By Kate Kuhl

Having received lots of IRL feedback about what I wrote last week, I feel compelled to address a few points that were brought up. Being an only child, I also feel compelled to prove each of them entirely wrong.

1. I do not hate all short men. I just hate their angry yelling brethren.
2. If you are already a dear friend of mine and have dated someone out of your prescribed height range, I obviously am not mad at you. I'm just focusing on your good qualities (and perhaps the fact that you've shared enough with me about said tall man that there's no way I'd ever be jealous).
3. I am not anti-Irish. My best friend is Irish. And so is the close friend I went out with this Saturday.

I'm getting tired of referring to my friends without using names. I will hereby name that close friend "Pam."

But back to being pro-Irish. Not only is Pam Irish, but so is the incredibly talented (and particularly attractive) band we discovered at Fergie's Pub this past Saturday night.

Pam and I started our night at McGillin's. A few Woodchucks into our stay, we realized that unless we suddenly became HUGE Penn State fans, it was time to head elsewhere. A minute later, we found ourselves drunkenly climbing the steps at Fergie's.

At the top of the stairs, we were greeted by live music and a woman who we thought asked us if we were there “to see Bill." The only Bill I know is an orange cat who lives with my parents. We never discovered who this elusive Bill was, but we did learn that perhaps cider consumption isn't the best means of hearing enhancement, as we were later informed that the girl at the top of the steps was collecting cover for people going to see the band. Pam and I quickly found seats at the bar, ordered a round of Magners (which is a POOR substitute for a Woodchuck), and settled in to watch Ceann, who plays "Yankee-Irish Drinking Music."

Now, most of the live music I've stumbled upon recently has resulted in swift switches of location. I was entirely prepared to go from mildly amused to leaving in ten, fifteen minutes tops. I was not prepared to be entertained enough to turn to Pam halfway through the second song I heard Ceann play and announce "This week, I'm writing a column to prove I don't hate Irish people and it's going to be about these guys," nor did I (well, neither of us, as a matter of fact), expect to shut the bar down that night.

Though the band played a few covers, what they played for the most part was their own. I spent last St. Patrick's Day at Finnegan's Wake, so I know how quickly Irish-influenced originals can bite the big one. Ceann's music didn't. Their songs were funny, catchy and, well, really good. I would guess that the crowd at Fergie's was pretty well divided between loyal fans and those who'd stumbled in by good fortune. Even those of us who fell into the latter category still managed to catch onto song lyrics and the occasional accompanying dances (to songs about pirates—what more can you ask for?) with great ease.

Humor is a big part of Ceann's music, and most of it is all the more funny because it's rooted in honesty. Their humor ranges from tame (in "Almost Irish," which I've had stuck in my head since Saturday, they comment on the irony of being clearly American, but playing Irish music, with lines like "I'm not Irish, I'm from Allentown," and "I'll admit to you my biggest fear: that guy from Belfast will show up here"), to brutal ("Pretty On The Inside" describes the plight of a girl with a stellar personality and a vomitrocious outward appearance), to just plain naughty, as in the truly heart-wrenching ballad about attending a "party" where "no one licked" their "balls" (these dapper young lads are crude but smart—at this point in the evening, the crowd was amply buzzed and , as I mentioned earlier, Ceann is easy on the eyes—if there were greasy old men performing this ditty, I would have promptly heaved and left).

As it grew closer to 2 AM, Pam informed me that, though she was having a great time, she was also close to falling asleep and her contacts were attacking her eyes. I was both having an even better time than she and on a mission to prove myself the world's greatest friend, so I suggested she blink carefully and wake up, because we weren't going anywhere. There were cute talented musicians in our midst and, dammit, we were staying to talk to them—even though they were "Almost Irish."