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How to Be Irish in Philly This Week

Matt and Shannon Heaton: in Lambertville on Saturday.

Matt and Shannon Heaton: in Lambertville on Saturday.

A heads up to our Bucks County brethren—a new session went on the calendar this week. There will be a session on Tuesday night’s at the King George II Inn, right on the waterfront in Bristol Borough starting this week. If you have the music in you, let it out.

Slainte has the music in them. Frank Daly and C.J. Mills will be performing on Saturday at Paddy Whacks on the Boulevard (that’s Roosevelt Boulevard to you) in Philly on Saturday afternoon.

In Lambertville, NJ, two of our faves—Matt and Shannon Heaton—will be at The Birdhouse Center for the Arts on Main Street.

On Saturday, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., the Villanova Irish Dance Team hosts an Intercollegiate Irish Dance Festival at the Jake Nevins Fieldhouse. Eight teams—plus the team from ‘Nova—will take part. There’s a Grand Irish Show at 7:30, featuring RUNA, and performances from all the collegiate teams.

For our Delaware peeps, there’s a ceili at the Irish Center in Wilmington on Sunday.

We’ve been hearing good things about the Tuesday session at Maloney’s in Ardmore—members of Blackthorn showing up, the place getting packed, and fun being had.

On Thursday, the Irish American Business Chamber and Network welcomes Udraras na Gaeltachta, the regional authority responsible for the economic, cultural and social development of the Gaeltacht, the parts of Ireland where Irish is still spoken. Udaras encourages investment in the Gaeltacht through many generous incentives for new businesses—so if you have a business that could support an international office or plant, come to the conference at The Hyatt at the Bellevue on Broad Street in Philadelphia. It starts at 8 AM and runs through 2 PM, with lunch.

At 5:30 PM, head to St. Declan’s Well Pub on Walnut Street to mix and mingle with representatives from Udaras na Gaeltachta and members of the Irish-American community with some special whiskey tasting and Guinness pint glass engraving.

If you were one of the many people who helped County Tyrone musician Raymond Coleman when all of his gear was stolen from his van a few weeks ago, he’s saying thank you at The Plough and the Stars with a free concert featuring himself, his brother singer-songwriter Mickey Coleman and some surprise guests on Thursday starting at 7:30 PM.

Please check our calendar for more information and for late-breaking events

People

Hoping the Luck of the Irish Is In the Cards

Irish Gaelic Playing CardsMichael Oraschewsky was attending the Philipps University of Marburg in 2001, majoring in political science and German linguistics. Most of his friends on campus were Irish. That’s when he discovered: those Irish people have a language all their own.

“They had their own secret language that no one else knew. Nobody had any clue what they were talking about. It was just what they learned at school. I thought that was cool. It’s a beautiful language. It sounds like something you would hear in “Lord of the Rings,” a really ancient language. It was like nothing else I’d ever heard.”

Though Oraschewsky never learned the language, he heard it spoken a good deal in the Irish Gaeltacht—areas of Ireland where Irish is spoken—when he joined his Irish friends of the Christmas holidays in 2001. He couldn’t afford a plane trip all the way back to the states, but a trip to Ireland was cheap. “My Irish friends invited me to come and travel around Ireland and stay at their houses,” Oraschewsky says. “It was just incredible. I absolutely loved my time in Ireland when I was abroad.”

Oraschewsky has always had a love of languages, and his interest in Ireland’s native language in particular always stuck with him. That interest came in handy when he and his partner, Eric Brewstein, came up with an idea to help non-native speakers learn handy Irish words of phrases—exactly 54 words and phrases.

The firm’s “Lost Languages: Irish Gaelic” playing cards recently raised $5,884 in start-up funds on the crowd-funding website Kickstarter. The initial goal was $5,750.

Each card contains an word or phrase, a translation, and phonetic pronunciation. Some of the useful words: “beoir” (beer), “uisce beatha” (whiskey), and “Slainte” (an Irish toast).

