The Fathers of Reinvention

As the bandwagon rolls out once more,

we meet the Fathers on the eve of their world tour

and look back in awe

at their

unforgettable career…

Anna Granoor©

Their fame eclipses even the legendary McNamara's Band. But unlike the green-jacketed elbow-pumpers, these boys wouldn't know one end of a squeeze-box from another. Chief lyricist, Pastor Cnamho doesn't appear offended by the - cautiously - irreverent suggestion.

'Yeah, it's true,' he chuckles. 'Me 'n' the boys ain't never fingered nuthin' but a fret on a long-neck gee-tar.' He holds up his beringed hands for inspection. 'See? See that horned skin on my thumb? That's a blister earned twangin' in th' service of the good Lord.'

As the bandwagon rolls westwards, the notoriously abstemious four look hale, hearty, and, minus the slap, as innocent as the whey-faced choirboys they once were. Hard to believe they're all pushing fifty. Godlivin' never looked so good.

The Pastor fingers the ten-pound one-hundred-and-forty-eight carat gold cross around his neck with the air of a man who hasn't blanched at his bank statement anytime lately.

'Yeah. I tell ya, th' good Lord has been Godder than God to us. I guess b'cause we pray like hell to keep the show on the road - this circus costs more'n a bagful 'o hoors.' He lets out a surprisingly filthy cackle. 'That's why we got us an accountant. Why, that boy does more prayin' than a puma.' He laughs again.

Then, more soberly: 'But I ain't complain' 'bout prayin'. No sir. Truth be told - and that ain't no lie - I'll still be hollerin' like a stuck warthog on the Day of Judgement for the Lord.' The (slightly manic) look in his eye says he means it.

Drummer-boy Billy-boy Blondi - still looking like he could murder a chicken drumstick a quarter of a century on - Godlivin' doesn't come much meaner than this - looks up. 'Yew's allus yellin' like a stuck warthog,' he growls. 'Like th' time yew was stuck in th' john in Phoenix - warn't nuthin' to do with th' good Lord.' He rips a large chunk from his veg roll with the trade-mark ferocity age shows no sign of diminishing.

'Billy-boy, Billy-boy,' sighs the Pastor, 'what DO I hafta tell ya 'bout talkin' outta turn?' He shakes his head ruefully. 'Them good folks out there don't wanna hear nuthin' bout th' evils what lays in them johns. It ain't nice. 'Sides, I rose, born again, from th' ashes.' For yea, the spirit moved me.'

'War spir-rits,' mutters Billy-boy.

'Enough boy!' thunders the Pastor. 'You jes keep yore fat lip buttoned up!'

Billy-boy stops mid-munch. He looks at the veg roll worriedly. 'How kin I eat then?'

The Pastor sighs. 'Jes moove your jaw boy - silently. Is that so hard?'

Way back when the Earth was young, little in the fledgling Fathers warblings hinted they'd ever achieve a worldwide following - at least, not to their native Dubliners. As every band knows, home audiences are the toughest and the quaint Dublin custom of rating performances with a hail of frozen chickens made them tougher than most. But for the spiritual sustenance of their choirmaster, the Right Reverend Aaron Gogo, they might never have survived this baptism of fowl.

'He kept us going' says Cnamho 'as night after night, we spurned the temptations of gut-corrodin' plonk, risked life 'n' limb in the late-night kebab joints -'

'Them chophouses from HELL!' grinds Billy-boy through spinach-flecked teeth.

'- and dodged them frozen chickens from the heretics and blasphemers,' he finishes, ignoring the drummer's outburst.

'And th' bounce'ahs.'

Cnamho looks at Ada and frowns. The bass player is dressed in fish nets and dangly gold earrings. A feather boa trails from his neck to the floor. 'The whats'

'Yew forgot th' bounce'ahs. They was allus throwin' chickens too,' says Ada, with a toss of golden ringlets. 'Used t' yell we was nuthin' but a buncha big girls petticoats.' His large brown eyes shadow as though remembering some private pain. 'They was mean.' His dark brows knit together and his jaw tightens. 'Ah'd like t' go back sometahm 'n' give 'em a good ole boot-lickin'. In six-inch heels.'

'I keep tellin' ya Ada, they ain't good for pos-ture,' chides the Pastor. 'How many times did we hafta pull ya back 'fore you wen 'n' took yourself a tumble off of th' stage?'

Ada sniffs. 'Yew kin tawk, Mr. Mosher.'

The decision to leave their native land was, like the peregrinatio of the ancient Irish monks, writ deep in the DNA. As their forefathers had born the 'white martyrdom' of exile to bring the 'good news' to clueless Continentals, the Fathers believed their own distinctive gospel also required a wider hearing.

'Not,' recalls Billy-boy with a sage nod, 'jes bigger ears - we wasn't dumb as sumb.'

You mean..' some'?

The question is met with a stare of corruscating intensity. 'Yeah,' he finally grinds out, 'thass what I sayed. 'Sumb.''

It seem unwise to seek further clarification.

And a wider hearing - 'not jes bigger ears' - meant leaving. They too would have to venture far beyond North Co. Dublin if they wanted similar success. Besides, they didn't stand a 'snowball's in hell' of mass conversion in the capital - .and not just because it didn't have the numbers. (Though it didn't.)

Says Cnamho: 'Our congregations - man, I tell ya, they were plastered as a bunch of movin' statues most of the time. And even if they were sober enough get 'on message' - chance would be a fine thing - they'd yak all through the sermon to their friends. Or even their enemies. Listen to us? I wish. Though they were pretty attentive with the chickens - I've still got the skull bumps to prove it.'

An exchange of frozen chickens outside the Holy Cow Inn with the rival 'White Catholics' sect brought matters to a - lumpy - head. ('I thought: 'enough with the chickens'.) And so, the Reverend Gogo's somewhat noisy injunction to 'Go forth and spread that RIGHTEOUS gospel sound! The LORD hath spoken and ye have been CHOSE!' ringing in their ears, the four young men hit the road.

