Last Apollo - Sean's Bar, Athlone - 18-04-26 – A Tough Act to Follow

Sean’s Bar in Athlone is the oldest pub in Ireland, dating back to a bewildering 900 AD. To emphasise this, there is a sparse scattering of wood shavings on the floor which seems to have a simultaneously apposite and opposite effect. Never mind, the place is replete with customers, from the blue rinse lady with the incongruous glass of white wine to the trendy beard folk with their compact pints of Guinness. The bar staff are totally on point and that’s what really counts. They’re got your order before you quite know what it is and are already cueing up the person behind you.

Behind the intimate huddle of the front bar, as is sometimes the case, there lies a rather cavernous space which half feels inside and half feels outside. There’s an upstairs bit that’s out of bounds and a stage and lots of stools and timber surfaces on which to rest a drink.

Into this arena, as part of the Croílár Music and Arts Festival, comes Last Apollo and her band. Lucy Rice is Last Apollo in much the same way as Ciara Mary-Alice Thompson is CMAT. The stage name gives her breathing space to evolve from the lovely human she is, to the questing artist that takes the stage. Along with all the bagged-up musical gear the band bring, there is also a bagged up supply of hamburgers and chips from the local establishment. Some of these will be rapidly consumed before the impending show, some saved up for after when a drop in adrenaline will hopefully ease digestion.

The cavernous space is three-quarters full as the band set up. The two longest tables are occupied by a) a bunch of old pals who haven’t seen each other in a while and b) a hen party, thankfully devoid of fake nurse’s uniforms but replete with home made cupcakes. These two tables contribute much to high ambient pre match melee.

The band are ready and into the early Saturday evening audience bustle steps Last Apollo, Lucy Rice left temporarily languishing out in the car park. A single vocal note is released into the room, then another, then another. The friends who haven’t seen each other in a while are fairly instantly conquered. Vape dribbles ineffectually from the corners of their surprised mouths as these notes from the stage fly out and explore the room. This was not the start one might have expected from the lively looking foursome on the stage, all armed with lead guitars, bass guitars, violin, synths, and drums.

The hen party are tougher to conquer. Clearly excited at the prospect of fresh cupcakes and marital congress to come, they continue to produce a noise that may explain why a hen party is so called. But isn’t this part of the essence of a real live pub gig? It’s not a concert hall; it’s not a convent. The band is owed nothing unless they can earn it.

By song three, the hen party is also won over. The cupcakes lie ignored. Last Apollo songs tend to build and build and build. And you may be able to roar about vows and contraception for the first part of a song, if you so desire, but the conversation will not survive when the dirty foursome on stage ultimately hit their stride.

Last Apollo’s voice weaves and spins in a most extraordinary way, the music carrying a depth of emotion that is often far beyond the performative. Naoise is a consummate guitarist and he unobtrusively maintains complex and engaging structures on his side of the stage. On the other side, Kate works her violin magic. Kate could hold her own in any concert orchestra in the world but here she is not above occasionally dragging some nasty riff from her instrument, reminding ourselves that this is no mere pub band, really. Serious work is being done here. Sam plays the drums like they have owed him money for far too long. One moment, cajoling subtle rhythms with one ear almost down on the skins, the next pounding the living shit out the poor kit. Hair, hands, and sticks flying every which way.

Instruments swap around like snuff at a wake. Kate takes up Lucy’s bass, Lucy takes up Kate’s violin (actually, it’s probably her own). Naoise has a violin too. Sam has some piece of technical gear on his tom that he manipulates like a ham radio operator trying to bring in Hungary.

Half way through the gig and the place is full and fully appreciating the set. The folk in the beer garden at the back and the 900AD pub at the front have all percolated in, although the blue rinse lady with the wine does not materialise. Nods of appreciation from the music heads circle the room as the songs build and explode into the space. Lucy comes in from the car park and occupies Last Apollo for a moment and it’s plain to see how touched she is by a room that has momentarily put aside all their other concerns and given themselves over to her music.

The band, as a whole, smile broadly throughout and interact warmly with each other. They have been friends for many years, through thick and thin, and the evident love and camaraderie adds warmth and spice to the music. Last Apollo’s online videos often feature shots of travelling the roads, countryside, the wide green spaces between gigs. One feels that the getting there and getting back is a crucial part of the story she tells. The bohemian life out on the road, the hauling, and the setting up. It all feeds into the art. It all means something.