Also, “Garda” (police)—someone to look out for as you’re strolling back home in the wee hours after consuming too much beoir and uisce beatha. And saying “Slainte” way too many times.

Of course, most of the cards include translations of common greetings and salutations like “please” and “thank you,” and basic, sometimes essential, words like “mother,” “father,” “tea” and “men’s room.”

“You had to have ‘whiskey’ and ‘beer,’ and certain locations like Dublin and Cork, and things associated with family,’’ Oraschewsky says. “With every culture, family is paramount.”

Oraschewsky and his partner researched the most common and most useful words and phrases online, and then presented them to his cousin’s wife, the native Irish Claire Powers, for proofing. Next up: manufacturing the cards, and selling them online. As it happens, Oraschewsky and Brewstein already have a time-tested model for the whole process. It’s their first “Lost Languages” playing card deck in Yiddish.

“My partner Eric who started this with me is Jewish,” Oraschewsky says. “He promised his bubbe (grandmother) before she passed that he would use Yiddish more in his house with his son. That was a way of fulfilling her wish.”

If his last name isn’t already a dead giveaway, you won’t be surprised to learn that Oraschewsky has very little Irish heritage. “My connection with Ireland is solely from the friendships I forged in Europe. I have a grandfather who is part Irish, but that part is long distant. I’m much more aware of my own ancestry, which is German and Russian, with a little Greek and Italian in there, too.”

Although Oraschewsky expects Irish-Americans will constitute the primary audience for the new Irish Gaelic playing cards, he believes there are many other people like himself who aren’t Irish, but who nonetheless love Irish history and culture. The cards will be available online soon.

“On Kickstarter, there was definitely a broader audience,” says Oraschewsky. “That community is generally interested in cool new things. Going forward, we’re also going to focus on Irish gift shops, and people of Irish descent who want to get a cool gift for their grandmom or their kids. It shows you a little something about your heritage, totally unique. But were not talking about it as just for Irish, specifically. Ireland has a magical, mythical aura around it, so people who don’t have any special ties to it still want to see it. Ireland has a draw for everyone, with its history and its struggles. Most people can relate to their life.”

People

The Irish Journey of Stanton Ross

Miriam Stamm and Stanton Ross

Miriam Stamm and Stanton Ross

In the 1970s, Stanton Ross owned Premier Jewelers, a shop along Mill Street in Bristol Borough, Bucks County. He had always sold the kind of jewelry you would expect to find: rings, necklaces, bracelets, broaches, watches. But he remembers the day when a young couple visited his shop with what, at the time, seemed like an usual request.

“They wanted Irish wedding bands. I didn’t have them, but I found them for them,” says Ross. “Before long, I started getting a lot of requests for them. People came from all over, and they told their friends.”

Ross recognized an opportunity. Before long, he was stocking wedding bands, Claddagh rings, and other Celtic-themed jewelry, and those items proved to be popular with people of a certain ethnic background. But soon selling Celtic gewgaws and tchotchkes became more than just business. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship with the local Irish community.

”I was invited to plenty of weddings after that,” Ross recalls. “They were customers first, but then they became friends.”

One thing led to another. Ross’ casual interest in Ireland soon blossomed into a full-blown passion. Some people might think this level of interest is unusual for a man with no Irish blood in his veins. Ross is of Romanian heritage. But to meet him is to almost instantly know him for the intellectually curious man he is.

“I knew it was about a lot more than wedding rings,” says Ross. He’s 82, with a modest, soft-spoken demeanor. “I became interested in the Irish culture. I read books about it, and I visited the Balch Institute. (The Balch Institute for Ethnic Studies, at 1300 Locust Street, houses a vast collection of Irish manuscripts and other historical documents.) I went to Ireland several times. I visited Doolin and Lisdoonvarna (in County Clare), and Dublin. I visited Trinity College and saw the Book of Kells. I went to visit Derry and Belfast. I just wanted to see what it was all about.”

