Volume 4, Issue 5
March 7 - March 20, 2002
The Indulgers, like the Irish whose music they're inspired by, are more or less the perfect archetype for the steadfast "little guy" railing against a somewhat oppressive con-vention. Like the people of that chalky, severe little island, the band is flourishing in a seemingly less than hospitable locale, shining bril-liantly under some pretty harrowing circumstances. I mean, c'mon, how endearingly unlikely can you get; a Celtic folk band living in Golden, playing odes to booze and scarlet-coiffed women on fiddles and bagpipes in the middle of the friggin' Rockies? Their uniqueness alone deserves respect--not to mention their accomplished songwriting and won-derfully eclectic musicianship--but what's perhaps most impressive about this ensemble is how they thrive so astoundingly in such an improbable environment. They're decidedly the black sheep here, but they're still kicking everyone's ass! You can't get any more Irish than that.
The Indulgers are doing something different, with a fierceness and passion that's truly enviable. Even in telephone conversation, singer/lyricist Damien McCarron's zeal for life and music is readily apparent. You get the impression that The Indulgers aren't so much a band as an unswerving clan of fast friends dispatched by some God-like force to preserve the heritage and vitality of a country and a form of art they love dearly. There is an unmistak-able sincerity and buoyancy to his voice when he speaks, and enough Dubliner's charm to sucker Mother Theresa into some topless dancing in a hash bar in Amsterdam. This is a man and a band that is going to go far, that will be deterred by nothing- -except maybe a showing of The Commitments at The Bluebird, or the rare Canadian 7-11 that stocks Irish chocolate.
Aside from defying all geographical logic introducing Colorado to their infectious brand of neo-Celtic folk-rock, the band also tours nationally, all the while steadily garnering awards like Citysearch.com's "Best Band In Denver" honor, to boot.
McCarron, Mike Nile, Renee Fine, Patrick Murphy, and Chris Murtaugh have been busy little bees indeed. In addition to all their relentless gigging, they just completed their third CD, Celtic Tiger . It hasn't been released yet, but I' m told the CD will be a collection of cover tunes; a collection of familiar Celtic songs like "Whiskey In The Jar" and The Waterboy's "Fisherman's Blues" as well as some rather startling selections ranging from a bagpipe version of Steppenwolf's "Born To Be Wild" and a treatment of "Freebird" dedicated to the horror and resulting heroism of Sept. 11--given the splendidly inimitable Indulger's interpretation, of course. Their last effort, "Tan & Black" is just unspeakably cool; a disc crammed with ecstatic, jig-inducing goodness that is equal parts Seamus Heaney, Hothouse Flowers, and Roddy Doyle--so if Celtic Tiger is anywhere close to it's predecessor, it's going to be amazing. If ever there was a band to teach America how to Irish step dance while simultaneously guzzling "car bombs," it's the Indulgers. They may reside in a State known for skiing and healthy athleticism, but no one entices Denverites to unite in an evening of getting pissed-up and falling down than these guys.
I'm not just slinging Blarney here. Anyone who's ever seen them at Fado Irish Pub on a weekend can back me up on this one. None of that quaint, cliched Lucky Charms shite from this band--their music is deep and witty and has some serious, muscular power behind it. They play traditional Irish music yes, but they inject enough stateside bravado to convert even the most stalwart, skeptical wanker into a full-fledged Irishman within nanoseconds.
When the Indulgers play live, something astonishing happens. Guys named Wilber and Tyrone suddenly find themselves ordering Bass and cussing like Gaelic football players during cup year, clasping shoulders and singing along like they lived in Cork their whole lives. Would-be metal-heads and hip-hoppers are gripped with an inexplicable yearning for fish and chips, linen shirts and Richard Harris movies. Uppity, flaxen-haired Anglo uber-waifs who usually only partake in the goggle-eyed, techno-stoked roller-derbies at Alley Cat leap up on tables, doffing their chintzy Oakenfold posturing for a charmingly ill-coordinated, drunken imitation of Riverdance , erupting in flaming locks and crimson freckles like some brilliant conflagration of Irish cannon-fire. Scores of tight-fisted businessmen whose neckties have been choking out their humanity since birth, pull the palm-pilot out of their butts and behave like people for a change, undoubtedly swooning like fawning schoolboys over the band's sultry violinist. It's great. Even the door guy smiles as he tears up your little sister's atrocious fake ID.
Honestly, there really should be no doubt about where you ought to be for the upcoming St. Patrick's Day weekend. Anyone who has the smallest affinity for Irish music--and we're talking about people who have once looked at a beer and are even slightly susceptible to sunburns, here- -will be heading down nightly to Fado Irish Pub on March 14-16 to see The Indulgers. And if the impending stumbling, blindly intoxicated blur of your St. Patty's is inhibited by things like family and gainful employment, that's okay too; The Indulgers will be playing on Sunday immediately fol- lowing the City's parade downtown, so you can share your disgraceful booziness with the ankle-biters. Fun for the whole unit. Yay!