But not just any old boreen between one Ballyvillage and the next. Route '666' was 'paved' as Cnamho puts it, 'all the way to Judgement Day with bad temptations'. Travelling along the infamous road from one 'cockroach infested motel to the next, on one stinkin' tour bus after another, across desert after desert' there were times when the band looked back longingly on the rock'n'roll wilderness they'd left behind them.

'Yeah,' says Cnamho looking nostalgic, 'I tell ya, there were times we coulda killed to go back - no taxi-money, soakin' up the rain, walkin' home nights, dodgin' our fellow brick-throwin', God-crazed Dubliners. Times even Billy-boy here coulda murdered an axle-grease, mayo-sodden kebab, even though he used t'speechify all the time against our unGodly, carnivorous brethern.'

'Sheeps is God's chillun TOO!' yells Billy-boy looking agonised.

'Easy, easy Billy-boy,' says Cnamho, 'we all know how you feel about sheep.' He gives a conspiratorial wink. 'Billy-boy here comes from a long line of sheep-shearers. He can't help but feel close to 'em.' Billy-boy sinks back into the couch and takes a ferocious bite out of a stuffed courgette. Ada pulls his feather boa tighter around him.

The band was mindful too of the casualties that preceded them 'like a pile-up outside a chipper in Augnier Street on a Saturday night.' The Route had seen many itinerant gospellers with, as Cnamho so eloquently puts it, 'nuthin' but faith and few lousy bucks between 'em 'n' all perdition. Like us, before we got the accountant. Oh yeah, Route 666 taught hard lessons. Hard lessons to those who didn't know faith from hubris. Who didn't know nuthin' 'bout no Greek stuff. Who sympathised with the devil, who made the Lord weep. Who'd hole 'emselves up in some Godforsaken motel room with that faithless, fornicatin' son of Satan, Jack Daniels, yellin' at the good Lord all night long. I tell ya, I seen 'em brother, seen 'em layin' roun', disrepectin' the Lord in nuthin' but cheap, Walmart underpants. And a feather boa.'

He pauses and spits a stream of tobacco juice into an emerald-encrusted, two-hundred gold carat spitoon before continuing.

' Oh yeah. Heard 'em too. Heard 'em yellin' 'n' hollerin' 'n' demandin' an ex-plan-ay-tion for volcanoes 'n' earthquakes 'n' picky, big bucks hookers. Or even their room-service bill. Like, He should explain himself? They're 'acts of God' man. Were those guys nuts or what?'

Ada shifts, looking uncomfortable. 'They did have 'emselves a point,' he says, sounding a bit snippy. 'Some of 'em hookahs was chargin' rates as'd make a ho' blush.' He looks even more indignant than Billy-boy. If that's possible.

'That's b'cause they were hoors - how many times do I hafta t' tell ya that boy?' says the Pastor patiently - if hardly.

'No, they was not,' insists Ada, flicking his boa playfully. 'They was jes real friendly. They wasn't cheap -' He hesitates, his forehead corrugating. 'Ah mean, they was good girls.' He falls silent. 'Ah mean, good-tahm - '

'Yeah, right,' says Cnamho sounding bored. 'Like I say, Route 666 was littered, littered, I tell ya, with the picked-clean, bleached-white bones of excess. And when me 'n' the guys sometimes caught a glimpse of some stinkin', rotten carcass beneath that merciless noonday sun - the vultures hollerin', the coyotes circlin' - or is it the other way round? - man, we shivered. Know what I mean? But we, we were protected by the hand of God. For we were - I mean are - abstinent.'

Ada looks mystified. 'Whass that mean?'

Success eluded in those early years, but they kept faith, marching ever onwards, spreading the good news, preaching reinvention, promising salivation. By the mid-eighties, the hard work had paid off and the faithful began flocking in their droves. They came from everywhere - all kinds, all sorts. Twenty-somethings depressed over the break up of the Clash and the revelation that Tom Verlaine's real name was Fred Scruggs. Thirty-somethings - still reeling from the news that Nietzsche was not, after all, a roadie with the Grateful Dead and too many bad trips. Middle-of-the-roaders bearing fatter wallets (good) and zippos in the hope of dimmed lights and power ballads (not so good.)

'I ain't Cher,' says Cnamho. 'Me neither,' Razor agrees. 'No' me needah,' says Ada dolefully. 'Nor me neither either either. Either,' adds Billy-boy.

Even Mom and Dad, mistrusting the quality of Jim Bakker's daily bread - and beginning to wonder if even Pat Boone could be trusted - marched on the turnstiles. From 'sea to shining sea' they flocked, eager to hear the 'good news.' And as the Pastor rained down rivers of fire, flaming crosses, raging infernos, brimstone, firestone, Yellowstone - and every other fiery geo-formation that had ever existed on their 'impious, fornicatin' heads,' the long-time faithful had no doubt: The good Fathers had finally arrived.

But the 'Doubting Thomases' persisted: where? Were they truly before the pearly gates? Or, whisper it, the… other ones?

The Pastor's hellish delivery was undeniably a major factor in the band's astonishing US success. Rolling Stock hailed him as a 'visionary missionary whose scorching denunciations challenge the testosterone-fuelled obsessions of rock'n'roll orthodoxy, man.' (Trans: I'm a girl, so get a brain, punk.) 'So what if he's named after a hearing aid? The deaf ain't no chillun of a lesser god'. (Trans: I'm deaf as a post, but I ain't dumb.) On the first of what was to be numerous covers, he wore his old, battered preacher's hat - 'a man of God always keeps his bald spot covered in the presence of the Lord. And the ladies.' It attained instant iconic status, outselling even moody James Dean dodging traffic in an oversize trench-coat. Teenage girls sighed while their brothers saluted the concealed fowl bumps - 'they's th' scars of a soldier of the Lord.' And everywhere, the Pastor's lyrics snaked across comely bosoms and manly chests. Burn Baby Burn. Hose Me Down For Jesus - Or Just For God's Sake.

