2/11/09 1:46pm Belfast, Northern Ireland
It's day two of the 'Priest Feast' tour (Judas Preist/Megadeth/Testament). Last night in Dublin was ok, good crowd, rough gig. Barely any soundcheck, hard to hear ourselves onstage. All the crew guys were pretty stressed out. There's a lot of bugs to be worked out for all three bands, normal first day stuff that everyone goes through. Sometimes you get lucky and have a smooth first day, but that's rare. In situations like this you just have to roll with it and do your best, even if you can't hear a thing you're playing. At least it seemed good for the audience. More important that they have a good show and if they do, then things aren't so bad. Either way, day one is over and it's on to day two.
I cannot believe that I'm in Northern Ireland. Although I miss my friends, my neighborhood and my apartment in New York, I am thrilled to be out in the world, experiencing life outside our tiny little comfort zone of the USA. Sure, the US may be large geographically, but historically, we are like a tiny little child, especially compared to lands like Ireland. This is especially true when one thinks about how rare it is for the majority of the population to leave the US and view the world from outside our borders. We're not encouraged to do so. I feel very fortunate to be in a position that involves a lot of travel (much as I may whine about flight delays sometimes). Either you're lucky and have an occupation which involves travel, like mine, or you have to be very motivated and financially secure enough to do so. I only wish I had more time in these places I visit, instead of the typical duration of one day. But one day is what I have so I'm going to make the most of it.
While most of the others on the bus are asleep, I get out early, check out the surroundings and soak it all in. It's about 10am and my body thinks it's 5am, the time back in New York. The snowcapped mountains in the distance add to the windy chill in the air and the first thing I notice is that we're parked next to the water. I walk along the dock and a sign informs me that the area we're in is known as 'Titanic Quarter.' It turns out that this is an abandoned shipyard, formerly known as 'Queen's Island,' given its new name in the mid 90's as part of a peace initiative and slated for future development. The arena we're playing, the Odyssey Arena is fairly new, one of the first features of the newly named Titanic Quarter.
Of course, it is named after the most famous ship built there, one that would inspire an overrated Hollywood film almost a hundred years later. The exact spot where the Titanic was built is not too far off in the distance. I'm glad to be experiencing this while it still has the desolate feeling of an abandoned shipyard. In a few years, this place will be a mecca of gift shops, luxury condos and restaurants, similar to Sydney Harbour in Australia or Pier 39 in San Francisco. I admit having enjoyed these areas which have somehow avoided much of the cheap tourist feel that has destroyed places like Fisherman's Wharf in SF or Times Square in Manhattan (I and most of my friends avoid these areas like the flu). Still, I often wonder what they'd be like with a bit less tourism and more authenticity of the original sites. Maybe they'll pull it off here and capture some of the classic Irish shipyard feel in Titanic Quarter. That would be cool.
A short distance away, two giant cranes, nicknamed Samson and Goliath, silently watch over a city that until recent years, has been anything but silent. These cranes were put up in the 60's by Harlan And Wolf, the same company that built the Titanic and give the Belfast skyline its character. As I walk along the road past Samson And Goliath, I let it take me wherever it goes.
Soon, I cross an overpass into a neighborhood with a lot of character. It looks very working class and tough but has a sense of integrity. Spray painted messages and murals are everywhere. Images of fists, crests and cryptic messages abound, but unlike graffiti like in places like the inner cities of the US, these messages seem very organized, thought out and well placed. There are reminders of the violence that plagued the region for several decades, commonly referred to as 'The Troubles.'
One of the murals is a museum quality work, with the image of a man in a suit and tie, an image of a lion, mountains a sword and the name 'Narnia' in deep red lettering. I'm pretty convinced this is code for some fallen hero from the neighborhood who died in battle. Later, I'll feel silly when, after doing some research, I realize that the image in the mural is a portrait of C.S. Lewis, the author of 'The Chronicles Of Narnia,' (which I admittedly haven't read- another book to add to my list) and this is where he's from although he spent most of his life in England.
Eventually I find a small downtown area with a few shops. I find a bank, the Ulster Bank, and see a line for the ATM and decide to get cash. I'm given twenty pounds of Northern Irish currency. I find out that this is good only in Northern Ireland though they will also accept English money as well (outside Northern Ireland, you have to get these notes exchanged). I settle down at a cafe and order two poached eggs, toast, grilled mushroom and stewed tomato, which I commonly think of as an English Breakfast. But I don't dare call it that here. I know better. My mind harkens back to the first time I was here...
August 1987 Belfast, Northern Ireland.
