Through armpits and elbows we slowly nudged our way to the front of the ancient floorboards of the Cornerhouse Pub where the band was sitting, being careful not to spill our frothy brews. The energy of Friday night in Cork, Ireland was emanating through celebratory sweat glands and unshaven faces. Transformed by a bluesy, electric swing-sounding session the ancient pub seemed casually focused on providing musical excellence. Even the walls were crowded in this joint, covered with adverts, posters and stickers with political jargon trailing layer upon layer from the bar, rambling all the way up the cramped stairway leading to God knows where.
Our barhopping adventure had led us here from the ‘Sin E’ pub situated next door which boasted live music seven nights a week. However, The surprisingly calm crowd at the Sin E proved a bit disgruntled by our raucous group of Canadian doctors eager to soak up the Irish nightlife as we digested our dinner of baked scallops with Dingle Gin and elderberry tonic. The musicians at The Sin E were playing classic rock and blues; a proper dance band. It was surprising that we were the only ones stomping and cheering across the room as we darted dirty looks from a table of middle-aged women dressed appropriately for the crisp fall evening in ankle boots, turtleneck sweaters and woollen scarves. As though inevitable, a sigh of relief left with us as we spilled out onto the cobbles and seamlessly squeezed into the bar next door, alive with pulsing music and a pint sized vocalist with a huge, unique sound bellowing from her lungs.
“Who are these guys?” I yelled to the bartender.
“Boxcar Bertha” he muffled back, both hands overflowing with tumblers of honey-hued malted goodness.
“They are great!” I continued, dodging an elbow to the forehead.
“Yeah, they’re the best. We like ‘em, they play here a lot.”
I took it all in. The entire night, which started with an intimate walk through the dark narrow streets of Downtown Cork, relying on Google Maps to guide us to Crane Lane, where a jazz jam was on the schedule. Winding through abandoned construction sites and closed shops we managed to turn all the right corners and found a glowing beacon announcing our arrival at the famed venue. It really was a Laneway, old, wider than most, shielded by a glass rooftop, lined with small pubs, restaurants, bakeries and shops. About two hundred feet from the street entrance, past groups of older gentlemen pontificating over beers on various patios along the Lane, we heard the familiar sound of undeniably live jazz. Echoes of a bass drum, vibrations from electric bass and excited saxophones conversing with a mild-mannered piano.
We sat in the back of a large hall, painted black and housing two stages, one, framed by red velvet curtains and covered with a banner advertising the International Jazz Festival that took place in two week’s time. The other, slightly larger, was filled with the jazz kids. They looked and sounded like music students eager to jam and produce a new generation of funk-infused improvisation. It was cool. We sipped on a half-pint of the local stout. Half pint glasses are the cutest, imagine a small, juice cup filed with beer, and you’ve got yourself a good start to a great night.
All these thoughts were processing through my mind as I listened to Martina Stafford, the lead singer of Boxcar Bertha, belt out a reggae rendition of ‘Summertime’ while tucked safely away in the collective body-heat of the Cornerhouse Pub.
I don’t know when the band stopped playing, and I can’t remember leaving. I can confirm, however, that our group, well after midnight, skipped through the streets of town alive with tipsy tourists, out-of-towners and locals to the next venue.
The Oliver Plunkett was a huge three story bar with live music on each floor, and a DJ in the main entrance. This beautiful old building was able to accommodate three generations of party- goers under one enormous roof. Our ears were saturated with a solo crooner and late night, traditional Irish-fare feasters singing along on the first floor, classic rock and roll on the second floor and an Irish Folk band on the third, where we linked arms with the rest of the crowd and lifted our spirits while being entertained by a six-piece band comprised of two guitars, bass, hand drums, banjo and accordion.
Irish nightlife is a cardio vascular endurance experience. Live music is thriving in Cork and I’m sorry we missed the jazz festival, but my body was a train wreck for at least three days after this evening, and my liver still hasn’t forgiven me.
I’ll never forget what I can barely remember.
