#gaelicamericana

[kyleannecarey]

Evelyna

Evelyna

The wind, the rain’s undone in sorrow, the grey-shot sky won’t shine to blue, since she left on yesterday’s tomorrow, lantern flame a-light beneath the moon.

Dig my grave, wide and deep, Evelyna I won’t weep.

Not a word, no letter’s come from Jackson, whose twinkling lights she vowed to one day see. Send the wind to call my wayward love home, by tooth and nail I’ll set her caged heart free.

Dig my grave, wide and deep, Evelyna I won’t weep.

Far away, the porch lamps glint like diamonds, glasses clink, embers glow and fade. My love laughs, sweet and light as birdsong, come evening’s end I’ll know not where she lays.

Dig my grave, wide and deep, Evelyna I won’t weep.

Yes, dig my grave, wide and deep, Evelyna I won’t weep.

[kyleannecarey]

Dear friends - with great joy and excitement I would like to announce the launch of the Kickstarter campaign for my new album 'The Art of Forgetting'. I hope you will consider making a pledge - and joining me on this exciting journey of creation. Many thanks and please spread the word! Project Links -

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/kylecarey/the-art-of-forgetting-kyle-careys-new-album

http://kck.st/2evLZcc

[kyleannecarey]

A Riot of Spring

Belgium and Holland wear the springtime as gaily as a young girl with a flower crown. Despite a rainy couple of weeks, May has arrived in the lowlands of Europe with a burst of sunlight, a sparkle of joy.

Brooklyn’s cold, slow start to spring seems a near lifetime ago as I travel to Belgium for a sold-out concert in the rustic beamed home of my new friends Dirk and Inga.  

Driving through row upon row of blushing tulips, and still, ornate windmills – all seems caught in the riot of May. The glowing fields, the laughing children, and the warm audience that greets us.

Ronnie, Nikki and I perform in front of a picture window, framed by a small garden of blooming dogwood and slender vines. At intermission there is local beer, tart wine and a pungent wheel of speckled cheese.

At the end of the night, Dirk and his young daughter join us on stage for Kate Wolf’s ‘Across the Great Divide’, and it strikes me, not for the first time – that music’s greatest gift is its very ability to bridge divides, to create camaraderie despite differences in language, culture, and continent.

In a country still recovering from its own shock of violence, tonight’s union feels particularly poignant. And despite the recent dangers, the remaining high-alert and risk of counter, the Belgian people are unfalteringly optimistic, unflinchingly brave and welcoming to a fault.

Dirk thanks us for the concert at night’s end and launches into a local folk tune, complete with an English translation that professes his, and the audience’s undying love and devotion. Maybe it’s the springtime, the wine, and the candle-lit faces of the kind audience that makes me believe that at least for tonight – love can be as easily won, and effortlessly sustained as a song.

It’s that feeling, and these songs that will sustain me for another month on the road. For the last week of performances here in the Netherlands with a wonderful band, and then on my own for four weeks in the UK, through the photo shoot for my next album, and throughout the summer as I pen the final handful of songs for ‘The Art of Forgetting’ – my third CD.

I’m looking forward immensely to a quiet few months of writing, Henry-snuggling and visits with friends, but would also like to let said friends know that I’ll be performing on June 24th in Old Saybrook, CT at the beautiful Katharine Hepburn Theatre in a rare solo show.

I would love to see some of my New England pals there, and if you’re so inclined, tickets can be purchased here.

Otherwise I’ll be teaching Gaelic, enjoying Brooklyn, and preparing for a Kickstarter launch in the fall. Until then, and before, I wish you all the very best, and a joyous, sparkling spring wherever you may be.

Much love, happy May, and thank you so much for continuing to share this journey with me.

Le gràdh (from Holland),

Kyle

[kyleannecarey]

Grist for the Soul

In Illinois and Indiana, the sky and the land seem to mingle together as effortlessly as the shore and sea. Driving through their vast fields of corn can be an almost disconcerting experience. At night - the illusion is only amplified.  