Just why Cnamho's burnt offerings (or 'burning yearnings' as he once - rather crossly - corrected) struck such a special chord with Americans remains a tad culturally opaque. Cnamho has his own, predictably intriguing theory - an epiphany in 1969 when, at the age of eight, he had prayed for the men on the moon.

'I was only a kid, but I knew my prayers were the ballast that anchored those guys to the lunar surface. Without all those 'Our Fathers' they'd still be up there, swingin' off the outermost ring of Saturn. I believe that in some, like, subliminal way, the American people really appreciate what I did for those guys and are thankin' me 'n' the boys in the only way they know how - by diggin' deep in their pockets and buyin' our product.'

Billy-boy looks uncertain. 'I dunno. Power o' prayer's a strange thing - mighty powerful too. But it ain't that powerful or strange.' He looks at Cnamho quizzically. 'It ain't - ain't it?
'Button your lip Billy-boy - I'm talkin.' And its best if you don't - mostly. Just concentrate on lookin' mean, moody 'n' magnetic.'

Don't you mean 'magnificent'?

'No I don't. Billy-boy here's got a mouth full of lead. Been in more shoot - outs than Wyatt Earp.'

Billy-boy is outraged. 'Warn't no shoot outs - war jes shoots! I ain't no KILLIN' machine!'

The Pastor leans forward and pops a large piece of roast aubergine in the drummer-boy's mouth.

'I told ya son, let me do the talkin.' You ain't no good at it. As the good Lord says: 'Use yore talent.' And yore's is stayin' dumb.'

Billy-boy masticates furiously.

'Attaboy.' The Pastor eyes him fondly. 'Eatin' is yore other talent - use it well boy, for the devil finds work for idle mouths.'

The drummer's jaws work even more rapidly.

Cnamho's 'Messianic' approach also had its critics. Sporting a loud lemon'n'lime check suit, striding up and down the stage, exhorting audiences to 'Give! Give fo' Jeeeee-suz! On yo' kneeez 'n' PRAAAY! Cast OUT them dayvils!' his performances were not greeted with unanimous media approval. Nor did passing collection buckets around packed stadiums for 'sartorially-afflicted' preachers whose lives had been ruined by sex-scandals go down too well - principally with their ex-wives. (Though some, whose monthly alimony cheques improved, did later relent.) At a press conference in the mid-eighties, there was uproar when - after two hours bellowing at cowering hacks that they were 'DAMNED! Damned to roast in the flaaames of ETERNAL HELLFIRE!' - a young rookie, his eyes glazed with an unnatural shine, fell to his knees and began yelling, 'PRAISE THE LAWD! Ah have seen the LIGHT! Let mah deah Savyuh IIN!' Reporters scattered in all directions as Cnamho then leapt over the conference table, gripped the young man's head in one hand, raised the other skywards and began roaring at the top of his lungs: 'BRUDDAH! You have brought jooooy to this HOUSE! Yo' wuth'less SOOOUL has bin saaayved!' In the ensuing stampede, one terrified hack crashed through a plate glass door in his zeal to get away.

Ill-received though this was, it wasn't until the now-infamous 'Skellig Rock' incident that the band's moral pre-eminence on the rock circuit became seriously undermined. The world media had been invited to the band's hideaway off the Co. Kerry coast for a sneak pre-hearing of their since classic album 'The Burning Shrub.' Weary journo's - it was a 'concept' job - had only just finished listening when they found themselves being ordered into a currach for what Cnamho called a 'test of faith.' Puzzled, but no doubt used to the behavioural oddities of celebrities, the unsuspecting hacks clambered in with a docility unusual to the species - perhaps the large amounts of Guinness helped. It was a fine, sunny day, and the Guinness, if not the 'sea-fresh' limpets they'd been invited to scrape off the rocks if they felt peckish, had gone down well. It seemed reasonable to assume they were being taken to a yacht for some well-earned R'n'R - hadn't they just spent six hours on the trot listening to the Daddios' infernal noise?

They only began to suspect something when they were several miles out to sea. The vast expanse of the Atlantic lay all around - perfectly, pristinely and utterly yachtless. All of a sudden, Cnamho stood up, rocking the currach dangerously.

'He looked plain crazy,' recalls a Skellig 'survivor' with a shudder 'and all that seaweed he'd festooned himself with didn't inspire confidence. Stank too. I think he had some Hemingway thing going on. Or maybe some Spencer Tracy thing. Whatever. It made us nervous as girls.'

You are a girl.

'That's quite beside the point!' she snaps.

Cnamho then began exhorting the shivering hacks - most of them by now balled up and praying to the Deity for deliverance - to 'STAND UP! And WALK ON THE WATER!' Those who refused on the feeble grounds of having wives and children to think about, and besides, they weren't wearing life jackets were roundly denounced as 'Doubting son's of THOMAS!' before he disappeared over the side followed by three rookies from Fox. The outcome may very well have been tragic had Mrs. Cnamho (who has always said she is 'well-used to his antics') not called the Kerry Lifeguard immediately on finding the currach missing: a 'lengthy marriage' had - rightly - led her to 'suspect - no, expect - the worst.' All four men were later found clinging to a rock, singing hymns and suffering nothing worse than cracked lips. (Though the rookies also had tinnitus from the enforced proximity to the singer.)

When it is put to him now that Skellig was a 'leap of faith' too far, Cnamho rolls his eyes heavenward. 'Aw, c'mon man. You can't be serious. Nobody died.' He shifts, looking a little uneasy. 'Sides, they were just a buncha goddamn 'googlers' for cryin' out loud - what's a few more or less?'

