An Outburst of Pure Irish Passion

There’s a guy in Ireland who bought my book, Be a Street Magician, a few years ago. He gladly paid the extra postage and ordered a couple other tricks, as well, the bill exceeding $100. He was trying to get the nerve to go out on the street and perform magic, which is a kind of dragon that some of us have to slay. But Jack wanted to read up on dragon slaying before he went out to fell the beast.

“After reading your book, I strapped on a set of balls and just did it,” Jack told me.

He didn’t just do it, he’s won awards for it.  It’s gratifying to know that you inspire people to be bold.

Later, when I looked at his YouTube video, I was mightily impressed.

This guy has talent, I thought.

This year, I finally traveled to Ireland, and when I met Jack Wise, I put a face on a reader. He was a muscular fellow with the kind of face women love, but with one Achilles heel: He loves magic. I would’ve hated him if not for that one fatal flaw.

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Brian Daly (L) and Jack Wise (R) in Murray’s before the lecture.

We were sitting in Murray’s, a traditional Irish pub, having dinner and a pint, and one by one, the Irish magicians wandered in.

Brian Daly, a working pro who is an officer in the Society of Irish Magicians, and who is terribly witty in front of an audience.

Gary Michaels, who had just come from working the streets, where he shocks people for a living.

Gary had the look of someone who doesn’t need to prove himself.

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Gary being Yiked.

Steve Thompson, who is a brilliant inventor of magic tricks, such as Glance.

In fact, Steve invented something astonishing just while we were sitting around chatting.  Steve’s mates were joking about not wanting to hug him when they saw him, and I took the joke a step further.

“I don’t want to hug, but could we just cuddle?” I asked.

It was an excellent joke and everyone laughed heartily, but truth be told, it remained a wall between us for the next hour. It’s a guy thing.

Later, we all crossed over to Cassidy’s Hotel, the lovely Irish establishment where I would be lecturing to the society at 8 pm, and had another pint. They all wanted to see some magic, but nobody wanted to ask. So I just stood up and launched into a trick called Torn and Restored Transposition, a trick that was invented by a wacky Ohio magician named David Williamson. The trick kicks magicians’ asses, not just because the individual sleights are tough, but also because the sleights have a rhythm that is extremely difficult to master.

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Ah, rhythm. When it comes to rhythm, I’ve always had an ear for it, whether it be musical or magical. I love the Irish rhythm of Luke Kelly and Van Morrison and the Chieftains and U2. I was always astonished that someone like Van the Man, who has such a horrific voice, could entrance me with such incredible rhythm, melody, and musicality. The Irish, it seems, are in touch with everything that makes you tap your toe, because sometimes, that’s all the downtrodden have, is some weird beat that the privileged could never imagine because, well, they have everything.

In the case of my magic trick, the rhythm was BAM SWISH RIP BEAT SWISH TURN APPLAUSE SWISH CLENCH OPEN SWISH BAM. It’s a tough one to tap your toe to, I must confess.

After I performed the trick, there was a kind of silence.  Of course, silences mean different things to different audiences. In time, it became clear that this fine Irish silence didn’t mean Meh, but instead, Wow. Later, Jack tried to explain the silence to us, talking about how Irish audiences differ from American audiences. He discovered the difference while performing at busking festivals in Canada, which he does every year.

“You invite an Irishman up onstage and you say hello, and he says hello wit’ his head down, like, ‘Uh….’” Jack said. “But you invite an American or a Canadian up and say hello, and he’s like, ‘Hey, how ya doin’?’ And we Irish t’ink, like ‘What?!’ We can’t understand tat reaction. It’s da result of 800 years of oppression.”

Everybody was laughing about that one, but when the laughing was over, the truth of it remained at the bottom of the glass.

While Claire, my mother, and I were in Ireland, we picked up a boatload of phrases. You tell people that you went into town to see the Irish dancing, and an American would say, Great. But the Irishman takes it one important step further.