Here and there in his travels, Ross compared notes with local jewelers, but his interest in the Emerald Isle always transcended commercial concerns. “It just seemed like an interesting place. They had all the odds stacked against them for hundreds of years, and they survived. It inspired me.”

Ross continued to soak up all things Irish, even after he closed his shop in Bristol in 1988, and went on to work at Carver W. Reed & Co., a firm that makes low-interest collateral loans on fine jewelry—where they had precisely no interest in Irish jewelry. He retired from the business in June, but it didn’t take long for his partner Miriam Stamm and daughter Lori Iller to notice his restlessness.

At their gentle urging, Ross came out of his brief retirement to return, in a modest way, to what he loved: selling Irish jewelry. This time around, he was going to take charge of the operation, from sophisticated computer-aided design to finished product. All the help he needs to do his work, he can find along Sansom Street—Jeweler’s Row. From his long years in the business, Ross knows all the local artisans, tucked away the often claustrophobia-inducing back shops where they produce 3D wax models, create custom casts, and polish precious metals.

And Ross was going to take the plunge and sell online. The new company, with Stamm and Ross’s daughter as partners, is called Relik. It’s been in operation just three months.

“He had always wanted to do this,” Stamm says. “It just seemed like a good time to do it. So the three of us started the company. We thought the name ‘Relik’ would set us apart. We’ve been putting our own money into it. You make some money, and you put it back in. We’re trying to be as smart as we can about it. It was his dream, and that was what pushed us into it.”

Stamm, whose folks come from Germany, is also an ardent lover of all things Irish.

The small company produces a limited number of modestly priced pieces—10 to 15 a month, Stamm says. Some of them they sell on the website (designed by Iller); others they sell at local craft fairs and farmers markets, including the big one in Glenside, Montgomery County.

Most of Relik’s designs are familiar—Celtic Trinity Knots, shamrocks, St. Brigid’s Crosses—and of course, the ubiquitous Claddagh.

Other designs are a bit different—inspired, Ross says, by Irish artwork he’s seen in his travels, snapshots brought back from trips to Ireland, and occasional estate sale finds. One such recent discovery was a hand-made, gold-plated pin from the Victorian era. Unfortunately, that particular pin won’t be part of the Relik collection. “It wasn’t beautiful,” Ross laughs. “It was just interesting.”

Ross draws inspiration from all of those outside sources for one particular reason. He’s no designer. Still, he knows what he likes, and it keeps him interested and engaged.

“Artists, we’re not,” says Ross. “But there’s a lot of stuff out there. I never knew the Tree of Life was Irish. It’s amazing.”

People

Calling All Miss Mayos!

Marybeth Phillips with Michael Toner

Marybeth Phillips with Michael Toner

It was 1972. Marybeth Phillips was 14, a student at a small Catholic school, St. Leonard’s Academy at 39th and Chestnut on the Penn Campus. And thanks to two classmates who shared her love for Irish dance, something entirely unexpected happened.

She became Miss Mayo—tiara, sash, roses and all.

“I had two really good friends, both of them seniors, when I was at St. Leonard’s. They got wind of the fact that I was an Irish dancer,” explained Phillips, originally from 48th and Springfield in Southwest Philadelphia, now an actor, writer, music consultant and events producer living in Chester County—and part of the year in Ireland.

“Maureen Cavanaugh was active in the Mayo Association of Philadelphia, and Marian Gallagher was also very active in the Irish community. Both of these girls were step dancers. When I met them at St. Leonard’s, those two girls got me a dance part in the school show. Freshmen didn’t get to be in the show, but they lobbied for me. They said ‘Irish dancers are the best dancers, you’re gonna get a part.’ Of course, we were friends after that.”

Irish friends being Irish friends, Maureen and Marian invited Phillips to tag along on their jaunts—including the Mayo Ball, sponsored by the Mayo Association of Philadelphia. Phillips had never gone, but it appealed to her.