By all rational means the stars should end at the stalk-tops, but every once in a while, a fleeting glimmer, be it firefly or celestial body - unites earth and sky once more.

One could argue there’s nothing like it - that heaven lays its riches out on display here like no where else. And when you’re on the road - driving from one show to the next in the early hours of morning - it’s a treasure trove reserved only for fellow itinerants.

It’s mid November and I’ve been touring the Heartland for the past week with two other singers - one from New England, the other Ireland. Going under the name of ‘Trì Scealta’ or ‘Three Stories’ we carry songs of both the Old World and New from Illinois, to Indiana, and then back to Ohio.

I fall asleep en route listening to Mai and Nancy sing ballads in the early hours, we pause at gas stations where sleeping trucks stand sentinel - ticking softly in the cooling night air, and when we wake in the morning - sun-ripened fields, and more miles await us.

The people we sing for are warm, hospitable, and deeply proud of their communities - towns that were once the arteries and pulse of an up-start nation. Today, many of the factories lie silent, the once-grand houses, boarded up - are slowly being reclaimed by chickweed and crabgrass.

Still, something brings them back - resourceful, passionate people - who carry the same enterprising genes as their forefathers.

Perhaps it’s a little of that same grit and ingenuity that ensures Nancy and I make it home for Thanksgiving - sixteen hours straight, until we see dale give way to hill, hill to peak, and peak to rocky summit.

But sure and quick as a conveyer belt - Christmas itself has now come and gone, and I write to you this evening from my families’ home in snowy New England.

It’s been a wonderful respite with loved ones, but the quiet times never seem to last long, and the New Year will see me performing at my beloved Caffe Lena - on January 3rd to be exact, in Saratoga Springs, NY once more.

Soon after, I’ll be flying to Glasgow to perform at this year’s Celtic Connections festival with singer Gillebride MacMillan for a night of ‘Gaelic meets Gaelic Americana’ and come mid April - I’ll be back in Europe to tour for six weeks with dear friends Ron Janssen and Amy Merrill.

But before I head off once more - I would like to share with my newsletter subscribers a bit of exciting news. I’m in the early planning stages for my next album ‘The Art of Forgetting’, due out in 2017, and I’m delighted to share that Dirk Powell has been confirmed as its producer.

Aside from being a multi-talented instrumentalist, and sought-after producer, Dirk has been touring steadily with Joan Baez for the past five years and owns a studio in the Bayou country of Louisiana called the ‘Cypress House’ - which has born more than one Grammy-nominated album.

Dirk’s own ingenuity and expertise are a wonderful fit for my sound - and I can’t wait to get started on this new project, and bring new music to you. Your support and generosity are, for lack of a better phrase - grist for the soul.

But until then I wish you all the very best and a restful remainder to your holidays. Be well, travel safe, and I look forward to seeing you in the New Year.

Le gràdh,

Kyle

[kyleannecarey]

Written by Kyle Carey 

Directed by Adrian Garber, shot & edited by Dan Kennedy

[kyleannecarey]

The Celtic Mediterranean

Cornwall isn’t a place you pass through. You make the decision to go, rent a car, and prepare to drive the six hours plus from wherever you are to reach the far-flung peninsula.

I made the choice myself on a bright evening in April—found an Airbnb room in Penzance, and picked up my car the next afternoon in Nottingham. I didn’t reach the peninsula until close to midnight. A head-light lit sign welcomed me to the county—written in English and the strange hieroglyphics of language that echos a more familiar Celtic tongue.  

My hostess showed me to my room. Up three flights of stairs—a bay window opened in the morning to an azure-blue sea framed by palm trees. The gulf stream runs over and graces Cornwall with a surprising display of flora and fauna. On a warm summer’s day—you could be in the Mediterranean.

In this interim between shows on my U.K. tour I’m not sure what has drawn me to Penzance. While my interest in Celtic music and culture is no secret—Cornwall isn’t what many would describe as an overtly-Celtic nation.

