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Despite the absence of Sinéad, Van, and the Chieftains, the Guinness Fleadh suffered no loss of Irish cred this year. Of all the summer festivals, only the Fleadh could boast thousands of pasty people slathering on sunblock, downing the dark stuff, and staggering from stage to stage in search of good craic (that's fun, to the uninitiated). With thumping step dancers, traditional music sessions keepin' it real, and over 30 bands on three stages, this year's festival (on Randall's Island, as usual) proved yet again that there's more to the Irish renaissance than the Titanic score, Michael Flatley, and B*witched.
On two separate stages, closers Elvis Costello and Shane MacGowan illustrated the opposite ends of the Fleadh's spectrum: entreating singer-songwriter and devil-may-care punk-popster. Costello unleashed a stream of favorites from his acoustic guitar to an attentive, appreciative audience, no doubt the same folks here earlier for Lucinda Williams. The delightfully unintelligible Shane MacGowan, with an audience sufficiently rowdy thanks to Black 47, sloshed along, stopped twice to, ahem, collect himself, and slurred, "God bless, and go home for Christ's sake."
The day was packed with surprising, horizon-widening examples of Irish culture, including trad-tribal band Kíla, which incited a frenzy, banging out rhythmic patterns worthy of a rain dance. The Irish Village tent provided a shady respite for dramatic readings and theatrical performances inspired by Yeats. No Irish art forum would be complete without a jab at the Catholic Church, affectionately lampooned by Sr. Hip in a skit with gyrating altar boys. If that wasn't enough Irish, vendors hawked silver claddagh rings and Celtic throws, and you could slap on temporary Guinness tattoos. As far as second-billed Hootie was concerned, the band's connection seemed to lie merely in singer-songwriter earnestness and a fondness for golf.