“‘You’re coming with us, you gotta go,’ they said. Well, it was black tie and gowns. I’d go anywhere where I could get dressed up.”

Phillips had a great time, but she thought that was all there was to it—until Maureen and Marian urged her to run for Miss Mayo, something that never would have occurred to her.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Phillips laughed, but that didn’t stop her. Once again, the prospect of wearing a gown had its undeniable allure, and Phillips thought she had nothing to lose.

She remembers the night as if it was yesterday. “The first part of the night, we hung around with friends and did the ceili dances, giggling and having fun. Then they pulled us into the dining room and interviewed us. It was a little nerve wracking. Billy Brennan was one of the judges, and he asked me what I knew about Ireland. How many counties were there.

“It was 1973, when Dennis Clark had just written ‘The Irish in Philadelphia.’ That was the beginning of my collection of Irish books. And I’d absorbed a lot of the culture from my grandparents and neighbors. (Grandmother Bridget Coyne was from Clonbur, Galway, and grandfather, Tom Ward, was from Tuam, also in the county.) My neighborhood had an overwhelming Irish character to it. You didn’t know anybody whose grandparents weren’t from Ireland.

“Anyway, Billy asked my how many counties Ireland had. I said 28. I just didn’t remember. I’m sure I knew. I don’t remember any of the other questions. But they’d generally ask you about things you liked to do. It was never ‘what’s your plan to save the world.’ They were looking for poise. They were looking for girls who were well-spoken. Do they have a lot of heart and soul? Do they knock themselves out for people? That kind of thing. They wanted to make sure you weren’t snapping gum or twirling your hair. They wanted someone friendly and outgoing and, ideally, knowledgeable about the Irish and who cherished Irish traditions.”

Ultimately, despite the wrong answer, that proved to be Marybeth Phillips. And no one could have been more, as they say in the Irish tradition, gobsmacked.

“I was so surprised. I just thought: Now what do I have to say?”

Today, winners of local Irish contests, such as Miss Mayo, Mary from Dungloe and the Rose of Tralee, collect some nice prizes, including Waterford punch bowls, fancy jewelry, a large check, or a trip to Ireland.

Back then, it was a tiara, a sash and roses. And that was just fine. Especially the roses, Phillips said. “I was over the moon about those.”

She still has the tiara.

A year later, Phillips won the Philadelphia Donegal Association’s Mary from Dungloe pageant. That meant a trip to Ireland for the big international contest, where she came in third. But Miss Mayo was really the beginning of a lasting and significant relationship with Philadelphia’s Irish community, and with Irish culture. Becoming Miss Mayo made a big difference.

“It made me feel validated. Just all of those little layers of Positive reinforcement kept me involved. I took being Miss Mayo seriously. They like you to represent them, and they want you to continue on with your Irish interests.”

And Phillips did just that. She went on to teach Irish dance. She formed a Celtic dance troupe. She wrote a monthly column, “Putting on Airs,” for the Irish Edition. She joined the Philadelphia Ceili Group, and now serves on its board. She owns a home in Cortoon, Ballinrobe—in County Mayo, appropriately—just across Lough Mask from her granny’s farmland.And all of that is just scratching the surface.

Years later, the Mayo Association is still recruiting accomplished young women to represent them in the Irish community and beyond. As tough as the competition was in 1972, the competition seems tougher today.

“These kids started out in day care prepping for Harvard,” Phillips said. “They’re scary smart. They’re so accomplished, and so young.”

But one more distinction awaits the next Miss Mayo—she’ll be the 50th.

For that special occasion, the Mayo Association is hoping for a reunion of as many former Miss Mayos as they can round up. That’s Marybeth Phillips’ job. And it’s a tough one, but she’s staying positive.

“It’s hard. A lot of them are people who did not stay involved. So far there are something like six of us. If there are only 10 girls who enter the contests this year, and there are 10 of us, that’d be pretty good.”