Nevertheless, relations with the media became decidedly strained. Refusing to comment on suggestions that the good Pastor had become less asset than liability and dismissing the fact that they now wore deep-sea diving helmets when shopping as nothing more than a 'prudent security precaution - handy for break-outs too' the band went into temporary retirement. But as the hiatus lengthened, speculation grew. The Fathers had preached reinvention all these years - had they decided it was time to 'kill off' the Pastor? The Skellig Rock almost-horror-story survivors sure thought so: not ony had they put a price on his head, but the boys also wanted - 'that hottie Salome to dish it up on a plate. With forks. And salsa. '

At last the speculation came to an end. With a roll of drums and a blast of trumpets the curtains parted to reveal… a horned weirdo in a shiny red jump suit and….Oh the horror! - Cuban heels.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he announced in a dry, rasping voice, 'the Pastor has left the building. And I, I McPishogue McPixililated McPuck McPest - I have come for your sooouls.'

The announcement was met by silence. A jaw-on-the-ground, you-could-hear-a-skinny-actor-drop silence. Who or what on earth was this apparition? (And, some wanted to know even more - who does his make-up?) Even long-time observers familiar with the many twists and turns the band had taken over the years were confounded. Some suspected the band's manager, the sinister Porter McStout - with a penchant for even more sinister bespoke suits - of being behind the smoke and mirrors. He was known to have long suspected the fiery Pastor of not-so-very-latent pyromania. Insurance wasn't getting any cheaper - had he 'killed' him off? And what of the strange resemblance between this 'McPishogue' and the eponymous 'man of God'?

Except for the slap. And the weird little lumps on his head. And the tight, shiny red jump-suit. (The Pastor wouldn't have been caught dead in a rig-out like that.) Some were indifferent to the identity mystery and accepted 'McPishogue' - 'though he could do with a few tips from the more subtle class of transvestite.' Cnamho refused to explain. 'McPishogue' was, in the words of one envious-sounding observer, 'out of the closet and horny as hell' while the Pastor was six feet under or wrestling with his old nemesis, Jack Daniels, in some cheap motel-room on Route 666. And a 'big bucks' hooker. If she wasn't picky.

Media reaction was mixed. (Is there any other kind?) Greeted by Rolling Stock as a stroke of 'satyrical genius' Cnamho was also accused of 'self-enchantment' - 'too many ironies in the fire'. Some thought 'McPishogue' 'barely plausible, much less credible.' Others dismissed them in turn as 'clueless heathens.' Even formerly staunch defenders wanted to know 'what happened to the guy who railed against the forces of Mammon outside the World Bank in nothing but a sandwich-board and a frown?' A lone voice suggested that maybe 'he was just a guy with way too much time on his hands.'

But it was the hardcore fans - mostly in the Southern states - who were really upset. Many believed 'McPishogue' was the Pastor, but that he had entered into some kind of Faustian pact with a Satanic style consultant (Britney Spears'?) and 'sold his soul for a mess of montage.' Yet others suspected 'McPishogue' was the Pastor's evil twin brother, the 'black sheep' of the family. 'Like' as one fan had it, 'mah Uncle Elmer what runned off with eight li'l lady dwarfs - he war allus might partial to 'em.' Counter-protests from unbelievers that 'McPishogue' was more fustian than Faustian clarified nothing. It was all 'clear as Mississipi mud pie.'

'Ah jes think he's confused, poor man' one concerned fan told anyone who'd listen. 'Somethin' like this happened mah Daddy when mah Mommy left him. Or maybe it was b'fore. I guess she got sick'n'tireda him purtyin' himself up more'n hur.'

In the midst of all the confusion, CNN broke the story that 'McPishogue' was no figment of the imagination - fevered or otherwise - but 'real as hell.' They claimed that during the filming of a concert, he had been seen to sprout horns and breathe flames onto a scantily clad belly dancer, scorching her hair and setting her harem pants on fire. Despite McStout's threats to sue the communications giant for 'inflammation of character' the news travelled. It was picked up on satellite by the dancer's father in Istanbul who promptly declared a fatwah on the singer and began marching on the Rock of Gibraltar with two hundred and ninety-seven head-slapping relatives. Only a last-minute intervention by Interpol - relaying the singer's promise to supply the dancer with a flame-retardant body-suit and provide dowries for her sixty-four unmarried sisters - staved off a nasty conflagration.

'Man,' recalls Cnamho now with a shudder, that was a helluva close thing - sure as hell's a barbecu. Kind of made us think a bit. But not too much. Like Billy-boy here says, 'Thinkin's hurtin'.' Just go with the beer - non-alcohol - flow.'

'I ain't never said that!' denies Billy-boy, looking livid. 'I ain't never said nuthin' 'bout no 'no-alcohol' beer. It's th' devil's licker!'

The Pastor smiles indulgently. 'You is right Billy-boy, you is right.' He tips a wink broader than Mae West.

The clamour to explain the Pastor's disappearance reached crisis proportions in the South. By now, there were even fears that this 'McPishogue' had had him 'totalled' by the Mafia - 'to stop him,' as one conspiracy theorist had it, 'singin' like a Soprano. Or jes singin'.' Less dramatically, there was anger - ' jes runnin' off like he ain't got no 'spons'bility to his flock - ain't no way fore a man o' the Lord to b'have.'

The young and Godfearin' felt cheated most. The pictures from Istanbul had only just faded when a distraught young female fan from a small town called Armageddon went on the local Channel TEN (The End (is) Nigh), accusing 'the good Pastor' of abandonment. Between bouts of sobbing, she sniffed: 'He doan care 'no mo' 'bout us good souls, us good girls what ain't easy like that cheap Louisa May 'wanna-see-mah-pinkytoes-boyz-it'll-only-costya-a-cherrysoda' Brown'.

Hadn't she always obeyed the Pastor's every injunction?

