A few weeks back I wrote about wanting to start a pub shanty sing in the Belly of the Beast: downtown Manhattan.
And so, last week, feeling pretty good about our 18 songs, we settled on a Sea Shanty Invasion point: Hurley’s Irish Saloon beside Times Square.
The place has a long, curling bar that wraps around back and we thought that we’d just sit in the rear and not bother anyone.
We got there, had a beer, and I sought out the manager. Paul, an affable if somewhat nervous looking fella, asked me what this was all about, and I told him: we are singers, and we want to sing in your fancy Manhattan pub.
When? When? Oh, now. We want to sing now.
Yeah, you can imagine the look on his face. Not exactly business as usual for a pub owner in that part of town, or indeed any part of town.
But eventually, after winning him over with my winsome charm and handsome good looks—and according to rumors what used to be called a “gentleman’s favor”—I told the guys to follow me around to an empty table in a nice, isolated part of the bar. I politely asked them to turn down the music on that side. Then I had to ask them again.
Then I asked them to turn off the huge TV right in front of us. They loved me at this point. But come on. You can’t sit and sing traditional shanties in front of a giant TV. Televisions murder community and communal gathering. Don’t listen to me, listen to Robert Putnam.
Anyway, some of the paid subscribers from this very Substack arrived, having read the secret post announcing the event. They were all extremely nice and interesting; shanty afficionados, history buffs, fishermen, creeps, weirdos, bums, etc. The usual Dreadnoughts folks.
We got started, and the guys nervously sang their harmonies, kinda looking around and wondering what was going to happen. How would it go?
Let’s just say that rarely have I ever envisioned something and had it happen so perfectly in every detail. (Do influencers still call this manifesting?) The comradeship was instant and bonds of friendship were formed. The beer flowed, the whiskey glasses clinked, and furtive outdoor darts were chuffed. The singing got louder and more boisterous, and people started to take notice. Before we knew it, some folks around the bar came over to listen. An older fella from northern England had joined in and was repeatedly saying that he felt right back at home.
He said it like: “ah feeeult rreet ba ay heuumm”. “Gesundheit,” I replied.
We sang and sang. Eliza Lee. Shallow Brown. Seaman’s Hymn. Luang Prabang. and in my haze I imagined that the ghosts of long-dead Manhattan sailors, dockyard workers and folk singers woke up, cocked an eye and smiled, not having heard that sound in a long while.
People got to know each other, gossiped, talked, crossed boundaries. Some scandinavian Goth lady was there beside Jungle Jim, another woman broke down and confessed to having to play a dwarf in a high school LOTR production, a guy who had just caught a 6-foot fish showed us photos, the northern English fella talked to everyone, and literally no-one understood him. It was great.
And when we sang Dear Old Stan and segwayed into Old Maui, I sort of felt a circle close, like that night I spent listening to hippies murder Old Maui fifteen years ago was finally washed from my soul. Manhattan needed the real deal, and a dozen or so of us were bringing it. And even if his brother once told me that he’d have hated us, I can’t help but think that Stan would have approved.
We finished (as we always will) with “Leave ‘Er Johnny”, the best closer in any genre, period. As always, paid subscribers get to see the video below.
Finally, because I had a kid at home with a 102F fever and a trip to Vancouver to play the Rickshaw Paddy’s Day shows, I bid farewell. But by all accounts the crew kept singing well into the night, with more bar patrons wandering over and joining in, making requests, buying drinks. An absolute roaring success.
So if they’ll have us back at dear old Hurley’s Pub, we will do this once a month. It’s on. The thing. The thing I said. It’s going to happen. Yay.
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