My ears still ring. I spent my St. Patrick's Day at a surprise, free concert given by the now-defunct Sheila Divine at T.T. the Bear's in Central Square, Cambridge. A brother was awarded two passes, and he gave them to another brother, who gave one to me. Like Buffalo Tom but a decade after, Sheila Divine had a small but intense following in the Boston area. They also enjoyed some success abroad. Alas, rock music in the late '90s and early oughts was at its nadir and stardom didn't normally come with the territory. If you aren't familiar with the Sheilas, and most aren't, here's Hum, Automatic Buffalo, and Where Have My Countrymen Gone. They broke up several years back, but came back for one last blast. I witnessed it, and a blast it was. They rock. Er, they rocked.

The afternoon St. Patrick's Day concert was sponsored by Bushmill's Whiskey, which unfortunately entitled them to control the alcohol that flowed. When I ordered a beer, the bartender told me that taps weren't flowing. Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis? My selections, I was informed, included Bushmill and Coke, Bushmill and tonic, Bushmill and Bushmill, and other such variety. Who am I to complain? Not only was the concert free, but three whiskeys came complimentary too. Better still, my wristband allowed me to flee the corporate monopoly and enjoy a beer down the street. There, in an Irish bar no less, I spotted a man wearing a hat with St. George's Cross atop it. The St. Patrick's Day fashion choice, no doubt, was intentional. Had it been 1977 instead of 2007, and South Boston instead of Cambridge, that man would have lost his hat and a few teeth. We live in civilized times and a deracinated Irishman such as myself will only stare and not impart physical lessons. Who knows what the rest of the evening held for the man and his hat?

I returned to T.T. the Bear's to sample the Bushmill, which I don't recommend. Once the patrons tried it, the promotion's reasoning went, they'd be hooked. Not in my case; I greeted to the reflow of the beer taps in a manner akin to how some people react to the opening of hunting season. The most surreal thing about St. Patrick's Day, or any such festival that makes daytime drinking socially acceptable, is emerging from a dark bar into the daylight under the influence of alcohol--normally a nighttime, darkness-to-darkness experience. One of the worst things about daytime drinking is the nighttime hangover, which kicked in for me at around 10 p.m. It's for good reason that St. Patrick's Day occurs but once a year.

Anyhow, I stuck around after the concert long enough to catch a glimpse of the lead singer hauling his equipment from the club. There's no shame in that. But I couldn't help but think of a half-hour earlier, when hundreds of fans were singing along with him. Now, the stage lights had dimmed. His career as guitarist and singer for The Sheila Divine had ended (at least until the next comeback gig). He was a regular guy again, lifting equipment into the icy streets of Cambridge.

A comedown? I wonder if it's as much a comedown as attaining superstardom, something the Sheila Divine never did, and then playing clubs--in a cover band no less. That's where Brad Delp found himself in recent years. A few years back, I caught Delp in a club in Davis Square, Somerville, miming John Lennon, in the incredible Beatlejuice. In the 1970s, Delp sang lead on what was then the bestselling debut album in history. Boston had a few nice songs, but they seemed too slick--a sin the club-hit Beetlejuice never committed. Cover bands are supposed to be laughable, but Beatlejuice was serious business. Delp had a passion for the Beates. He didn't care that he sang on one of the bestselling albums in rock history. He loved the Beatles and paid tribute. I never saw Boston perform live and it doesn't matter to me. I am too young to have seen the Beatles and it bothers me. But at least I saw Beatlejuice. But like The Sheila Divine, Beatlejuice is over. Brad Delp killed himself last week.

Delp, like Sheila Divine vocalist Aaron Perrino, experienced the fanatics' cheers for perhaps an hour a night. What about the other twenty-three hours? It's tough when people you don't know treat you infinitely better, at least on a superficial level, than the people closest to you. Family members don't buy you drinks, chant your name, or beg for an autograph. But strangers do. That's a weird life.

I have no idea why Brad Delp, or anyone else, committed suicide. I don't know if they know either. If it is, as rock casualty Bon Scott sang, a long way to the top if you wanna rock n roll, it's got to be an even longer way down from the top. This applies, I would guess, to the down that occurs in the hours after the concert ends and life returns to normal (which must seem abnormal), just as it applies to the down years after the peak years. Rest in peace, Brad Delp. Keep on rocking, all living musicians--even if you have to lug your gear.

I am deeply opposed to rocking.

P.S: But a huge supporter of rolling.

Rock and Roll is the clearest of all signs of our age's deep-seated predilection for barbarism.

Based on the way Delp checked himself out, there might have been a lot more to the tale than just Rock and Roll letdown. Asphyxiating yourself by using two charcoal grills is pretty weird stuff. I suspect he was a pretty strange guy to begin with.

its all G. DUBS fault!

That's sad about Delp. In my days at Exeter I took guitar lessons from Bob Squire, guitarist of Beatlejuice.

r.c.

Aaron Perino's new band (Dear Leader) is arguably just as big as the Sheila Divine. They have sold out the Paradise and Middle East downstairs on numerous occasions... so I don't see him fading into the covers scene or obscurity anytime soon.

ahhh good old St.George ...if only the English had stayed true to 'their*' patron saint maybe they wouldn't get beat up by Irishmen as much.

* the official patron saint of England is St.Peter!!!

Just heard 'Foreplay/Long Time' on a stream. That WAS an awesome album.