Where's the Good Craic?

After a month of working longer hours than I had originally bargained for, I found myself both mentally and physically drained. I was disappointed in the direction I was headed and more or less was stuck in a rut. So, I sought refuge in the one thing I knew would always be there; music. I took some time out of my busy work schedule in the hopes of slowing things down a notch or two and drove to Waterford City for a show that would change everything.

Damien Dempsey is a man described by many words. This soul bearing, heart breaking, sweat loving, intimidating bear of a man snapped me out of whatever it was I was lost in and brought me back to the land of the living. Damien entered the stage with valour; chin stretched to the sky, guitar held like a shield infront of his body, and with a blanket of confidence wrapped securely around his shoulders. He not only believed in himself, but in what he was preaching as well. With beads of sweat breaking across his face and a thick vein pulsating in his neck, Damien began his ode to the blue collars of Co. Waterford.

From the heart of a Dublin raised artist, lyrics like "Time, it goes by so fast. Living every day like it was my last," and "Go west, don't go east. A famine or a feast, we're treated better there" shoot straight and true. He sang with as much conviction and honesty as music was meant to have. Damien loyalists belted out each verse, swayed from side to side, and became comrads in the search for something good.

Music is about raw emotion and truth. It breaks us down to our core, stripping away all the nonsense we ourselves create. It has the power to save lives, to redirect misguided souls to the path of righteousness, and to instill hope when the last straw has long since been thrown out to the dogs. Being apart of that night unhinged a few locked doors for me. I had forgotten how to believe in the simplicity of things. I had forgotten how easy it is to be the person and live the life I knew I deserved. I had forgotten the power of music and how one verse, one hook can stick with you through that rough patch, how even the softest tune can carry you from complete solitude to that room within yourself filled with everything you've been too scared to let go. And that night, well I went home humming a tune I couldn't quite put my finger on while worrying about nothing in particular.

Ireland vs. Norway

The smell of grease wafts from vendors while a thick line of fans weave between stray popcorn kernels and half empty pop cans. As we settle in our seats the tension wraps itself around us like a rubber band. Tearing our eyes from the field before us, we scan the crowd. Children wrapped in woven emerald scarves squirm in their seats like wriggling worms, inching towards the field. In groups they chant and holler, sing and sway.

The crowd cries out as the players run onto the field. With one short whistle the game is brought to life and hope for a victory is on the tip of every tongue. As green and blue jerseys interlace like tangled ribbon, the cheers from the stands morph into a single rythmic breath. The players themselves plead for a glimpse of the hope that snakes through the stadium. They gasp for air as they fight through the sweat that trickles in beaded trails down their fatigued bodies. Their strength lulls and they succumb to defeat.

In the end the face of the Irish fans does not waver. Still the children cling to their potato chips as they applaud the effort, still loyal to those heros who lie broken on the green. As night sweeps the last remains of day aside, parents tuck their young ones into bed, planting lasting kisses on each cheek. The will to sleep remains absent as the children, still buzzing from the night's festivities lie open eyed and marvel at the the idea of it all as just a game.