'Cept fore th' burnin'.' She wiped her arm across her red-rimmed eyes. 'Mah Mommy sayed it doan matter none. Ah could jes skip all th' burnin' stuff, coz us laydies doan burn. Leastways, not much.'

She gulped, unsurreptitiously wiping her nose on her sleeve. 'Ah really b'lieved, y'know? Ah thought th' Pastor, he war true, he really war a preacher man, what truly preachered sali-vay-tion. N' Ah allus listened real good, like he war mah very own Poppy, coz Ah ain't got me got no real Poppy.'

She burst into fresh tears. Then, composing herself: 'Yessiree. Ah larned me real good what he preachered. 'Less is mo'. 'Cept fore dressin'. Then 'mo' is less.' She frowned, concentrating. 'Or.. mays be Ah mean 'mo' iz mo.' Her brow cleared. 'Leastways, thass what he preachered. He preachered us - keep th' boyz guessin'. Doan go spellin' it all out like they iz retards - even though they mostly iz, far's Ah kin see. But that Louisa May Ah-ain't-wearin'-no-stockin's-wanna-see-boyz Brown. She says boyz iz retards. She says, ain't no use listenin' th' Pastor coz he doan know nuthin'' 'bout no boyz - he's jes a li'l ole maan'.

She sniffed loudly and dragged her sleeve across her, by now, red-raw nose. 'But Ah didn' listen that no-good hussey. No siree. Ah listened th' Pastor's preacherin'. Like a good girl should. Thass why Ah allus dress like a laydy 'n' doan go showin' nuthin' what no laydy oughtta show.'

She hesitated. 'Cept fore mah ankles. Coz they's real neat. Whole town says so. '

She began sobbing afresh. 'N' now, 'n' now, looks like he war nuthin' but th' dayvil in draag th' whole doggone- pardon mah french sir - time. I s'pose now he's sayin' Ah should be showin' stuff like that cheap li'l durt-eatin' mud-skipper - Louisa May Ah-jes-got-me-mah-nails-all-paintered-up-wanna-see-boyz Brown. She's a-gonna freckle up real bad too, if she doan keep huh gloves on - folks'll think she wurks! Even though she's jes fore'teen, like me. Mah Mommy, she says ain't no laydies nowhere what wurk, jes trash'. She blew her nose loudly into her, by this stage, thoroughly sodden sleeve. '…N' belly-dancers.'

Suddenly defiant, she straightened up. 'Well, if yew's listenin', Ah ain't that kinda girl, Mr. McPish - McPisk- Mc whatevah.'. The camera zoomed in and her face filled the flickering screen. Her blue eyes gleamed with an odd, preternatural light and a peculiar, almost crafty smile spread across her lips. 'Folks? Y'all still watchin'? Coz Ah jes got me one heck of a notion.' .

Audiences stopped rowing over the remote. What was this?

The strange smile widened. 'How's abaht allus good folks, all yew good folks - how's 'abaht we all git togeddah?' Her voice had taken on a bizarrely gruff tone. 'Uslaydies, 'n' yew too, all yew fine gennelmen out thar. Whatcha say we cleanse th' filth, th' con-tam-in-ay-shun from our im-mortal soouls? Her eyes gleamed with the strange white light. 'Th' good Pastor, why, he war allus mighty keen on burnin'. So, let's give 'im one heck of a bonfire. A good ole, big ole, mighty Christian, Suth'n flameball.'

Suddenly, she whipped out an old vinyl copy of The Burning Shrub from behind her back and held it aloft. With her other hand, she fished around in her pocket and pulled out a box of matches. Her face still wearing that weirdly possessed smile, she stuck a match.. Hushed, audiences watched as the feeble blue flame barely tongued the edge of the disc. The camera panned across her face: the blue had leached entirely from her irises. She lifted her head. The strange smile widened still.

'So come on down folks.' She held the flame closer still to the disc. Her chin quivered. The flame trembled. 'Coz this here band's back catalogue's fore BURNIN!'

Just then, an almost supernatural wind came out of nowhere, lifting the disc clean from her hand. The flame extinguished. The clear, guileless blue flooded back into her eyes. A great convulsion siezed her little chest and she began sobbing as though her little heart had been broken in a thousand pieces.

'Ah want mah Pop - Pastor baaack!'

(Aaaw…)

For all its embarrassing moments, there is nothing dearer to a band's heart (and wallet) than its back catalogue Though she appeared to have come to her senses, there was no knowing what the young fan might be inspired/possessed to do next. Without even waiting for the credits to roll - he'd been watching the show on the internet in Ballyhoo - and ignoring the chorus of objections from fellow band members that 'you's allus hoggin' it' - Cnamho boarded the band's private jet and headed straight for the TEN studio in Armageddon. Viewers all around the globe watched spellbound as his attempts to console the distressed young fan went out live. Bending down on one knee, he took her hand and told her gently:

'Tis not true, fair comely maid,

That I have reached an impasse sorry.

'Tis but I'd yon ancient image fade,

And among the clichés seek other quarry.

The fan stopped whimpering and stared at him open-mouthed as he smilingly continued:

Though on my head the horns may sprout

And devilish painted my face may be,

Ere I age and catch the gout,

I'd from the past mine image free

Abruptly releasing her hand, he suddenly fell on both knees, gripped his head and cried:

I would that I could break the spell

That holds mine image in evil thrall!

I would that I from burning Hell

Into the purifying waters fall!

The fan, who had been gazing in silent stupefaction (like just about every one else) immediately burst into fresh tears. Leaping to his feet, he growled:

Still thy whining thou foolish girl!

Thou dost not know what I am about!

Watch to see what next I unfurl,

For I would that I the past full rout!

What happened next had viewers stuck to their leatherette/vinyl/plastic seats - it was the height of summer - as he turned to stare straight at the camera, a pair of horns slowly emerging from his head, his eyes glowing like live coals. Clouds of smoke billowed from his nostrils, great gusts of flame erupted from his mouth and throwing his head back he began cackling in what can only be described as a decidedly demonic manner:

LO! Thou lookst upon me as mad indeed!

