History of The Spalpeens

        Nearly 30 years after rock-hard paratrooper Bill Davis and his sons began singing Irish music together as The Spalpeens, the band continues to delight Baltimore area audiences with its distinctive, rousing blend of Celtic and American folk favorites.The Spalpeens’ hard driving, soulful sound is an eclectic mix of Irish and Scottish ballads, new takes on old sea chanties and older drinking laments, and updated twists on American folk classics. The band’s varied repertoire includes nostalgic favorites (“Boys of the Old Brigade,”) edgy rebel numbers (“Come Out Ye Black and Tans,”) mournful confessions (“Carrickfergus,”) haunting ballads (“Four Green Fields,”) creative new arrangements (“Little Beggarman,” “Follow Me Up To Carlow,”) as well as novelty crowd pleasers (“Desert Pete” and “Dooley.”)

        The energy and heart of the band comes clearly from Spalpeen founder Bill Davis. A much decorated World War II veteran of the 82nd Airborne’s 504th parachute regiment (“Those Devils in Baggy Pants”) Bill established a reputation onstage with his distinctive eye patch, a lilting baritone and his lively harmonica playing. Living now in retirement in splendiferous Sykesville after a career as a tough and well-known construction executive, Bill has recently turned the reins of “The Spalpeens” over to his sons.

        The group is now led by Bill’s oldest, Rocky, himself a construction hoss and accomplished singer and musician. Rocky’s innovative picking is matched only by the sweetness of his tenor voice as heard on favorites “Only Our Rivers,” or “Bonnie Hieland Laddie.” By the way, though he plays guitar, mandolin and tenor banjo, it’s Rocky’s dynamic work on the five-string banjo that is the bedrock of the band’s distinctive bluegrassy-folk style. Observant critics have noted, however, that Rocky’s impossibly gaudy 1976 Bi-Centennial edition Gibson Mastertone 5-string lacks only mud flaps and a weigh station certificate to qualify for any given monster truck rally (Be there! Be there! Be there!) or Saturday night tractor pull.

        Other Spalpeens include Rocky’s brother Mike, another high echelon hardhat when not singing and playing the guitar. It was Rocky and Mike, along with their father, who made up the original nucleus of the band. Another veteran from the old days, and the most feared and respected job-site ramrod in six states is singer Mike Fadrowski. Known as “Fud” to family and “Mr. Fadrowski,” to all those outside the construction trailer, both his surname and ethnic heritage belie a keen, genuine interest in Irish music. And besides, he’s married to Rocky’s sister Jeannie who’s Irish enough for both of them.

        There are lots more Davises to get to. There’s youngest brother Greg Davis, yet another family member who earns his daily bread shaking his head at architects. It’s Greg who keeps the band together musically onstage with the solid play of his 1964 Fender bass (and 1864 bass cabinet). He is also the band’s de-facto soundman and feedback suppressor. He can turn you up or turn you down, and by God, you just don’t cross the man.

        Not too long ago, The Spalpeens got a much-needed infusion of charm and singing talent with the addition of Kelly Davis, Rocky’s youngest daughter. Kelly, who also plays the tin whistle, has a voice even sweeter than Dad’s and it packs a hidden wallop that often has crowd’s cheering for more (and the old man shedding the occasional tear.)

        Being a broadminded clan, the Davis’s have not limited themselves strictly to family or in-laws. Thus, The Spalpeens also number two outlaws among its cast. Foremost is Jerry Meyers, the boyhood best friend of Rocky and the band’s tireless lead singer. To give you an idea how far back Jerry goes with the ‘Peens: he and Mike Davis bought their Guild 6-strings together back in the day. To give you an idea how close Rocky and Jerry are: Jerry accidentally knocked over Rocky’s gaudy banjo one night, snapping its silly neck. In a touching show of brotherhood beneath the fretboard, Rocky magnanimously chose not to do the same to Jerry.

        The seventh member of the band is Patrick McGuire, a one-time reporter with the Baltimore Sun who has since wandered into the freelance writing of books about North Dakota and website pages about Irish bands whose name begins with S. McGuire plays the 12-string guitar and straps on a Crafters of Tennessee 5-string when Rocky reaches for the mandolin.

        The key to the success of The Spalpeens—other than learning all three chords in the G progression pretty much without peeking—is the robust mixture of bluster and good humor band members have sported through the years. This is a band that cut its teeth in the early years with gigs in the rough and tumble waterfront saloons of Baltimore. More than once banjos and guitars were set aside while the ‘Peens used chuckles and knuckles to restore order to an overly enthusiastic clientele. Indeed, McGuire recalls the night his guitar was dented by an object hurled with passion from the audience at the Cat’s Eye Pub in Fells Point. Stunned to find the thrown object was a standard 7.62mm NATO round, he exclaimed “You know it’s a tough bar when instead of shooting at you, they throw the bullets.” As it turned out, the hurled ammo had been merely a creative way for tongue-tied owner Kenny Orry to get the attention of the band amid the din so as to request a lullaby for his dear old mother. They sang that lullaby for Kenny Orry, for as is well known the ‘Peens have never turned down a request in the key of G, or at the beckoning of flying lead.

        Incidentally, the very name “Spalpeens” says a lot about the character of the band. In Gaelic the word means “man of little substance,” and its proper usage would take the form of a sneering insult, accompanied by a slight, though highly visible tremor of fear. As in: “Ye spalpeen, ye!” Of course, the spalpeen in question would reply with a grin, a cocked musket placed just upside the Adam’s Apple and a suggestion that the gentleman in question hand over his purse and that of the little lady as well—and step lively, me lad.

        In its modern day interpretation, one might think of a spalpeen as a kind of Irish Jambalaya, mixing the insouciance of the “Hells Angels” and the insistence of, let us say, the bulls of Pamplona. Throw in a dash of the young Elvis Presley and just a pinch of Keith Richards on somebody else’s cloud and you get soup you can eat with a pitchfork.

        Even so, many may yet underestimate these musical ‘Peens of little substance as suntanned Beach Boys or even sun-dried Beastie Boys. No matter. The current membership could care less how the world defines a ‘Peen. They prefer to play their music, sing their songs and conduct themselves according to the gospel laid down by their upright founder. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, armed and dangerous bar patrons of America, give it up for those devils in baggy pants.

For booking, contact The Spalpeens manager

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