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Brakeman's Post Brakeman’s Post
Entry # 5
Donegal X-Press BLOG
3/2010, Bradenton, FLA.
-Jason Tinney
Definition: brakeman
Function: noun
Date: 1833
1 : a freight or passenger train crew member who inspects the train and assists the conductor
2 : the member of a bobsled team who operates the brake
From Merriam-Webster
It is said that if you write about an event when it occurs it is simply journalism. Several weeks have passed since our series of St. Patrick’s Day shows. The days have been marinating. This post comes to you from Bradenton, Florida. I’m down here among the alligators and golfers recouping, detoxing and allowing my blood to return to its natural dark red hue, reflecting on three days when the green monster tried to devour the earth.
March 13
Shamrock Festival. Cold, heavy rains. As I walk out the door, my wife says, “Maybe they’ll cancel the show.” I just look at her. Drunk people don’t cancel. Weather is only weather.
Rendezvous with Brad, Trueman, and Ms. Hein in South Baltimore. A freight train blocks our route out of town. An ironic omen?
It takes us 40 minutes to get to RFK and almost as long to find out where the hell our stage is located. Five-hundred event employees in those yellow slickers that say “staff” and not one of them can tell us where to go.
We deliver an hour-long power-set to a receptive and soggy audience. Luckily no one is electrocuted. Black 47 and a great band from Chicago, The Tossers, follow. The consummate rock star, Skye works the audience and hob-knobs with Carbon Leaf backstage. In fact, the band invites her to sit in on their set. Alas, life is full of cruel twists and babysitter phone calls: “Come pick up your kids.”
The rains never stop, they intensify. The RFK parking lot brims with 1,000s of drunken, stumbling revelers—dancing, drinking, falling—a sea of guys and gals in green ponchos. The scene resembles images displayed on television following major hurricanes or natural disasters. These dislocated folks, however, seem to be having the time of their lives. In fact, one woman is so overwhelmed with happiness she wets herself, pulls down her jeans exposing everything, and continues to do the deed (I thought only guys did that). Brad and I look at each other. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he says.
*****
Back to Baltimore and O’Shea’s to drop off gear for our Parade Day performance the next day. Brad and I stick around for a glass of Kentucky Prozac with our old amigo, O’Shea’s owner Dave Niehenke. The Friendly Sons of St. Patrick are downing pints like Guinness is going out of business. Some fella in a sharkskin suit—he may be from New Jersey—has had a little too much kick-a-poo juice, has called an O’Shea’s bartender a “bitch,” and now has stumbled into Brad, who is part Jack Russell terrier, part Moray eel. Brad cocks his right fist back, and with his left, goes straight for the throat. I think he is going to pull some bad-ass Tai Chi move, a la Patrick Swayze in Road House, and rip the dude’s windpipe out.
The situation, thankfully, is defused rather quickly and we all go back to being little Fonzies.
*****
March 14
St. Patrick’s Parade. Baltimore. Down at O’Shea’s. This time of year is almost like a family reunion and it’s always good to see our friends on Charles Street. Perform 4 to 8 p.m. Great crowd and everyone is well-behaved, fairly mellow for such a traditionally wild day. No incidents to report.
*****
March 17
What is this place you speak of—this Timonium? Driving north on York Road, up in the distance I witness what looks like a prison break or mass border crossing; waves of green-clad people run and dodge vehicles across four lanes of traffic. Then I realize they’re just trying to get to the Poitin Stil and join the 2,000 others clad in green.
Parking is stupid, virtually non-existent. I make a quick right into what I think is a drive but it’s not. It’s a dead end with a fence (there are cars parked there, however). Next thing I know, flashing red and blue lights. I jump out of my car and the police officer signals me to come over to his vehicle as his window goes down.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I say helplessly. “I’m playing in a band that is playing over there and I need to get from here to there.”
“Well, you can’t park here.”
“I understand but I’m kinda stuck now and don’t know how I’m going to back out with York Road traffic.”
“I’ll block traffic for you.” Sure enough, he hits his siren and angles his car so I can back out. I give him a wave. A big shout out to Baltimore County’s finest. Much thanks!
Spring has arrived early, temps tipping into the low 70s. It’s a powerful combination, spring fever, Jameson, beautiful women in short-shorts and green-tees they outgrew when they were 13.
For whatever reason, I’m not drinking (a lot).
“I don’t like you sober,” Brad says.
“If I’m sober it allows me to be more judgmental.”
Our show is 8 to midnight. The audience is into it. Brad is hitting them hard, throwing fast-balls, giving them all the dance music they can swallow. We’re also playing John Henry-style hour-an-a-half sets.
One woman is cutting a rug with switch blades. I’m thinking she’s been hired by the Stil. Dancing with the Stars, Timonium. Waiting for the big wipe-out, a mouth full of asphalt. But no, she’s a dancanista, twisting and kicking in high-heels, pulling women out to partner with, and rookie fellas who can’t keep up. Just watching is exhausting.
The evening begins to wind down—after all it is a school night. We close with a beautiful, country-tinged, Laura Hein piano-laden “Danny Boy,” a good note to end on with the rising of the moon.
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