The ball is on Saturday November 2, from 8 p.m. until the cows come home, at the Philadelphia Irish Center/Commodore Barry Club. Details here.

And you can learn about all of the Miss Mayos here.

People

Making a Virtue of Thrift

The Thrifty Irishman, Robert J. McCormac

The Thrifty Irishman, Robert J. McCormac

It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon in the parking lot of Our Mother of Consolation Church in Chestnut Hill. One car after another pulls into the lot, and volunteers from the St. Vincent dePaul Society walk out to greet the drivers, gratefully accepting bags of clothes, shoes, housewares … anything that can be recycled or re-sold. With some assistance from overeager OMC elementary school kids, they tote all the plastic bags and clothing on hangers up a ramp and pile them up inside a large trailer.

If your church has ever held its own clothing drive and you’ve wondered where all that stuff wound up, Robert J. McCormac can tell you. He provided the trailer, and all of the goods, in this case, will go to his soon-to-open thrift store at Aramingo and Cedar in Port Richmond. It’s called The Thrifty Irishman.

From a trailer like the one parked on the OMC lot, McCormac salvages what he can—which is usually a lot—and the proceeds go to the organizations like the St. Vincent dePaul Society.

“If a program like the St. Vincent dePaul Society or your kid’s church wants a clothing drive, we try to have it be a win-win for everybody,” says McCormac. “They get a cut.”

If anyone understands the economics of salvage, it’s McCormac. He was taught by experts.

McCormac was born on St. Patrick’s Day, 1968, and he grew up in Kensington. At 14, McCormac went to work for salvage impresario Dick Segal, who ran a thrift store called Jo-Mar, also in Kensington. Segal’s shop would buy up department store seconds, and re-sell them at a fraction of their department store price.

Some kids hear music, and resolve they’re going to be the next Stevie Ray Vaughan. They go to the see a play, and they want to be a stage manager. They help revive a baby bird, and they want to be a vet.

Bob McCormac wanted to be just like his newfound mentor, Dick Segal.

“I watched what he did. He could sell anything. He used to say, ‘Anybody can sell the good stuff’,” McCormac recalls with a laugh. “He’s an amazing salesman. He could take a gently used $600 Armani suit, and say to the customer, ‘You could have a tailor take it in.’ Whatever success I’ve had in my life, I owe to Dick Segal. I’ve never not been in the salvage business.”

From 14 on, McCormac never looked back. He’s always had a knack for taking what some people might consider trash, and turning it into other people’s treasure. The salvage trade, he explains, holds undeniable appeal for anyone with an entrepreneurial spirit—and a high degree of risk tolerance. “It’s a matter of being your own man,” McCormac says. “You’re always out and about, trying to make a deal. Sometimes, it means I’m eating peanut butter and jelly. Sometimes I’m eating filet mignon. I’m OK with that.”

In his early 20s, McCormac set out on his own, joining with partners to open a thrift shop operation called Budget Express. It lasted eight years and, even though the business didn’t last, he believes he learned even more about what it takes to make it in his chosen line of work.

Banking on that experience, he set out to try it again. “I looked at several locations over the years. Then I found this building in Port Richmond. It had heavy wooden posts, with brick walls. It was very open.”

In McCormac’s business, lots of open space is essential. In this case, it’s 10,000 square feet.

“It has to be that size,” McCormac says. “You don’t want people coming in the door, and saying to themselves that they’ve seen everything. You want it to be a treasure hunt.”

Then there was the question of what to name the place. Two friends immediately stepped up to the plate.

The first was Mike Schweirzer, who stated the obvious. “You were born on St. Patrick’s Day,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been lucky like a leprechaun. You should name your store the Thrifty Irishman’.”

Next, his son’s art teacher, Marcie Hull , volunteered to design his logo—a dark green leprechaun with a shamrock, his booted foot propped up on a jar. Presumably, of gold.

