Did a pseudo Irish restaurant in Connecticut for Saint Patrick's Day. The crowd was thick and jolly and wanted Danny Boy so many times I swore I'd never sing the effing thing again as long as I lived. In the last half of the evening the emphasis shiftred from strolling among diners to standing in front of a crowded room packed with drinkers, all asserting their Gaelic roots through a hundred generations, affecting a wonderful range of phony burrs and brogues, and swilling green beer that was just pisspoor Bud with food dye in it, yelling out various visions of what they figured Irish music should be, but sounding more like football fans. I think I did Danny Boy a hundred times, and a hundred other songs a few times each, and I staggered home with my hundred bucks or whatever but with no voice left in my head.