Grand, he says.

But it’s not just grand, it’s grawnd, in such a friendly, open accent that makes you feel like a million euro!

Language can unlock a people. For example, whenever they say a word that contains a th, they pronounce it as if the h were a traitor to the Irish cause for freedom, that the h has to be kicked out of the country to connect themselves back to the ancient Celts, which gives rise to such strange sentences as:

Ta ting is, I can’t tank you enough, Teodore, for being so totful wit me tirteen kids.

I had prepared for this trip. Before getting on the plane, I bought a 400-page history of Ireland called The Story of Ireland, the reading of which consumed my evenings and weekends before the trip. One of the tings I learned: By all rights, there should be two-tirds as many people living in Ireland as there are living in England, given the size of the land mass. Strangely, though, Ireland has only 5% as many. The reason, put quite bluntly, is a centuries-long policy of murder and expulsion.

There, I’ve said it.

During the seven years of the potato famine alone (1845 – 1852), approximately 1 million souls died of starvation, which, by the way, is a horrific way to die. Another million emigrated, many of them to America. One may assume that the Irish were responsible for their own famine deaths, but they weren’t. Since the English had centuries earlier made it illegal for the Irish to own land in their own country, or serve in their own legislative bodies, or even benefit from laws outlawing murder, theft, and fraud, there evolved a kind of well-enforced poverty.

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I’m not saying that Americans were any better. We were toying with our own minorities at the time, which included the Africans, the Mexicans, the Chinese, the Jews, the Catholics, the Italians, and yes, the Irish. It was what you did in those days. You slapped weak people around. You shot them. You killed them.  You stomped on their graves.

So when the potato blight arrived (the microscopic fungus that invaded the Emerald Isle and destroyed potato crops wholesale), the poverty-stricken Irish were already on the verge of starving. The Phytophthora infestans simply pushed them over the edge. On top of that, the British government refused to offer adequate help, and crime and other unrest skyrocketed. Carts filled with wheat and oats were looted on their way to market. The Irish countryside descended into chaos. Families huddled in their squalid homes, hungry and desperate, many of them dying there. Starvation ravaged immune systems and a typhus epidemic raged. Villages became ghost towns and every town seemed to have its own mass grave.

The Times of London complained that the Irish were exaggerating, declaring that “it is the old thing, the old malady breaking out. It is the national character, the national thoughtlessness, the national indolence.”

It’s no wonder, then, that the Irish are known for their drinking and brawling. My own Mexican grandfather, who was a mariachi singer in La Ciudad de Los Angeles in the 1930s and ‘40s, could never catch a break from the gavachos who ran the system, and consequently turned to drinking and fighting. His children grew up in domestic chaos, and as a result, I feel the effects of that desperation even now, two generations later.

Mariachi promo pic 1Drinking and fighting. While traveling through Ireland, I took photos of both. The first was outside a pub in Drogheda, a half-hour’s drive north of Dublin, where we caught a staggering, drunken man trying to light a fag.

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The second was in the Dublin Airport, where we were waiting for our flight to Heathrow. There, we saw a man who was trying to blend into the vinyl airport furniture, but who had obviously been in a recent fight.

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I can sympathize with fighters. They refuse to lay down.

God invented whiskey, the saying goes, so that the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.

Finally, at 8 pm, I stood in front of the Society of Irish Magicians and started my lecture. In the room was lots of expensive wood and chandeliers, and the audience was of a healthy size. I was enjoying it, imparting my deep, dark secrets to a group of fellow deceivers, and I could feel them enjoying it, too.

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Then I launched into my climactic piece of magic, The Silence of the Lemons, which involves me raising my voice and haranguing the audience like a Southern preacher.  In their view, I was coming alive, and I could feel them come alive, too. One fine magician named Gary couldn’t stop laughing when I started tearing his 5-euro note, and that expostulation of laughter gave me such joy that I can’t describe. Afterwards, Silence is the trick they couldn’t stop talking about.