McCormac’s landlord is working with the city to have all the permitting finalized and, if McCormac’s legendary luck holds, the shop will open on or about November 8. In the meantime, he’s busily amassing lots of saleable goods.

When the store opens, McCormac will continue to follow the example of his mentor Dick Segal—and his simple yet tried-and-true business plan. “We’ll sell clothing, household items, design items, a little bit of architectural salvage. We come across a lot of stuff. The real goal is to sell a lot of stuff for not a lot of money.”

News, People

A Message from the Heart

Tom Staunton and friends

Tom Staunton and friends

The Fireside Room at the Philadelphia Irish Center is a cozily dim little space. There’s a polished wood floor just perfect for set dancing. Off to one side, there is a long bar, a kind of elongated oval, the walls minimally decorated with artifacts like a hurling stick and an old photo of the Philadelphia Emerald Society Pipe Band. Three large television screens broadcast the latest Phillies debacle.

On a typical Saturday morning, this room would be about as bustling as the tomb of Tutankhamun, but on this particular Saturday morning, it’s a different story. A dozen or so of the regulars are propping up the bar, a trio of pipers is playing “Minstrel Boy” and “The Wearin’ of the Green,” and from time to time a few of John Shields’ dancers are dancing. And on a day when the outside temperatures are projected to hit the low 80s, a stack of logs blazes away in the fireplace. The center’s noisy air conditioning is off. Banks of blindingly bright lights illuminate all the dark corners, each one of those corners as neat as the legendary pin. A boom mic hangs over the bar. There are video cameras everywhere.

Perhaps the most obvious anomaly: The Guinness and Smithwick’s tap handles have been unscrewed and put away, and all of the folks at the bar are sipping Sprites or ice water. That’s because a camera crew is getting set to film a commercial for Penn Medicine, and pints of beer wouldn’t be in keeping with a world-renowned medical center’s message of robust health.

The center of attention is Tom Staunton, a reserved, self-effacing man well known to the Irish Center, seated with a couple of friends at a high-top table along the dance floor. His job at that moment is to do what comes naturally–chat with his friends, share jokes, have a laugh. Welcome the waitress when she arrives with a plate of beef and potatoes. Between takes, the three friends are visited by a makeup artist, who gently dabs away patches of perspiration along their foreheads and the tips of their noses. Three takes in all before the camera crew is satisfied.

The shoot began before 10 in the morning, and wrapped up around 4 in the afternoon. And all for a commercial that will last a minute on television.

The ad will draw public attention to a revolutionary new procedure at Penn for the treatment of the common but potentially lethal heart flutter known as atrial fibrillation, a condition that leaves patients with a high risk of stroke. It’s called the Lariat® procedure, and Staunton was the first one in the state to get it. Dr. Daniel McCormick performed the operation.

Staunton is happy to sing the procedure’s praises, no matter how many takes. “It really works,” he says. And that’s not just an advertising tagline. Staunton believes the Lariat procedure changed his life for the better, and he’s deeply grateful.

Staunton was diagnosed with AFib in 2012. The drug of choice for atrial fibrillation is warfarin—an anticoagulant, or blood thinner. But it’s by no means a happy choice. Management of the condition with warfarin is often extremely difficult. Doctors need to strike a balance—enough warfarin to help, but not so much that it hurts. Like most, if not all, drugs, warfarin is not without its risks. A recent Penn Medicine blog post sums it up:

While there will always be a need for blood thinners in medicine, the truth is, their effectiveness is precisely what makes them so dangerous. Warfarin, the most commonly used … is also used to poison rats and mice. Its anti-clotting properties produce death through internal hemorrhaging—a trait you want to control rodent populations, not your AFib.

Staunton can vouch for the difficulty of warfarin therapy, which requires constant monitoring. “One week it was OK,” he says, “and the next week it wasn’t.”

