Empty Seats, Bounced Checks, and a Ceilidh in the Lobby: Our Boston Festival Adventure

The call came through and the question was simple: were we interested? Why, yes. Yes we were! There was going to be an Irish festival in Boston, and we’d been invited to perform. The festival was supposed to have it all: plenty of music on several stages, Celtic dancers, vendors, specialty foods, events for children.

They’d cover airfare and accommodations, which was standard, plus a nice check at the end of the day. Big names from Ireland and Scotland were flying in from both sides of the Atlantic. It was 1993. Our contact was Jeannie (not her real name, because honestly I can’t remember it anymore). An April fête at the Boston Trade Center: three days of live traditional music. Contracts, paperwork, and conversations about the shows followed.

What could go wrong?

My husband and musical partner, Tom, was a Scottish native, with the brogue to prove it. He had an incredible singing voice and a rather salty wit. We often performed as a duo, especially on the road: Tom on guitar and vocals, and me on bass and vocals – sometimes playing the bodhrán (an Irish drum), and the occasional fiddle tune. We performed as Celtic Pride, or simply as Tom and Marie Teven. His humor served us well on stage, especially when he leaned into stories from the old country.

As the date crawled closer, Jeannie became, let’s say, harder to find. It nagged at me. I wanted to confirm flight times, tickets, our hotel – all the boring but important details. Still, it wasn’t unheard of. Festival folks get busy, especially wrangling 30-plus acts. I had the contact info for a couple of other organizers, but they didn’t seem to know much. About anything.

Tom and I had played plenty of festivals, so we knew the drill. And with so many performers, many of them friends, all headed to the same place, surely it would go as planned. Ultimately, the details were confirmed, and we already had a signed contract, notarized and all. That should have been enough, right?

Our ‘friend’ Jeannie hadn’t bothered to tie up the last few details with us, but all the other musicians seemed to be heading to Boston. So early Thursday morning, we arrived at the Portland airport. Our reservation was there, but unpaid. Tom had had it. “We’re not going,” he said flatly.

Maybe that should’ve been the final red flag. But I pushed it. “Come on. It has to be a mistake.”  So I swallowed hard, and put the flights, over $1,300, on our Amex card. We were going to Boston.

In the ’90s, flying with instruments wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t need an extra seat or a special blessing. You just carried them on, and the airline staff tucked them away with the strollers and oversized odds and ends in the back of the plane.

At Logan, we ran into several friends who were performing too. Some were arriving, others were already there and hanging out. One thing about traditional musicians, especially Scots and Irish, is that any time is a fine time for a party. Some of them were already at it in the airport bar. Of course they were.

We piled into one of the festival cars for the 20-minute ride to the hotel. Arriving, we realized that these were quite the luxurious digs for traditional musicians – the Swissôtel, with thick towels, bathrobes in the closet, and a view of the city. Tom’s first move upon entering the room? Checking the mini-fridge – stocked to the brim. More on that later.

Our first performance was scheduled on Friday, with brief dress rehearsals in the morning to sort out the sound. Everything seemed good. Most everyone had arrived, and we were reconnecting with musicians left and right. We decided to stay and hear the show rather than just showing up for our own time slot. As it turns out, that was a good plan.

Because when the first act took the stage, the room was, let’s say it: empty. Rows and rows of empty seats. Uh-oh. Tom leaned over and said, “We’re not getting paid, are we?” I’m an optimist, although by then it was becoming more difficult. I mumbled something about it being Friday, and how the big crowd would surely come tomorrow. But I knew. I think we all did.

By Saturday morning, there were murmurs over breakfast that things were going off the rails. Rumors were starting to spread. Vendors were muttering. Performances were supposed to start at 10 a.m., but the audience consisted of, well, nobody. I found myself mentally adding up the costs: rent for the Trade Center facility, equipment, hotel rooms, travel – and all those musicians – it made my stomach flip.

Saturday, the “big” day, looked much like Friday – just a handful of folks scattered about. Sunday was worse. Still, we all played, performed our little hearts out and supported each other by clapping and cheering. Loudly. 

After the show on Saturday, Tom and I took a taxi to an Irish pub that, blessedly, had instrumental music, song, dance – and an actual crowd. We ended up sitting in with the musicians there and having ourselves a grand time. We asked around, and no one had heard a thing about a festival at the World Trade Center, which was telling. 

And Jeannie? We saw her flitting around intermittently all weekend. She lamented that she hadn’t promoted the event well enough. Yup. I agreed. And I wasn’t kidding.

Most of us were scheduled to fly out Monday morning. So when the last performances wrapped up at 6 p.m. on Sunday, someone suggested a brilliant idea: let’s clear out the mini-bars and have a ceilidh – pronounced kay-lee, a gathering with music and dancing – in the lobby. The rooms were prepaid, after all. We didn’t have to ask Tom twice. 

Performers from all over the hotel gathered, dragging chairs and benches together. And the staff said that they didn’t mind. Players pulled fiddles and guitars from their cases, along with a couple of wooden Irish flutes and penny whistles. An Uilleann (‘ill-an’) pipe player turned up – the instrument a much softer sounding cousin of the Scottish Bagpipes. There were concertinas and some young jean-wearing dancers practicing on the side. 

Cases were piled around, rather haphazardly. Yet the entire picture was extraordinary, if anyone had thought to take a photo. Of course, we didn’t – no phone cameras in those days. Besides, these were players whose primary interest was the music itself. 

Some of the best performances of the entire weekend happened right there. A couple of larger bottles made the rounds – remember, this was the ’90s, and as long as you weren’t driving, it was fine. Right? Management tried to shoo us out around 9:30, but if memory serves, it was a little after 11 when we finally packed up our guitars and headed for bed.

Jeannie did give us a paycheck, the full $1,500. Of course, it bounced. Twice. Many of the other musicians didn’t even get that. Tom and I had paid for our own airfare and food. I’m not sure how the mini-bar raids were accounted for, and I admit I felt a touch of guilt there. But that ceilidh in the lobby made the whole weekend for us. 

On the flight home, Tom wrote a brilliant song about the fiasco, the whole affair, including the lobby jam. It was long, with lots and lots of verses. I’ve searched everywhere for the lyrics – through the chaos of Tom’s enormous three-ring binder, which was famous for its disorganization. But they seem to have vanished. So you’ll just have to trust me.

And what happened to Jeannie? Her entertainment company went bankrupt later that year. Some of the players talked about suing, but there was nothing left to sue for. Ultimately, I think she was just in over her head. In other words, she meant well, but didn’t have the team to pull off a festival of this size. I spoke with her once more, just to confirm there wasn’t going to be another check. I wished her luck in whatever came next. I believe she went back to selling real estate.