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On the left in this photo is Gary, who couldn’t stop laughing when I tore his 5-euro note.

“You can tell that you’ve performed that trick thousands of times,” Jack said. “It’s like you could just turn it on for that trick.”

But I think they were drawn to the trick for other reasons, too. It’s essentially an outburst of pure passion, and the Irish love passion.  It’s what they live for.  The music of Luke Kelly is such an outburst. So is the poetry of James Stephens. So is the drinking of James Joyce, which is the stuff of legend. Many an evening in Dublin, so they say, Joyce ended the night in a passionate embrace of the pub floor.

I may not be terribly religious, but Joyce, now there’s a god to worship. Sacred be his nouns and hallowed be his verbs. Drinking and freedom are intertwined in his pages like vines crawling up the brick walls of Trinity College Dublin. Joyce drank with his countrymen and woke up with the same hangovers. His heart broke when he heard about the deaths at the GPO in 1916 and he mended it in the best way he could. Sometimes, his heart could not be mended. And when Joyce wrote, he remembered it all, he was honest about it all, and it all bled out of that fabulous pen like green Celtic blood.

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“It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow.” (from “A Painful Case,” in Dubliners)

True enough, Messr. Joyce, sorrow is everywhere, it’s general, it’s the human condition.  Still, the only sorrow that I feel from my bond with the Society of Irish Magicians was the sorrow of leaving. They were all such a joy, even the old white-haired mage who challenged one of my sleights for being overcomplex, God bless him, even the skinny 11-year-old who looked so forlorn and friendless that his mother brought him to a magic meeting to connect with some kind of something, God bless him, and especially the tall young master magician named Andy who earnestly promised to get me onto cruise ships, God bless him especially, God bless every single minute of his life, that I cannot adequately put it all into words.

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Therefore, I will end not with a cuddle, nor with a thrown punch, nor with an embrace of the pub floor, but with a fine Irish toast.

May you never lie, steal, cheat or drink.
But if you must lie, lie in each other’s arms.
If you must steal, steal kisses.
If you must cheat, cheat death.
And if you must drink, drink with us, your brothers in magic.

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A Vulture Circling for Meaning

In our first morning in Dublin, I was looking for an authentically Gaelic experience, something filled with mystery, ambiguity, and the type of contradictions that implode upon contact. I was envisioning the inner meaning of the Celtic cross or a Luke Kelly song belted out with elan from the lungs of an overearnest busker on O’Connell Street.

The previous evening, upon arriving at the flat, I had been looking out at the Irish Sea from our balcony in Blackrock. That was a mysterious moment. The mystery was how it was possible to make such a knockout sky.

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The next morning in the flat, while researching Dublin churches on the Internet, my mouth was filled with the bitter aftertaste of the Guinness I had drunken the night before. That Guinness had been a communion of sorts. So was the view of the Irish Sea. Church, the Catholic sort with statues, golden icons, and stained glass, would be my third.

It wasn’t just mystery, but history, as well, that I yearned for.

History as in the Viking ships that had begun arriving by 795 AD to plunder the rich monasteries and Gaelic races who lived here, pale-faced men who wore long beards and animal skins. At one point, 65 Viking ships sailed up the River Liffey, which today forms Dublin’s spine. It must have been a stunning sight.

History as in the Maretimo Mansion that was owned by the wealthy wool merchant Valentine Lawless, Second Baron Cloncury. My mother, my girlfriend, and I were staying on those very grounds. In 1798, Lawless participated in the 1798 Irish rebellion, which sought freedom from the English crown, but resulted in many Irish deaths. Still, it forced the Brits’ hand, and in 1800, Ireland was turned from merely a possession to an actual part of Great Britain, with at least token representation in Parliament.

Baron Cloncury’s Maretimo House sat on Blackrock Beach and had a fabulous view. By 1970, however, it had fallen into disrepair and was torn down and rebuilt as the Maretimo House flats, which I was currently occupying.

