Diddley Aye

I suffer from a condition common among the Irish. It's the occasional and (in my case) mistaken idea that I can sing. Rationally, I know better. My son Tom, at the tender age of 3 reached his breaking point and asked me to never sing to him again. Three years old. "Papa, you a tewwible singer" the precocious little tot told me then. And though it was hard for me to hear, deep down I knew he was right.

And yet, I persist, though mercifully only seldom. When my turn comes around at a late night pub session, I'll break out "The Flower Of Sweet Strabane" or "Ride On", willfully oblivious to the tendency of my companions to decide that this is the perfect time to head to the john or outside for a cigarette, whether they smoke or not.

If you're similarly afflicted, or better yet if you can actually sing, head up to The Gaf tonight at 7:30 for an informal Irish sing-song. Irish Fest performer Kelly Dougherty, who sings like a linnet, has your invitation:

"Come tonight at 7:30 to the Gaf for a "sort of" vocal jam session, no experience needed. If you like to sing, even if someone has told you can't, come on down. It's an Irish group sing so no one is singled out. Everyone blends together. It's friendly and unassuming and there are songbooks!"

The Gaf, of course is on Wornall at about 72nd St or so. Go early, grab a bite to eat and a pint to loosen up the vocal cords and join in. When you arrive, if a whole bunch of people are standing outside smoking, you'll know I'm soloing.