Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Broguing and Boozing With The Celtic Tenors

J: First, it must be said that the following events take place the exact same weekend that Meredith met Cillian Murphy in New York. Despite being hundreds of miles apart, our love for the Irish manifested - in most magnificent ways - just hours apart.

The Celtic Tenors: What can only be a promo shot.
I decided to take a dear friend from college to a concert for Christmas, and given our mutual love of choral music and Irish culture, the Celtic Tenors seemed just the thing. I had even won a CD prior to the show, and that afternoon I quickly made her a copy, eager to hear and share a collection of songs that I anticipated would soon become our favorite. It was at this point that I realized the Celtic Tenors are not the Irish Tenors, which took me awhile to sort out. Imagine believing that you're about to see, I don't know, Andrea Bocelli and instead Josh Groban takes the stage. Not necessarily a lesser performance (more swooning, certainly), but not exactly the same thing. At the show, instead of closing my eyes and reveling in a truly magnificent classical performance, I was scanning the stage picking out the Tenor that I'd like to take home and... uh... introduce to my mother. The concert was silly and fun and even included some holiday tunes and sing-a-longs, and yes of course I participated. My friend was kind enough to sing with me and not stare when I elected to take the lower octave.

On stage in Kansas!
If that were the extent of the story, I may not have bothered to write a post about it. However, dear readers, the fun is only just beginning...

My friend and I contemplated hanging back after the concert and inviting the Tenors out with us, but alas, the line was too long and we were... ah... thirsty. So we made our way downtown to one of my favorite bars, and settled in for a drink or six. On my way back from the bathroom, a tall, dark-haired not-quite-a-stranger caught my eye. Lo and behold, the Tenors (two of the three and their pianist, at least) had come to the exact same bar! My friend and I proceed to gush at their eyes and their accents, drink, smile, laugh hysterically whenever appropriate/possible, and gush some more. I attempted to speak Irish, remembering only how to say "I have a car" and "I don't have a man" (this earned me both a fair round of applause and consoling pats on the back).

Not the same bar, but it counts.
One thing led to another, a round of five shots became a round of ten, and before I knew it we were all headed to Jimmy John's, having just enjoyed a final taste of the bar's Jameson. Several sandwiches later (one of which mysteriously ended up in my purse), and we were walking back to their hotel. There I was, stumbling and running hand in hand with a happily married man, talking about his children. It seems as though my friend had the luck that night, as the pianist was the only single and straight Irishman of the bunch. I walked myself home and fell straight to sleep on the couch, unable to keep up in the slightest with a group of rowdy, touring, singing Irishmen.
The pianist. Adorable!

All in all, it was an evening of brogue that I shall never, ever forget (no matter how hard I try). If you ask very nicely, I may even burn you a copy of the CD.