But today, my pursuit of the mysterious was focused on Guardian Angels Catholic Church, which started at 9 am with Gaelic services, and then at “half ten,” as the Irish lad on the street phrased 10:30 in his charming lilt, we walked down the street and entered the centuries-old sanctuary. There was iconography on the walls and the priest was telling an edifying story.

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“I was helping out at a rural church,” he said, “and I overheard a congregant confess doubts about his relationship with the true Christ because he had never had any feeling of closeness with Christ or God or anybody.”

My mouth was still filled with the Guinness aftertaste, and I strained to listen through the priest’s thick Irish brogue echoing in the high-ceilinged church.

“…And later,” he continued, “I gave communion, and as I came to the doubting man, a kind of Thomas, really, he had his arms crossed in front of his chest, which in Britain means that the man would like a prayer said for him. And so I raised my hand and said, ‘Lord God almighty, I pray that you might show this man the true width and depth and breadth of God’s Face, and that he might know all of what it is to know You, my Lord.’

“A day later, as I was walking about the town, I saw that selfsame man walking down the street, and he was crying as he was walking. And it made me sad because of the depth of his despair. But the man with whom I was walking said, ‘No, father, he isn’t crying from despair, he’s crying because he has suddenly felt close to God.’

“And so I found the man, and sure enough, he told me, ‘I’ve been crying on and off over these past 24 hours, because for the past 40 years, I’ve never felt close to God, but suddenly, after confessing my despair, I’ve been crying from joy because I suddenly feel him in my heart after all these years.”

I’m not religious, but as I sat there in my pew in the back of the church, what came to me were impressions, feelings, and thoughts, nothing so neatly pieced together into neat story form like the pastor’s tale. In the pews at the left, a 3-year-old child was yelling intermittently, the echo going up to the spired ceiling. Nearer, I saw a 4-foot-tall statue of the Virgin Mother, several rows of electric candles in front of her.

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To our left, I spied a wooden sculpture named “The First Fall,” a carving of a Roman soldier flogging Christ as he carried the Cross towards Gethsemane, and I thought, I’ve felt that whip. In front of me were the backs of congregants, many of them silver-haired, many wearing casual thick cloth coats with hoods, and it was a reminder that in Ireland, bad weather is always expected. In my mouth, the Guinness was still lingering unpleasantly.

I suppose I was looking for a narrative. I was a vulture circling for a story, watching a priest who was also circling, but he, for souls.

At the end of the service, everyone stood up and filed out the huge front doors. I left the church somewhat disappointed, I must admit, because I had had a magical experience that was not a real magical experience. It was like a man watching a television show of his own life as it was happening, all self-consciousness. Outside, we were greeted by some rare Dublin sun. The congregants were milling around, chatting.

And that’s when I saw the three young boys dressed in rugby clothes, aged 5, 6, and 7. I immediately brightened. I approached them and talked about the big game of the night before, in which Leinster, the Dublin team, had triumphed over Glasgow to claim the Celtic League trophy.

“Are you rugby fans?” I asked.

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“Sure we are,” he said. “Their uncle plays for the Manchester team,” he said.

I looked at the children with fondness.

“Would the children like to see a magic trick?” I said instinctively, because it’s always my first play.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

And so I pulled a coin out of a child’s ear. And then I pulled one out of each of the others’ ears, too. And then I performed a sophisticated routine that even decked the father. But I didn’t want to push it too far, because magic and religion are an uneasy mix, so I pulled myself away and we began walking home past 16th-century walls and hoodlum graffiti. And as we did, I mused that I had, after all, had my magical experience. It was the children’s smiles as they watched the magic. There’s nothing more magical than a child’s smile. And when I think back on that moment, I don’t remember the bitter taste in my mouth or the cynicism in my heart. That moment is pure, clear, and holy.