We're opening for Anthrax, and we're a few shows into the tour. Last year at this time, I was approaching my senior year of high school. This year I'm on tour playing this music known as speed metal. My parents were sure I'd be in college now. I'm glad not to be home.
Tonight's show is at a place that functions as a gymnasium during the day, and it's packed with people. Most of the other guys in my band decided to pass on a shower, because the showers are communal, not private. In fact there is a crowd of a dozen or more naked Irishmen in there joking, whistling, talking. Everyone is carrying on like they're at a common lunch table, just as comfortable naked as they are clothed. I really want a shower and decide to join the crowd, thinking to myself, "When in Northern Ireland...". My shower is fine and no one makes me feel odd, even though my hair is halfway down my back and they all look 'normal'by comparison. Everyone is comfortable and it's no big deal. Suddenly it seems weirder that so many guys I know from the US, not just the ones I'm on tour with, have hang ups about nudity.
After the shower, I find out we still can't sound check because there was a bomb threat at the venue. The entire place has been evacuated. It's going to take a couple hours at least for an investigation. In the meantime, one of the promoters has offered to take a us to try the best pint of Guiness we've ever had. It's all the way across town, and we have to be driven with an armed escort.
"I'm not going" says Louie.
"Me neither" says Greg.
"Yeah, fuck that." says Eric.
Chuck says "I'll go. You wanna go Al?"
"Sure" I answer. What the hell. I'm up for a little adventure and haven't seen any of Belfast beyond this gymnasium. I'm curious. Somehow I get the feeling that the guy driving us knows what he's doing and feel safe. Hopefully I'm right.
A few minutes later, we're heading across town in a camouflage colored jeep. It's Chuck, myself and our driver (whose name I don't remember). The first thing I notice is the old buildings, many of which look condemned. Cars are overturned left and right. Indecipherable graffiti is spray painted on the cars and the buildings. I'm hanging on to the dashboard to keep from bouncing. Although it's quiet at the moment, there is no question about our surroundings. We are in a war zone.
Before he was my singer, I used to hear about Chuck Billy, and how he was part of a sort of 'suburban gang' known as the Dublin Death Patrol (that's Dublin, Ca. on the outskirts of the San Francisco Bay Area, not Dublin, Ireland). The DDP used to go to parties and local gigs, get into fights and strike fear into the hearts of us mortals, who would hear the stories as they circulated across the Bay Area. But now, as Chuck and I are being driven through the trenches of war torn Northern Ireland, we're both out of our league and he's as helpless as I am. Our driver is the 'tough' guy now, and he's small potatoes compared to the guys we're about to meet.
"Win ya goh inside" our driver says. "Doon't talk to 'em unless they talk to ya first. And if ya do talk to 'em, whateveh ya do don't say yer English. And fer fuck's sake, don't ever say yer Protestent.'
"How come?" asks Chuck.
"Cause they'll kill ya."
"We're both from the US. He's Native American. I'm Jewish." I say.
"You'll be just fine then, won't ya?"
I'm not sure whether to be comforted or not. How can hatred can run so deep among people from the same land? At the same time, there are so many places where I can be hated just for having Jewish heritage and it's not even an issue here. Weird.
We pull over and there surrounded by ruble, is a tiny shack, with barely enough room for six people. There are two barstools inside and one tap on the other side. Behind the bar are two men who resemble off duty soldiers, with their strong builds, tatoos and their short haircuts. Both maintain cold expressions and eyes which have seen the unthinkable. Each one gives us a cautious, tentative nod, looking each of us straight in the eye, never looking away. We nod back. The driver throws some money on the counter and one of the bar guys proceeds to pour a black liquid into a pint glass, pausing half way, then pouring the rest. He does the same with the second pint glass.
We sit on the stools, do a timid toast and proceed to take sips of our beverages. With it's light texture, extreme freshness and creaminess, the beverage is as far from the Guiness I've tasted in the US as we are from our country geographically. As promised, it is the finest cup of Guiness we've ever had. "Ello there! Would ya like anything else?" It's a friendly female voice. My waitress. I'm back in 2009.
Irish breakfast is finished. I pay the check and walk back towards the venue. Soon I will be back in my routine and it will be a like many other shows.
I have so much humility and respect for this land and the situation it has had to overcome. I don't attempt to understand what the people here have gone through and offer no opinions or . It is not my place. All I know is that it feels peaceful now, and that says a lot given the glimpse of scenery I witnessed back in 1987.
Back then, I would never attempt a walk through a neighborhood here alone, or for that matter with anyone else. While the paintings of fists and crests are reminders of what has taken place, there is a sense of progress, of moving forward, of letting go. Indeed, it feels that if peace is possible here, it can be possible anywhere.