Yeah, so we live in Colorado and sip Starbucks in our cubicles like retarded lab monkeys, big deal. Maybe our only link to the emerald isle is that one U2 album we bought at Target--there's still nothing stopping us from ordering a whiskey and putting on the green with our pals in The Indulgers, at least for an evening. If McCarron and crew can bring all the audacity and vigor of Celtic tradition across the pond to Colorado, we can too, dammit! Take a page from the Indulgers' book and do something fun and unexpected, regardless of where you' re at. Indulge. Live a little. Take a cab to Fado on St. Patty's. Cheers.
--D. Koke
Where was your first party?
The first party I went to was in Dallas during '95, but I can't remember the name. To be honest, I don't think there was a name. No name, no flyers--just a rave in a dirty warehouse downtown.
How long have you been spinning records?
I have been playing house and techno for about six years. My favorite producers right now are Gaetano Parisio, Rino Cerrone, Cari Lekebusch, and Cisco Ferreira (aka g. flame, aka the advent). Off the top of my head, my favorite tracks would have to be Alarms by Jeff Mills and House of God by dhs, but there are so many.
When did you decide that you wanted to open a record store?
I've always wanted to own my own business. Jerod and I decided to open a store after we realized there were no record stores around Boulder that were owned and run by deejays.
How did you score the Oddfellows Lodge for Halo and Hush?
Sweat got the Oddfellows Lodge with the help of Howie and Josh of Manifest and Step-Up Productions. Originally, the party was going to be held somewhere else, but the Oddfellows couldn't have been better.
What does the future hold for Sweat Records?
More great music, and more slammin' parties.
Sweat Records is located at 1310 College Avenue on the Hill in Boulder. For further information or directions, give their info line a buzz at 303-44SWEAT.
photo by Karjean Ng
The Prodigals are "big buzz" in the world of Irish music lately, and the tough, fiery and rebellious sound busting out of this record says that these NYC boys mean business. This CD brings Celtic music to a new level of credibility--not that it really ever lost it, but with St. Pat's around the corner and fiddles, kilts and corned beef about to burst out of the ruddy woodwork, it's great to talk about Irish music and feature an Irish rock band that can kick out the jigs the whole year 'round.
Dreaming in Hell's Kitchen mixes old world and new, the American Dream with the real American-Irish experience. The band's sound, dubbed "jig-punk" by the Village Voice , pulls from influences as diverse as The Pogues to the Ramones to Prince. Some tunes stand close to the emerald hearts of folksong, like "Lord Randall" and "Paddy's Heaven." Singer Ray Kelly yearns and drawls in a thin, brisk, and melancholy voice that immediately reminds us of cloudy days and wool sweaters. On "Happy Man," you can almost envision the world's simple daily pleasures--through the eyes of a grateful Irishman, of course: "If I'm a happy man today, I don' t know about tomorrow/ Will I be in ecstasy or deep in debt and sorrow/ There's a pint on the table, there's another on the way/ And with the girl beside me, I'm a happy man today."
The end of Dreaming is packed with incredibly cool songs, almost urgent in their need to break away from the veiled and mystic Irish depression. "Out of Mind" sounds like the whole band is sprinting down the street, chased by the image that whispers "Go along/ Move on, move on." "One True Cause" is a rocker. And along comes the title track, with a slamming accordian solo (seriously!) and a furiously funky groove. Although The Prodigals are enmeshed in Irish press and affairs, the best of this record sounds the the best of this record sounds the least ethnic. But pour me a pint anyway. --Pearl
Nee-Haw, it's the Reverend's newest album, Lucky 7! Oh, mama--you can smell pomade and motor oil on the CD jacket. There's a halo of bathtub hooch and bare-knuckle boxing that gleams above the jewel case like surfacing dreams of non-filter Chesterfield smokes and dodgy platinum blondes stacked like cartoons. The whole disc radiates smarmy, snarling Texas libido like a cheap, seedy dime-store pulp novel. Flames on a tricked-out Model A, irresponsible teenagers fornicating in back seats like crazed hedonists, leather-clad Greasers pummeling the bejeezus out of some dumb straight in a pool-hall back alley. Rockabilly on crack. Oh yeah. You know it.
If you're not versed in the hymnals of the Reverend Horton Heat, don't be fooled by the band's hilariously misleading religious moniker. The only pulpit these guys preach from is made from the white-hot manifold of a pimpmobile, and the only dogma they adhere to is the impedance rating on an amplifier, and even then, they still defile the thing like a bad prison movie.
If you don't own some white bucks, a set of naked-lady mud-flaps and a pair of fuzzy dice, don't even break the shrink-wrap, kid. The first tune, "Loco Gringos Like A Party" paints a picture of Tequila-swilling toughs who "fight for the worm" and enjoy "cuttin' up lines with a dull butter knife." and it just gets sleazier from there. Nice.
Lucky 7? Wholesome. Chaste. Totally inoffensive. Uh huh--like taking a nun to an adult arcade. Let's face it, the Rev. has seen more flake than Johnny Depp and arguably less moral fiber than an atheist sewer rat just sprung from the pokey on an assault conviction, but the guy plays a mean 1-4-5 song. You can't help but like the guy; you just don't wanna loan him money, or your cute 16-year-old cousin from Duluth.
Buy this album if you're feeling a burning desire for scorching Dixie funk-a-billy and blissfully unprincipled lyrics about blown and bored-out 12-cylinder engines. You and your parole officer will LOVE it. --D. Koke
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