The set ends with a heartfelt ‘thank you’ and promise of a summer album to come. Last Apollo spent February completing a national tour in support of Imelda May and, in those 22 gigs, she played many of the most auspicious venues in Ireland. It seemed like a lovely upward rung on a ladder of sorts. One hopes that the next rung is right there at her feet now. A rung that allows an ever increasing number of people to see and appreciate the quality of the music that is being made here. One hopes and expects.

Gig over and the band get their gear back into bed and make way for the next act. The sack of burgers are re-found. Cold and a little congealed, they have probably never tasted better.

As the next band set up, the sound system strikes up a Fontaines DC song and a young man behind me nurses his drink and sings along with his friends in a warm voice. I say to him jokingly that he should be up there on the stage. Two pints in, he stares longingly at the microphone, considers the notion for a moment, then sadly shakes his head.”

“On another day, maybe,” he says, “but that lot? They’re a tough act to follow.

Don't Drive at Me

I’ve had eighteen years of writing this blog. Gosh. I had to go and check that. Yup. Kicked it off in 2008, or last week as it’s otherwise known. It’s indicative of something, I suppose, that I started doing this back when lots of people were doing it and I’m still doing it after practically everyone else has stopped. I think it demonstrates how I’m not very good at letting things go. Old shoes, books, blogs. If I’ve got something I tend to hold on to it.

None of which has much of anything to do with this week’s post. If there is any relevance in that first paragraph it is probably this; After eighteen years of (more-or-less) weekly posts, it becomes quite easy to categorise the entries into quite a small list of subjects. I tend to wander around in the same circles I have always wandered around. A list of recurring themes for the 900 or so posts on here might include ‘Stupid Things I do', Trying to Write’, ‘Memories of Childhood’, ‘Movies’ or, in latter years ‘The Cat’ or, in latter months, ‘The ‘Thing.''

Another of these regularly revisited categories would certainly be ‘The Poor Quality of Driving in the World.’ I seem to have come back to this time and time again, usually with some instance of less-than-optimal interaction out there on the road, each time with a slightly different complaint. I’m aware that it’s one of the less engaging themes I pursue but you type where your heart takes you with this type of endeavour and I am often taken there, out onto the road, the footpath, the pedestrian crossing.

I think the reason I often swerve back to this subject is potentially interesting. It’s almost a ‘split personality’ kind of a thing. When I’m on foot, observing the ways of the everyday motorist, I maintain a stoic, frequently troubled aspect. But, when I’m behind the wheel myself, I can sometimes step back and see myself as the kind of prick who would piss me off if I was standing on the pavement watching me go by. Does that even make sense? Split personality stuff is tricky at the best of times.

Which takes us, rather convolutedly, to this week’s subject matter, which can be summed up neatly by the title of the piece. Don’t drive at me.

I think this is a relatively new thing. Or maybe I just started to notice it when my ambulatory skills became a little compromised in recent months. No, we won’t talk about the ‘thing’ again except to say that I may not be able to get out of the way of oncoming traffic as nimbly as I used to. Perhaps that’s why this behaviour is now on my radar where it rarely seemed to be before.

What is it, is this:

At a pedestrian light, or a zebra crossing, or, lord help us, a courtesy crossing, cars will stop and I will cross. Sometimes the driver will wave me across impatiently as if I am some waif who has been permitted into their sitting room to light the fire. “Get it done and begone as quickly as possible, fool!” Man, that pisses me off. The implication is that the driver’s time is more important than mine because, to quote David Byrne, they’re behind the wheel of an automobile. While, to quote Richard Pryor, the only thing I’m pushing is my Hush Puppies. ‘Verily, fuck you,’ I say to myself as I amble across in front of the belligerently gesticulating hand of the driver.

This relates to my current problem. It’s perhaps a second cousin to it. But it isn’t it.

What it really is, is this:

Cars stop and I amble across. Then, when I’m about half way over the road, and when I’m often right in front of the waiting car, said car starts to ease forward. Gently, gently, rolling towards me, encouraging me on, and almost brushing my declining butt as I pass beyond the fender of the car.

I don’t like this. That’s the point of this week’s blog post. I don’t like that shit one little bit.

Granted, my example is an extreme occurrence. Not every car brushes me as I get past them. But this gentle rolling towards me as I cross, that is a very real and a very regular thing now. “I’ll let you over,” the driver seems to be saying to themselves, “but I’m going to give you the absolute minimum time to do it. I’ll roll towards you a bit, as you walk, where’s the harm in that? Eh? Eh?”