Thou thinkst I know not what I seek!

Hark! Look upon me and take good heed,

Thou shalt not treat me as a freak!

The fiends of Hell are many and legion,

To mine command and flaming staff,

They'll rally from that demon region,

And mine shall be the final laugh!

Still cackling like a demented orthodontist, he began rotating on his Cuban heels, spinning faster and faster until he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

For several moments, the fan's face filled the screen, a frozen tableau of fear. Far from being consoled by this performance, she was, in the later words of the Armageddon Judgement Times 'gibberin' like a turkey, 'night a'fore Thanksgivin.'

And she war - wasn't - the only one. The citizens of Armageddon were horrifed - Hells bells! - there was 'dayvil' was in their midst! Why, there was no knowin' where the son of Satan - or maybe his very POPPY hisself! - was going to show up next!

The grim-faced deputy sherriff wasted no time. Leaping into his jeep, he drove 'lahk flamin' hell' all over Armageddon warning citizens through a loud-hailer: 'Stay INDOORS all yew good folks, 'n' don't tawk to NUTHIN' what's got horns on. Not even cows, sheeps or GOATS - dem critters in per-TICKLER. Thar's no knowin' what goin' on in thar so-called mahnds - might take 'vantage a this here SEER-yus sit-u-AY-shun.'

The young fan's mother - a large multiple-divorcee on the eve of her ninth marriage (to the deputy sheriff) went before the cameras. Above the wailing sirens and screaming police horns she bawled her intention to 'sue that low-down, no-good McPishogue - mah li'l hunnee bin so skerd she doan wrestle with th' gaytors on th' fahm no mo'! ' She warned McPishoge that 'Hahram, mah fee-on-say iz a-gonna git yew boy! So yew go git yo'self a real good lawyuh, coz yew's gonna need one real baaayid, know what Ah'm sayin'?'

But first, he had to be found. According to the deputy sherriff, Armageddon's police department didn't have the man-power or resources to 'fahnd th' perp - we need th' F-B-AH - 'sides, mah throat's gittin' hoarse from all that loud-hailin'.

Within hours, bureau agents were on the scene, combing the area with hundreds of sniffer dogs. 'We suspect the perp of enlisting chemical assistance,' said the stone-faced Chief of 'Operation McPunk' from behind impenetrable shades, 'and these boys here' - he gestured at the baying chorus behind him - 'can sniff out a liberal at a Pentagon press briefing.'

Before long, reports of sightings of the 'horny li'l dayvil' began flooding in. They came from the most unexpected places. He had suddenly materialized before one upright citizen while chaperoning a group of cheerleader seniors on an educational trip, almost frightening him - and, even more so, them - half to death. ('We're not surprised,' drawled the Chief briefly adjusting his shades above the five-hundred strong choir of barking Alsatians. 'This Dem - punk's got his tentacles everywhere. But he can run and he can hide - our hounds from hell will find him.') Another citizen glimpsed him through a window at Miss Delilah Pickering's 'Flowers of the South' Academy for Brass Belles. Even the deputy-sheriff himself reported an encounter with the 'critter' while making routine enquiries with his assistant, an attractive divorcee of independent - and extensive - means. (She was apparently so unnerved by the experience she subsequently joined an enclosed order in Santa Fe and has since communicated only through a wire grille in a hole in the wall.)

A message left on the 'critter hotline' raised hopes of a promising line of enquiry. The caller claimed to have heard 'demonic' laughter and seen a horned silhouette among the ruins of a disused graveyard 'in the crepuscular light of a cryptic moon.' Sounding suspiciously to some like he was warming to a theme, he whispered:

'I had been kneeling by Eleyna's gravestone, enduring the grit embedded in my knees as uncomplainingly as ever I had these past forty long, lonely years, when I became aware I was no longer alone. Slowly, I rose to my feet. My heart fluttered like a trapped moth against my rib cage as I peered into the pregnant gloom. What foul and hellish weirdo had come here tonight of all nights? The night of our fortieth anniversary?

'Then I saw it. I froze, my heart in my boots. It stood for a brief candle-flame in Time's eternity, its silhouette delineated in the grave and lovely moonlight, lovely as the pearly complexion of my once, nay yet beloved, Eleyna. (The moonlight - not the weirdo's silhouette.) I heard the weirdo rasp, then cough. Then.. silence. Silence like the snow mantling the brow of my beloved as she lay in the drift where I'd found her, frozen for eternity like chicken nuggets too long in the freezer - beyond thawing, beyond even edibility itself. (The nuggets, not Eleyna. What do you think I am? Sheesh. )

'Then I heard it. A foul and rancid cackling, a creaking, ancient sound that had within it an occult sentience of unspeakable evil. And as I listened, the icy claws of fear closed ever tighter around my heart, hungeringfor the oxygen of my very blood ravening on the loneliness that had led me here tonight - yearning, longing for a glimpse, just a glance. (Of Eleyna that is - impractical though that may be - not the weirdo.)

'Again, again it came, that dreadful sound and again the fear clutched, tore, clawed at my very vitals like bootleg licquor - purchased - in-a-moment-of-utter-madness-what-on-earth-possessed-me? - from mountainy men with - possibly contagious - hygiene issues who looked like they'd last changed their shirts back in 'forty eight but it was too late, I was surrounded by them, I had to pay up if I wanted the goddamn gut-rotting-belly-ripping-liver-whacking hell's brew they were waving beneath my nose in a rusty old gas can and - God help me, I did -'

The call was abruptly terminated. Suspicions that the caller was no concerned citizen but the head psychiatrist of the Armageddon Institute for the Incorrigibly Gothic proved - following an FBI trace - true. Though held in great affection by the locals, it was generally believed the good doctor's testimonies were less than reliable (on just about any subject). His Sixties approach to mental health had long eroded the boundaries between patient and doctor and he was known, along with his patients, to have a fondness for hanging out in deconsecrated churches and moonlit swamps when the speakeasies closed down for the night. That, and a suspected addiction to angel-dusted bacon bits led the deputy sherriff to disregard the 'in-fur-may-tion - though me 'n' th' boys could listen to th' good Doc yarnin' all night long'. Besides, everyone was 'skitterin' 'roun' like she-cats in th' matin' season' and could, on this occasion, do without the doctor's somewhat florid contribution.