Still, the people are fiercely proud of what’s theirs—of a place of unparalleled beauty and a peninsula with more stone circles and neolithic sites than anywhere else in England. I visit one of these the next day—a circle of nineteen granites called the ‘Merry Maidens’. Turned to stone by a vengeful witch one Sunday--across the road, two larger boulders—the ‘fiddler and piper’ stand in morose silence over their shared fate.

I get lost nearly five times in search of the site. But the locals come to my aid, and what’s more—they all know the legend—it’s as alive in their social consciousness as the day it transpired.

In the evening I drive to the seaside town of Mouse Hole and wander through its cobbled streets. The Celtic Sea pounds the shore fiercely here, and down one of these steep lanes—the sound of the waves a crescendo in my ears, I stumble across a small plaque—‘Here lived Dolly Pentreath, one of the last speakers of the Cornish language as her native tongue’.  Somehow, in this small and sea-battered outpost—I’ve found what I’m looking for.

And now, after two months of traveling and touring abroad, I write to you this evening from my new hometown of Brooklyn—with a Brooklyn summer before me. And while I’m thankful for the downtime—for the opportunity to write and prepare my third album—I know it will be short lived.

In August I’ll be filming a music video for ‘Let Them Be All Reprise’—complete with a director, costume designer, seamstress and slew of extras in white dresses. I’ll return to Europe and the U.K. again next spring to tour with mandolinist Ron Janssen and fiddler Amy Merrill, and in the interim, I’ll be booking a tour next summer of theaters in the U.S. with Gaelic singers Gillebride MacMillan and Joy Dunlop. I’ll also be resuming my on-line Gaelic lessons.

But I’d also like to fill up my calendar with state-side with shows, and while opportunity has brought me abroad these past couple years—I’d love to perform more often in my own country. So, if you are in the U.S. and would like me to come to your theater, home or arts centre, please feel free to respond to this newsletter directly.

The same goes for our Dutch & German friends who would like to welcome our trio next spring. I’m all ears and full to the heart with the success of our European performances--and from the critical acclaim that ‘North Star’ has met.

In the meantime, I wish you all the very best and a most wonderful summer. Enjoy the sun, sea, and mountains or valleys of wherever you may be.

Le gràdh,

Kyle  

[kyleannecarey]

Written by Kyle Carey--from the album 'North Star'. Featuring Dirk Powell on banjo, Ben Walker on guitar, Chris Stout on fiddle, Chico Huff on bass, and Pauline Scanlon & Eamon McElholm on harmony vocals. Song & album produced by Seamus Egan. Video filmed & edited by Dan Kennedy, makeup by Kim Maurice. Song inspired by Mickey MacConnell and Sigerson Clifford's, 'Ballad of the Tinkerman's Daughter', Emmylou Harris' 'Red Dirt Girl' and Bob Dylan's 'Boots of Spanish Leather'.

[kyleannecarey]

We All Muddle Through in the End

Cape Breton is not an easy place to get to. It took me a five hour ferry ride (much of which I spent sick) and a seven hour drive to come to the causeway that separates Cape Breton from the mainland of Nova Scotia, a causeway that's spanned by a rickety metal bridge that was not erected until the 1950's. As you travel up the interior of Nova Scotia from the ferry landing in Yarmouth, you get the sense that you're traveling closer and closer to the ends of the earth, and when you finally cross into Cape Breton, this cutoff is complete. To me, this feeling is slightly alarming, but to any Cape Bretoner the crossing is coupled with the comforting sensation of "coming home."