The Lariat procedure is a new way to treat AFib without the risks and difficulty of warfarin. There’s a long explanation of the procedure, but the short of it is that the surgeon, using minimally invasive techniques, creates a kind of lasso-shaped suture and cinches off the section of the heart responsible for the flutter, and that section eventually is absorbed into the body. The good news: No more warfarin.

Though Staunton is not accustomed to the limelight, he believes a few hours of fuss is well worth it. “If they use me here in this way, maybe it will help other people to know about this procedure and have it done.”

For his part, Irish Center manager Tom Walsh says, the Irish Center was happy to serve as center stagealthough he confesses, he didn’t know what to expect. He says the commercial’s producer initially called him and Staunton some time ago to pitch the idea. “After that, I carried the conversation forward as far as people to line up as participants. The producer came around here yesterday (Friday) for two hours. And he asked me: ‘Do you know what you’re in for here?’ And I said, no, but I’ll keep an open mind.”

The commercial will air on local television around mid-October.

People

Top Irish Dancer Brings It To Fringe

Colin Dunne wasn’t exactly born step dancing, but it was close. The man who is known as “a leading figure” in Irish dance, who choreographed part of “Riverdance” and took over the lead role from Michael Flately when he left the iconic musical in 1995, first started going to Irish dance classes as a babe in arms.

“My two sisters had started to go to dance classes when I was six months old and I got to a certain age, my mother threw me in with them,” recalls Dunne, who is soft spoken, brown-eyed, and darkly handsome. “I never remember not liking it. In fact, I remember standing at the door of the house, my shoes in a bag, shouting, ‘We’re going to be late!’”

That was in Birmingham, England, where he was born to Irish parents.  Once in the world of Irish dance, Dunne took it by storm. He won his first World Championship title by the age of nine and was the first dancer ever to win the World, All England, and all Ireland titles in the same year. When he finally retired from competition at 22, he had won a total of nine World, 11 Great Britain, and eight All Ireland titles.

He is more than humble about his trove of trophies. “I now question any activity in whereby a nine-year-old can become a world champion,” he says thoughtfully. “I learned a valuable lesson at the age of 10—you can go back the next year and you don’t win. I’m not sure about the psychology of kids being at something at a world champion level.”

But the stress never dimmed the passion. Although his love affair with dance has had its “ups and downs,” at 45, he’s still at it, still passionate. Dunne is bringing his multi-media homage to dance, “Out of Time,” to the Painted Bride Art Center, 230 Vine Street, On September 19, 20, and 21, as part of the 2013 Philadelphia FringeArts Festival.

The one-man show, using archival footage from the ‘30s, ‘50s, and ‘70s, uncovers the pure simplicity of Irish dancing which, in those other times, was done noncompetitively by ordinary people whenever a fiddle, concertina, or whistle started to play. Much of the recorded music is provided by Clare fiddler Martin Hayes and longtime partner, Dennis Cahill of Chicago. Fionan de Barra, of the award-winning Philadelphia musical group, RUNA, designed the sound. Sineade Rushe is the director.

In pure Irish tradition, Dunne has also woven storytelling into the mix—much of it, his story, though he hesitates to call the show autobiographical. “It’s not biography explicitly. It’s not a history lesson. But I show these films, most of them from the RTE archives but a couple of pieces from my own personal collection (including footage of me dancing when I was 10), that show the element of time and how dancing was very different back in the 30s, 50s, and 70s than now, that it’s constantly evolving.”

The rigid stance, for instance. The films show that Irish dance wasn’t always just from the waist down, for example, challenging the prevailing wisdom on what is—and what isn’t—traditional. This was a turning point for Dunne, who spent time learning contemporary dance at the University of Limerick in part to escape from the “mold for a type of Irish dance” created by “Riverdance.”

“When I was in New York with ‘Riverdance’ I saw a lot of contemporary dance and theater and saw all kinds of work that wasn’t as big or brash as ‘Riverdance’ and a lot of solo shows that made me want to perform that way,” says Dunne. He also saw the idea of “tradition” as so much baggage that put the brakes on creativity, a concept he explores in “Out of Time.”

