Schmaltzing Matilda

Let's start by noting that Frank McCourt is unlikely to ever record a great album—and, having said that, we should probably thank him for not trying. Similarly, Liam Clancy is not really a writer, and while on the one hand it may be unfair to hold his new autobiography up to the light of Angela's Ashes, on the other The Mountain of the Women is a book that was clearly written in the shadow of—and no doubt prompted by the success of—McCourt's work. As such it should help to settle the argument once and for all that McCourt's Pulitzer was clearly deserved—not because of the debated extent of his childhood poverty or his suffering at the hands of the Christian Brothers and an alcoholic father, but simply because he is one of the best writers to come out of Ireland, ever.

What Liam Clancy is, however, is an exceptional performer, an accomplished actor, and to many minds (including my own) the most gifted folk singer on record. He has also led a thrilling, fortunate, and apparently fulfilling life, and his new book is, despite its technical flaws, a fascinating work that will delight fans and moreover should be required reading for any conscientious Irish performer.

The book (and the audiobook, which is the edition we review here) does have some disappointments. The ones that spring highest and most immediately to mind are the incessant kiss-and-tell anecdotes. This review will likely go to press well before I'll be able to put my finger on the reason for my dismay (latent Irish-Catholic sensibility? resistance to the over-humanization of a cherished figure?), but suffice to say that dalliances and infidelities are a don't-ask-don't-tell part of the troubadour lifestyle, and hearing the details of his is neither shocking nor enlightening. Clancy is already carved in marble in the Irish-music pantheon; this book ought to be the cement that fixes him immovably in place there, but he comes close to squandering this opportunity with his apparent eagerness to enshrine his reputation as a womanizer and blaggard rather than an artistic force.

Throw in the (mercifully few) passages of quasi-wisdom (e.g.: "there's a time in everyone's life when Life in the big sense is at its most intense. It has to be savored then, because that peak can never again be reached...."), and one occasionally gets the sinking feeling of being cornered at a cousin's Communion party by Old Uncle Liam, on his sixth 7&7 and waxing nostalgic, as you smile and nod and try desperately not to lose respect for him, until the inevitable tousling of your hair and a slur that "you're a good boy." But I digress.

Also notable for its glaring absence is a consideration of Tommy Makem, who was, after all, a collaborator on each of the most successful phases of Clancy's career. Their love/hate relationship is well documented by now, but, regardless, hindsight makes clear that with Tommy Makem, Liam Clancy was a force to be reckoned with, but without him he was largely a monument to past glory. So to hear Clancy's story with so little mention of Makem—and what little is there is insubstantial, even unflattering—is at best puzzling and at worst evidence of those darker hibernian traits, sour grapes and begrudgery.

Still, it is hard to resist being charmed by the man and—above all!—that voice. It's generally easier to review a book than an audiobook, as the former can be highlighted, annotated, and dog-eared, so it is no small praise to say that hearing Clancy's story in his own rich, warm, mellow tones was worth every inconvenience. Further, the audiobook features Clancy singing unfamiliar (new?) versions of songs like "The Foggy Dew" and "The Rocky Road to Dublin," which are a treat that the text editions can't match.

As far as the narrative goes, the second half is by far the more interesting, as it covers the genesis of the influential band and to a certain extent the whole late 50s/early 60s Greenwich Village folk scene. This is not to damn the first half with faint praise, however: While it is belabored at times and ultimately sheds little light on the factors that turned Willie Clancy, Tipperary man, into Liam Clancy, venerable citizen of the world, the discussion of young Clancy's travels collecting folk music through the Celtic hinterland with his eventual patron, heiress Diane Hamilton (Guggenheim), are a vital and little-known aspect to the portrait of the artist. And, as with the death of his father later in the book, his treatment of the death of his 21-year-old sister and their mother's consequent faith crisis, is touching and exquisitely rendered.

In reading a book like this, there's a danger to look back too fondly on The Auld Days, of using the waggish definition of nostalgia as "present tense, past perfect." But whatever about the man, Liam Clancy's greatness is built on his music, and the book's most memorable discussions on the subject involve his and the band's interaction with the American melting pot: excursions to Appalachia, Clancy's friendship with Odetta, a road trip with a young Maya Angelou, collaborating with their Jewish managers (resulting in what he lovingly calls "Gaelic Schmaltz").

In recent years, we have seen Irish music projects that are nominally cultural fusions—e.g., Shanachie and his many imitators, Sharon Shannon's Out the Gap album—but what these really betray in the end is a parochial presumption that African American music is simply shouting rhymes over an obnoxious rhythm track, or that changing the kick drum's 1-3 to 2-4 is how you "make" reggae.

The kind of cross-pollinization—not to mention the unencumbered patronage—that gave the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem not only their power but their staying power is absent from today's mainstream Irish music, and conspicuously so. Irish music has become incestuously "of the Irish, by the Irish, and for the Irish," and while many talk the "anti-green-beer" talk, few walk the walk, because scorning the man in the "Tis Himself" tee-shirt also means refusing the money in his kelly-green trousers. Even LiamClancy.com includes a link to the Milwaukee Irish Festival, whose home page features a cartoon leprechaun.

Still, wherever Irish music should end up, The Mountain of the Women will have a place as an indispensable resource for any enthusiast or participant in Irish and Irish-American culture, whether as a blueprint for meaningful artistic success or as a unique tribute to what might have been.

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