Alarmed at the hysteria, Cnamho himself showed up on TEN. Looking more like a sweet, timid marsupial than a demon, he apologised for what had happened. It appeared the persona had taken on a life of its own and was now a fully-fledged caricature. He could therefore no 'longer take responsibility for McPishogue's actions.' His offers to assist citizens in their efforts to locate the 'critter' were, however spurned. Instead, he was told by the deputy sherriff to 'git yo' flamin' ass outta heah boy!' Ah got me nuthin' but a heapa trouble since yew hit town!'

Asked now if this rejection had hurt, Cnamho winces a little.

'Yeah. I guess. I reckoned I was the obvious choice for huntin' down the critter. Bein' a man of God 'n' all. Kinda make ya wonder what's in folk's heads, times.'

'Doan make me wonder none,' says Billy-boy through a mouthful of grits. He shrugs. 'Folks is jes folks.' He munches stolidly for a moment. Eating appears to have a calming effect - it's almost as though he's thinking. 'Ain't no use rootin' roun' thar skulls - ain't nuthin' in 'em. Much.'

'That ain't so. Some folks has lots in 'em Billy-boy,' insists the Pastor. 'But don't you worry yoreself none. Like I'm always sayin', you don't want givin' yoreself a big ole, mean ole, mee-graine.'

Billy-boy nods and tugs at his collar. 'Yep. Sure don't. Thinkin's hurtin.' I knows that. Coz yew's allus tellin' me.'

McPishogue was never caught. The good citizens of Armageddon eventually gave up in the belief that he had somehow made his way back to Ireland. 'N' thass whar he b'longs - ain't sumpthin' fore us t'worry 'bout no more,' said the deputy sherriff looking more than a little relieved. 'Sides, Ah got me some nuptials comin' up - can't go 'roun' thinkin' 'bout no critter's no more.'

The good citizens may well be right. Reports of sightings around Ireland have occasionally come in. But nobody knows for sure where he is, or, for that matter, what he is. Dr. Aston E. Stayre, the Nation's psychiatrist, believes he is a 'spontaneous emission from the racial unconscious' but, like the psychiatrist's other diagnoses of the Nation's ills, not a sinner bean has the faintest notion what this means. The more popular belief is that 'McPishogue' has persistently evaded capture by emigrating to a parallel universe which has no extradition arrangements with the material world, a world free of the usual constraints of Time and Place and from which he continues to wreak havoc and misdhief on the unwary. Yet others believe he has always existed in some shape or form and is more demonized than demon. Whatever the truth, Sergeant O'Hara of Dublin Castle warns travellers not to fall victim to his blandishments should they chance across him on a lonely country road after a night in the pub - he is believed to a preference for pastoral retreats.

Cnamho shivers slightly when it is put to him that he had might have been burned by the experience. Or at least singed. 'I guess I was playing' with fire,' he acknowledges, slightly embarrassed. 'Didn't think there'd be all hell to pay.'

'I told yur,' says lead guitarist Razor who had been quiet until now, shaking his head. 'I told yur. But yur wouldn't listen, would yur? An' I told yur - great ballsa fire! - that suit war way too tight.'

Cnamho looks annoyed. 'It wasn't that tight, Razor. Just a bit uncomfortable.'

'Yew was wearin' th' devil's clothes!' says Billy-boy looking outraged still. 'We toled yew it warn't right!'

'Easy boy, easy,' says Razor soothingly, with a gentle tug of the leash. 'It war a long time ago now. Don't go gettin' yoreself all wurked like he war a ham-burger or sumpthin.'

Billy-boy folds his arms and looks mutinous. 'Still ain't long enough for me. Still say shoulda bin Ada wore them horns.'

Now Ada looks indignant. 'Well Ah nevah! Ah'm a good girl Ah am!' He handles the boa as threateningly as a noose. 'Yew jes say that agin, Billy-boy! Yew jes SAY it!'

'Shoulda bin-'

Razor intervenes. 'Hush now. Sure, Ada. Sure. We all knows yur's a good girl. Billy-boy here, he's jes foolin' 'roun'.

'No I ain't!'

'Yes yur are.'

'No I ain't.'

'Yes. Yur. ARE

'No. I. AIN''T.

'I say yur ARE - punk!' shouts Razor, giving the leash an almighty tug.

Ada leaps up. 'Ah say yew are too, Billy-boy!' He stops, confused, teetering slightly on his heels. 'Ah mean - Ah say yew aint'!'

'I ..gasp.. say it too!' chokes Billy-boy trying to loosen the collar round his neck.

'See?' crows Ada, his hands on his hips. 'Billy-boy's agreein' with me - Ah win! So yew jes leave 'im alone, yew mean ole thang, Razuh!' He frowns and sits down abruptly. He holds his hands up and stares at them. Slowly, his head moves from one to the other, his lips working silently. He appears to be doing mental math on his fingers.

'Lads, lads,' says a roadie who has just come in, 'let's not start all this again. You're on in twenty minutes.'

Razor drops the leash, but without loosening his grip. 'Why doo I bother?' he says to no one in particular. And drops his head wearily in his hands.