Colin Dunne

Colin Dunne

In fact, Dunne left the successful “Riverdance” after three years to explore this other version of the art form to keep his own passion for dance alive. “I had done 900 shows and I couldn’t do another one, I felt like I was losing my relationship with dance. Doing the same thing seven days a week can kill a part of you, which is why I needed to move into new territory.”

Not that he’s dissing “Riverdance.” In some ways, it kept him from a fate worse than death–accounting. After he “retired” from dancing at 22, he graduated from Warwick University in England with a bachelor’s degree in economics and worked as a trainee accountant at the Birmingham offices of Arthur Andersen, formerly one of the “big five” accounting firms in the world.

“Before ‘Riverdance’ there was no such thing as a career in Irish dance,” says Dunne. “You’d retire from competition and teach.”

But within a couple of days of passing his final exam that would have made him a full-fledged accountant, he got a call from Paddy Maloney, founder of the Irish group, The Chieftains, who invited him to peform on tour with the group in Canada. “I went in to my boss and asked if I could take some time off and they said, maybe you’d better resign, so I did,” Dunne recalls. “So in 1993 I went on tour for a month and told myself I was just going to take six months and do a couple of other tours before I decided what to do. So I went out with Frankie Gavin and DeDannan and figured I get this dance thing out of my system. Then, ‘Riverdance’ happened and everything changed.”

Dunne doesn’t intend to be “dancing in my 50s”—in fact, he’s moved more into choreography, something he’ll be doing at the Abbey Theater this year for a play about the 1913 Dublin lockout, which led to the rise of trade unions and, ultimately, the independence of Ireland from Great Britain.

One thing he will not be doing is revisiting accounting. “Um, no, even if. . .no,” he says with a bitter laugh. “I was a terrible accountant. I didn’t enjoy it.”

People

Liam Ó Maonlaí & Peter O’Toole Play a Barn Star House Concert

 

Liam Ó Maonlaí Photo by Denise Foley

Liam Ó Maonlaí
Photo: Denise Foley

The very essence of a house concert is the intimacy between performer and audience; when that performer is Liam Ó Maonlaí, the experience is like a heady whirlwind romance.

Thanks to Gabriel Donohue and Marian Makins, who are the architects and hosts behind the Barn Star concert series, and a mutual friend who set up the concert, this past Wednesday night brought Liam Ó Maonlaí and fellow Hothouse Flowers band mate Peter O’Toole to Philadelphia for a spectacular evening of music. To be among a limited crowd of 50, seated in a living room around a beautiful baby grand piano, listening to these two brilliant musicians play for three hours, is a singularly memorable event.

The concert is one of only a few that Ó Maonlaí is performing this trip. His focus has been the Dakota Nation Unity Ride, an event that began in July and is bringing Native Americans from as far away as Canada on horseback and in canoes to New York for an observance of peace and healing. The gathering continues throughout this weekend, and information can be found here, at the website of the Unity Ride.

For Ó Maonlaí, who is so passionate about Irish heritage, and culture, and the preservation of the Irish language, listening to his stories is as much a part of the experience as hearing the music. Before singing an original, as gaeilge version of “Carrickfergus,” he spoke of  his own awakening to music through a tape of Seán Ó Riada’s: “The language and the land and the music and the people and the work–it all dances in front of you…Seán Ó Riada realized that it’s the roots. The roots go on. And they go down and then you go forward…So that’s what we had at home. That was my introduction to a band and an audience, on this little tape. The rest of the stuff, it just seeped in through osmosis. When I was about 10, I started to play the whistle and these tunes were already in me, so they just came out through the holes.”

For which we, who were in attendance Wednesday night, are eternally grateful. Here is where you can see Liam Ó Maonlaí’s version of “Carrickfergus” captured on video  and also “Cailleach an Airgid” (“The Hag with the Money”), performed by Liam and Peter.

Here are a few photos from the evening.