Where’s the fucking harm? You tow rag, you asshole. I’ll tell you where the fucking harm is.

You are pinning my life, or at least my continued wellbeing, on your clutch control.

Here you are, easing towards me, letting your clutch pedal out gently. Coming at me but under such wonderful control. Supposing your foot slips or your control slips? You are a millimetre from leaping your horrible little motor forward and hitting me, rolling gently towards me as you are. And for what? Where are you going with such sacred urgency that you can’t just sit and let me cross the goddamned road without spaffing your need to get on all over my day.

It annoys me. Can you tell?

Don’t be rolling forward gently at the poor soul crossing the road in front of you. You’re not in that big a rush and, frankly, you’re not that good a driver. Sit there like a good person and let me get over the road. Then on you go.

I sometimes think that if those public service driving adverts had a little more swearing in them, they might have more impact.

I’m here if you need some input on that.

Puddy Has Not Been Up to All Sorts, Really

At the end of last week’s blog post I intimated that our cat, Puddy, has been up to all sorts of stuff. This was a bit disingenuous because, as the title suggests, Puddy hasn’t been up to all that much remarkable stuff really.

Sorry for misleading you.

To explain, I was just concluding a series of posts about an illness I’m busy getting over. Enough said. At the end of the last post (blows trumpet) I said I’d give you a break from the illness updates and threw in how Puddy, “... had been up to all sorts and you needed to be told.”

Here’s a couple of reasons for this patent untruth.

Firstly, quite a few people seem to like the posts about the cat. I suppose they show a rare human side to me. Also, in fairness, Puddy has provided me with some darned good stories. Not least how she died, was retrieved, stiff and cold, from the roadside, placed in the coal bunker on a purple blanket and then came back to life (sort of). You can get that story by clicking here if you want to. It’s got a bit of an Easter vibe about it, now that I think of it.

Secondly, it’s like the ending of Back to the Future. In that finale, Doc comes back from the future, all geared up in spacy gear, in his funked-up flying DeLorean. “It’s your kids,” Doc pants, “Something must be done about your kids.” It’s a line that sets up the whole new adventure to come, a future world of possibilities. So, yes, I did the same with the cat. The second Back to the Future was a load of old cobblers and so is today’s post. But the hook? The hook was good, man.

So, accepting that there are no amazing tales to tell, what of Puddy? How fares she?

At the moment, she’s sleeping soundly in the front hall in her basket with one of those heating pad things under her, even though it’s not all that cold. These days, she spends as much time in the house as she likes. She generally spends most of her indoors time sleeping but, when she’s awake, she likes to be out in the neighbourhood, arguing with the other cats and haranguing the local wildlife. When not asleep and indoors, she watches telly, studies the fire, rolls around, and stretches out and chases treats across the room with a scary intensity.

We kind of thought she would become a more tactile cat as the years progressed and maybe that will still happen. But I wouldn’t bet on it. Puddy is a detached cat in almost all respects. She shows involvement by the aforementioned rolling around, occasional rubbing against calves at mealtimes, and a very rare low volume meow when something important needs to be imparted. But she does not welcome touch or fusses or any kind of direct human contact. With one notable exception, Patricia. Patricia is, of course, my lovely wife. Puddy permits gentle head fussing from Trish and certainly seems to enjoy and welcome it. Anyone else had better approach her at their peril.

Puddy… well she’s a cat, isn’t she? We never had one before so everything she does is like the first time any cat in the world did anything of the sort. Which we know is not true but still sometimes it seems so. When she licks her paw and repeatedly washes her face with it, that’s the greatest thing ever. That and a hundred other stupid little things. She also manages to do exactly what you don’t want her to do at the exact time you least want her to do it.

I just looked back over blog posts and it’s five years this weekend since Puddy had her litter in our garage. That was the moment it all began for Trish and the Cat and me. It’s been a silly, infuriating, and lovely time and one senses the cat could have taken or left it all without too much anxiety either way. Still she’s been well cared-for and that will continue to be the case for as long as we have her.

So, there you go, nothing new on the Puddy front. I got you here on false pretences. Sorry about that. 

Except… wait… maybe there is one tiny thing.

The most relevant new development in the Puddy saga? Did you notice it? It came right back there in the very first line of this post. Puddy is no longer the semi-feral cat who strayed into our garage and had kittens. No longer the errant street cat who pissed in my car when I accidentally left the door open.

No. Puddy is our cat now