The Fathers of Reinvention are that rare animal, the successful Irish rock band. They conquered the world with such hits as I Will Follow (You All The Way To Athlone Coz I Don't Give Up Easy), You Walked Across My Heart (Like It Was A Shag-pile Rug), and Your Cheatin', Schemin', Lyin,' Low-down, Good-for-nuthin' Rhinestone Heart. Classics like Bury Me In My Wrap Around McFlea's, I Lost My Heart At A Tenessee Trucker Convention and the wonderfully anthemic - Hellfire Is A Pair of Tight Leather Pants In A Crowded Stadium have assured their place in the history of popular music. Seven-year itch experiments with industrial racket notwithstanding, their lyrics have, in latter years reflected age-coerced maturity and the domestic concerns of husbands and fathers - I've Slipped A Disc But What the Heck, Don't Want No Pop Tarts In My Toaster (You Ain't No Wife Of Mine, Jezebel) and the lovely 'Are We There Yet, Are We There Yet ( Nearly, Nearly, Let's Play 'Who Can Go The Longest Without Talking') - garnering them a whole new fan-base among the - still -mortgaged.

Neither fame nor experiments with industrial noise have dragged the band too far from its roots. All four members continue to regularly jam with local musicians in the shebeens of the Dubin Mountains between world tours.

'We still has that ole hillbilly soul,' smiles the Pastor, his eyes glinting. Or perhaps his shades: it's hard to tell through the two-inch thick shield of Perspex he now sports on his head. 'Cept now we're stinkin' rich.' He smiles wider, fanning himself with the iconic preacher's hat. 'And I tell ya, that's a mighty fine stink - sure beats the hog-house we was raised in.'

'Ah warn't raised in no hog-house!' objects Ada with a flounce of his boa. 'Ah war allus a prin-cess!'

'And you still is, beautiful, you still is' says Cnamho placatingly as he places the hat carefully in a red satin-lined, maribou-trim hat-box. Though no longer worn , it is clearly still beloved.

Ada sniffs and tosses his earrings. 'Jes so long's no body dun forgit.'

Billy-boy - unusually - is smiling. 'Used t'have us a mighty fine hog name of Maureen? The smile fades. 'Runned off sumb place.' His face darkens. 'Guess she knew my Pop war thinkin' bacon.' He begins grinding his teeth. 'She war real special t'me. 'N' my Pop, he knew. Th' mean ole' - his teeth are grinding rather alarmingly fast - 'cow-milkin', sheep-shearin', hog-eatin'-

'Easy, easy boy,' says the Pastor hurriedly, his hands resting on the hat. 'Don't go getting' yoreself all het up. You take a feather out of Ada here's boa. He don't get himself all worked up like you.''

'Thass a-coz he doan b'have hisself! He doan suffer - like me!' Billy-boy collapses back against the couch. He looks quite distressed. Reminiscing clearly takes a toll on him.

Ada clutches his boa fearfully. 'Yew jes keep yo' paws off of mah boa, Billy-boy Blondi! Else Ah'll use mah left hook! 'N' yew ain't beaten me yet!' His large, planted-apart feet make the boa look even more incongruous.

'Yur jes take it easy too Ada' cautions Razor. 'Else yurll go on th' lead, like Billy-boy here. Like yur did b'fore, when we found yur in that mo-tel-room, hollerin' like a blue ba-boon with his ass in flames 'bout some Mary-Lou what had stoled yore pink flamingo feather wallet. An' yore boa too. Next time, me 'n' th' boys won't buy yur a noo one. So yur jes be careful now 'n' take it nice'n'easy.'

Ada sinks back gracefully against silk cushions. 'Ah war jes 'sertin' mah raaghts, thassall,' he murmurs, arranging the boa around his shoulders. 'This heah's mah boa.' He caresses it lovingly. 'Ain't nobody gonna touch it. Evah.' He begins serenading it softly.

Billy-boy wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. They look suspiciously pink. Cnamho ruffles his Marine-tough crew affectionately. 'Yew is all raaght Billy-boy, yew is all-raaght.'

Ada is incensed. 'Yew jes quit tawkin' lahk yew is me, Cnamho - coz yew ain't!'

Razor eyes him warningly. 'Now Ada - I ain't sayin' it agin. Yur jes quit hissy-fittin' yoreself up over nuthin', coz there's more'n one leash in that thar wardrobe. 'An' I've got me too strong arms here what th' good Lord's given me - I can mind yur too, jes likeBilly-boy here He emphasises the threat with a none-too-gentle tug on the drummer boy's collar.

'Hey! That ain't right Razor! T'ain't ME what's hissy-fittin' now!'.

'N' that's th' way it's gonna stay Billy-boy,' says Razor imperturbably. He tugs again, but gently. 'We'll turn yur lose when we's certain 'ain't no meat 'roun' th' place - doan want yur smellin' blood 'n' goin' shark-crazy like yur did b'fore - trashin' th' roadies jes a-coz they was eatin' ham-burgers. Them boys doan come cheap, 'n' we can't afford t' loose no more of 'em. 'Tain't ham anyways - jes beef. 'Times ham is beef 'n' 'times beef is ham. Yur was allus too literal-minded son. Yur jes save it now, 'n' beat up 'em toms in th' service of th' Lord.'

'LEMME ATTEM!' The drummer is drumming his feet on the wooden floor and straining wildly at the leash.

'Down boy!' commands Razor.

The guitarist's grasp of drummer psychology is impressive: He instantly freezes. The promise of imminent percussive discharge appears to be the key to 'soothing the savage beast' - he looks almost docile. Almost.

The lid is finally on the hat-box. Cnamho gets up and opens a large, ruby-inlaid safe. Just visible are a pair of small, red-satin horns winking faintly in the dark. Ada eyes them rather wistfully as Cnamho places the hatbox in the safe before locking the door and pocketing the key. He turns and beams.

'Y'see? We's jes one big happy fahm'ly.'

Ada controls himself - just about.

As the band take to the stage trading affectionate - if robust - insults and warmly threatening to break one another's legs, you can't help thinking that that much, at least, is 'truthin'.

The Fathers of Reinvention 18/04/06