. Further on at a residential tower called Divis there is a plaque that reads: “This plaque is dedicated to PATRICK ROONEY, aged 9, and HUGH MCCABE, aged 20, who were murdered in this vicinity by the R.U.C on 15th August 1969″ ( R.U.C – Royal Ulster Constabulary, the Northern Irish Police Force until 2001).

After I’ve seen enough of this I walk around the suburbs. I see the beautiful green hills that surround the city and wish I could spend a day walking there but doubt I will not have enough time. I stop at a few pubs. The places aren’t much but the beer is fairly cheap and I chat to some of the locals. In the evening it all slows down and a lot of places shut down as early 6 or 7. I’m told this is because during The Troubles people rarely went out after dark. The people I talk to tell me the situation is now much better, the city has opened up and most of it is now in the past.

The next day I wake up with my stomach in a twist from the excitement. I cut myself a few times rushing through shaving and quickly buy some supplies before arriving at the queue around midday. To my relief we are under shelter and there is a cafe and a bathroom nearby. Thankfully it’s also not raining although in the evening before we are let in it will suddenly get very, very cold and the queue will huddle together like penguins for warmth. From the stiffening cold of outside it gets warm as soon as we’re inside. I manage to get to the front, about 3 rows back, right in front of where Bruce will be playing, which makes me ecstatic.

This time we don’t have to wait long before the lights go down, the band hits the stage and it all starts again… This time it runs over three hours. Some of the tunes which are only originally 4 mins in length stretch to nearly ten as the band let’s loose. Man I tell you at times it’s a barnyard stomp, a regular ol’ hoedown with 12000 mostly Irish fans in delerium and even the seated sections are up on their feet and boppin away on the big numbers. It’s a cacophony of noise as a trio of trumpet, trombone and tuba meet a swingin sax and then crash into an accordion, a banjo, a fiddle, and two violins. He works the crowd, ol’ Bruce, running from one end of the stage to another, throwing his hands up for more noise, more singin’, more dancin’, and after a while I can see the sweat pouring from him, and its gets hotter and hotter up the front but nobody cares ‘caus we’re all mesmerised by the energy and soul, yeah that’s what it is, soul, coming from the stage. And then it all quietens down, the crowd is hushed and he does a number from his brilliant Nebraska album called “Mansion on the Hill”, a beautiful, delicate story.

There’s a place out on the edge of town sir

Now ever since I was a child I can remember that mansion on the hill

In the day you can see the children playing

Steel gates that completely surround sir the mansion on the hill

At night my daddy’d take me and we’d ride through the streets of a town so silent and still

Look up at that mansion on the hill

In the summer all the lights would shine there’d be music playin’ people laughin’ all the time

Sit and listen to the mansion on the hill

Tonight down here in Linden Town, I watch the cars rushin’ by home from the mill

There’s a beautiful full moon rising above the mansion on the hill

But soon its all screaming, all yelling, all whooping as he’s back into a full band number called “My Oklahoma Home”, written by a farmer in 30′s America who lost her farm in a drought they call the Dustbowl. Everybody sings back the refrain of “blown away!” with aplomb.

It blowed away (blown away), it blowed away (blown away)

My Oklahoma home is blown away

Let me see that horn now, thank you!

Soon after its Mrs. McGrath, that old Irish ballad I was telling you about last time, and here in Belfast it has more to say than anywhere, the fiddle and flute and marching drums are more poignant than ever and the Irish all sing to the chorus Too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa, Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa. A man I talk to after the concert tells me, “A lot of folks here in Belfast have had their lives changed whether dey wanted ta or not, though it was mostly the boys in it, we’ve all known the curfews and checkpoints and all the rest. So dat’s why it was so nice ta hear dat song here.”

He finishes his first set with two absolutely bonafide show stoppers. The first is “Open All Night” from his Nebraska album but unlike the soul-draining, spookifying album version here he turns it into a rabble-rousing riot, the words spilling from him at a million miles an hour, playing catch-call with the crowd and everybody joining in with the last line,

Your eyes get itchy in the wee, wee hours

Hey, ho, rock ‘n roll, deliver me from nowhere

And then its “Pay Me My Money Down”, which originated with black sailors in the early 1900′s, when unscrupulous captains would often try to sail off without paying the crew after being unloaded. This one drags out and after the band goes offstage the whole crowd still goes on singing the refrain,

Pay me, pay me

Pay me my money down

They make a triumphant return for the encore and the first song he does is one of my all time favourites, its called “My City of Ruins”. He wrote it in early 2000 about his New Jersey hometown but then readapted it in 2001 for New York City. It’s a gorgeous, moving version and probably every soul in the place feels the power of it.

There is a blood red circle

but the congregation’s gone

My city of ruins

My city of ruins

Now the sweet bells of mercy

While my brother’s down on his knees

My city of ruins

My city of ruins

Come on, rise up!

Come on, rise up!

Now’s there’s tears on the pillow,

Tell me how do I begin again?

My city’s in ruins

My city’s in ruins

Now with these hands,

We pray for the strength, Lord

Come on, rise up!

Come on, rise up!

Come on, rise up!

 

Come on, rise up!

Come on, rise up.

He did in it New Orleans after what happened there and now here in Belfast I think it has added meaning, in a city which was for so long strifetorn and locked in The Troubles, as they called it. I think back to the mural I saw on the Peace Wall that said NEW LIFE and then I think of the scores being slaughtered in Baghdad as well as all around the world everyday.

After the show I elbow my way out of the crowd, burst through the doors into the chilly night and run around to the exit but it’s too late, the guard tells me he’s already gone, straight to the airport to fly off home. “Ya only missed ‘im by a few minutes, sonny”. This I don’t want to hear. So I content myself with the fact that I had seen a great show, the best yet. It was worth every cent, and how lucky it was that I chanced it and got on the bus from Dublin. “Ya know what dey say, sonny”,  the guard says to me, “ya win sum, ya lose sum”.