The people of Cape Breton are strongly rooted to their history, and as you travel through the Island, this history lays itself bare before your eyes. The villages speak of the people who traveled across the oceans years before to thrive or just survive, and before that, of those who called this island home for a millenia. Along with a myriad of other cultures, the natives are still here. I pass through a number of villages, with the title, "First Nation" painted beneath their greetings. The houses are modest. Women sit out on the steps weaving, reading, or just staring down onto the roads, dilapidated pit stops advertise "Mi'kmaq Crafts For Sale." It's not until you travel further into the interior of the island, or up along the Western Coast that the Scottish settlements begin to crop up like sentinels, their anglicized names undercut with their original Gaelic titles. Traveling to my new home in Glace Bay I pass the villages of "Iona," "Inverness" and "Ingonish." These towns are predominately poor farming and fishing communities. On one side of the road, rolled hay dries in the sun, while on the other brightly painted fishing boats peel placidly beside their wharfs, seeming to rest themselves in preparation for next summer's brief and frenzied lobster season.

All across the island life seems paused. Maybe it's the holiday weekend, or maybe it's something else...I learn from my host family later this evening that the young people are leaving Cape Breton in droves. It's a common enough phenomenon, they want more than their parents lot in life, more than the back breaking work of hauling lobster traps or the endless dark of days in the mines.

The French have left their mark here as well. My new home town, Glace Bay, was named so for its tendency to freeze in the winter. Once home to a booming coal economy, the mines shut down long ago. Old men shuffle along its potholed streets, watching the rain fall down from darkened store fronts. Their surprisingly youthful faces stare vacantly out onto the main road, they seem unaware of this one gift that decades of work underground has allowed them. On my second day on the island I stop off at the Miners Museum, where an ex-miner by the name of Abbey takes me down into one of the old mine shafts. He tells me of the men he worked with, men from Poland, France, Italy, Scotland, Spain and Ireland. He worked in the mine for thirty five years, his greatest accomplishment is sending his children to school, and though he doesn't look a day over fifty, (he's 72) the years in the mines are stored inside him, and he is reminded of this in his father and uncle's concession to black lung. I ask him where the most music in Cape Breton can be found, and he tells me to head out to Inverness County on the western shore, to the seaside farms and small community halls where people gather to dance on the weekends and play music until the early hours in their kitchens, "just listen for the fiddles and knock on the door," he advises me, "they'll take you in."

Traveling across the Cabot Trail the following day I pass through the French settlement of Chetticamp before dipping down into Inverness. The Acadian French dominate here, the music is French, English is only used to converse with the tourists, and I'm reminded in the landscape of the village of Dun Quin on the Dingle peninsula. The houses look as though they might fall into the sea, the salt adds a translucent glimmer to the air. The fields are an otherworldly green and the sky impossibly blue. A moment later I'm in Inverness, where Abbey tells me, "people still sit out on their back steps with fiddles."

I don't hear any of this back porch music today, but a few evenings later, at a wharf pub in North Sydney, I attend my first Cape Breton session. It starts off slow, but by the end of the evening, twelve fiddlers play together at lightening speed. The legendary Jerry Holland sits next to a lean old man by the name of Paul Cranford, one of the last lighthouse keepers in North America, a walking encyclopedia of tunes and local lore. Stuart MacNeil of the Barra MacNeils plays the piano accordion, while his mother listens on the edges before taking her honored place at the upright piano. Later, she tells me of visiting Scotland and the castle where her people came from, while her son continues to play the music that was more than likely carried across the sea from this site, coveted and passed along like and old wedding photograph or tarnished engagement ring.

This connection to the homeland is nothing unusual, most Cape Bretoners seem to know exactly who their people are and where they came from. What amazes me most, is how splendidly everyone seems to get along. I'd say the rest of the world could do worse than to take a cue from Cape Breton. When the Scottish were kicked out of the highlands in the 1700's, they came in exile to the island, and for once, these new world settlers chose not to repeat their empire's cruelty, and settled alongside the Mi'kmaq peacefully instead. The French, the most zealous and intrepid of the new world explorers, intermarried freely with the Mi'kmaq. This history could be directly linked to the alarming friendliness of Cape Bretoners today, I mention this to Abbey at the coal mines before I leave, and his youthful face beams in response: "it's like you've known us your entire life."