Mick Moloney is a singer of songs, a teller of tales, a player of tenor banjo and guitar, and a scholarly folklorist who can tell you the meaning and origin of every note and word he sings. And he’s funny and charming to boot.

That rare commodity, a folk musician with a Ph.D., Professor Moloney has taught Irish Studies at New York University for years. He can tell you how immigrants coming to America changed the Irish music they brought with them. A recent CD, If It Wasn’t for the Irish and the Jews, “celebrates the joyous and creative era in American popular song from the early 1890's to the end of vaudeville and the start of the Great Depression.” Every song on the album is a collaboration between Irish and Jewish musicians who were immigrants or the children of immigrants.

A Limerick man, Moloney performs and records widely. He’s worked with PBS on the TV documentaries Out of Ireland and The Irish in America: Long Journey Home. His book Far From the Shamrock Shore: The Story of Irish American History Through Song has an accompanying CD.

For the Tucson concert, the last blast of Tucson’s Irish Season, Moloney teems up with Athena Tergis, an American-born prodigy who began playing the fiddle at age 4. She’s a master of Irish fiddling styles from the Auld Sod as well as from the Irish diaspora in North America. She’s performed on Broadway in Riverdance, plays regularly with Moloney in the band Green Fields of America, and she even toured the world with the late Clarence Clemons, sax player with the E Street Band.

The show starts at 7:30 Thursday, March 23, at St. Francis in the Foothills, 4625 E. River Road, at Swan. The church’s music hall has only 200 seats. Advance tickets are $20, $18 for seniors and member of TFTM, $3 more at the door. You can get them at www.inconcerttucson.com and at Antigone Books, 411 N. Fourth Ave., and The Folk hop, 2525 N. Campbell. For disability seats, call 981-1475. You can listen in to a sampling of songs here.

South by Southwest is not just about music. It’s also about waiting in line.

Waiting in line to maybe get in. To maybe be shoulder to shoulder behind the tallest man in Austin. To maybe strain to see a stage that’s a foot off the ground. To maybe – just maybe – find that sweet spot with a band you love and enough room to lose yourself.

On Friday evening, I’m looking through the list of that night’s bands, all within a half-hour walk of each other. Hmm, should I see Wyclef Jean, M. Ward or Neko Case? Or maybe I should check out Talib Kweli, Ryan Adams or Future Islands.

And then I see a new addition—Lana Del Rey! (Yes, I’m a fan. And the idea of seeing her in person kinda makes me swoon.)

She’s scheduled to go on at 9, in two hours, so I headed over. The line is already curving around the building, about 150 people. The doors are at 8, and there’s room for 450 badge-holders. Sweet! I’m a badge holder.

Eight p.m. comes and goes. The line begins to move but only a few feet every 20 minutes. At a quarter to 9, they’re at capacity. Only about 120 badge-holders got in. I guess they had more VIP show up than anticipated.

This is a normal occurrence at SXSW. Maybe 400 VIP get in first, then those who paid hundreds for badges, then people who just bought a wristband for a specific show. The last category of people usually wait a very, very long time, if they get in at all.

Abandoning my dreams of seeing Lana, I headed over to the Weezer show, a 10-minute walk. The line for wrist-band holders is a few dozen, for badge-holders, almost no one. I get right in and head toward the front of the stage to wait for midnight.

I’m close to the front. I hold my ground when broad-shouldered men try to push their way in front of me. But I scoot over for a couple women. And somehow I find myself, as I often do, standing behind the tallest man in Austin, straining to see opening bands on a stage only feet away, but totally blocked from sight. My legs hurt, my glass is empty, and the 90s are long gone. Weezer just isn’t worth it.

When I hit the street, the line of people waiting to get in is in the hundreds. But I know I made the right choice. I can move. I can breathe. I walk down the very busy Sixth Street, weaving in and out of the crowd, determined not to let anybody slow my role. My phone is about to die, but I know where I’m going. I’m giving SXSW’s Friday night one last shot at redemption. I’m going to Minus the Bear.

There’s a decent line outside of Barracuda Backyard. I asked the door man if they’re at capacity.

“For wristbands, yes, but you go to the good line,” he says, pointing to the alley.

Around back, there’s no line, just dumpsters overloaded with beer bottles and paper plates. Inside it’s a wonderland of space. I walked right to the front of the stage and stretch my legs. The Minneapolis band 4onthefloor is rocking the stage. The lights are low. People are dancing. Full-bearded frontman Gabriel Douglas, sings about being drunk on Tuesdays. I get a drink.

After 4onthefloor is the Mothers, from Athens, Georgia. I get comfortable on a bar stool and endure possibly the most boring show at SXSW. The band’s vocals are as lazy as their stage presence. Every song the same—a monotone whine and absence of all body movements or facial expressions.

When Minus the Bear comes on at 1 a.m., I easily make my way to the front. The indie-rock band from Seattle is getting into their groove, but the vocals are totally drowned out. I start to get jostled. My ears begin to ring. I go to the back of the room.

The stage is high enough, I can still see the band. And from the back, I can hear all the sounds. I can hear the guitar, rocking and weeping. The bass, grooving and the drums, pounding. And I can hear frontman Jake Snider’s vocals, soothing and strong.

And I dance. In the back of the room, in the middle of the night, I found my sweet spot. And so I dance.

"Streets of This Town" is a little daily photo series featuring random pics I take on long walks through Tucson—to sort of coincide with Tucson Salvage.

The lead singer of Future Islands reveals his soul while he performs. The persona most of us wear when in public, guarding our emotion, our inner selves—front man Samuel T. Herring motions pulling off his mask while on stage at Thursday night’s Pandora showcase at SXSW.

Under his mask, he’s crying unabashedly, in front of the hundreds in the audience. He pounds his chest. He growls in to the microphone. He reaches out a hand to the audience as if to say, “Be real. Be strong.” Sweat pours down his face. He reaches a hand to the sky. It’s a difficult time in our country, he told the audience when he stepped on stage, and he’s so excited to be here.

With band members Gerrit Welmers on keyboards, William Cashion on guitar and a hired drummer, Future Islands music is hard and emotional. The audience was lost in the moment as Herring danced across the stage and leaned into the crowd to sing directly to them—each and every one.

The Secret Sisters are as joyful on stage as their songs are depressing. Laura and Lydia Rogers love the dark days.

“We sell antidepressants at our shows,” Laura jokes on stage at Cooper’s BBQ’s Americana Music Association showcase, which became Americana Ladies’ Night when the organizers realized all their headliners were women.

In front of a brick wall with a neon Budweiser sign over the shape of Texas, the Alabama women sing “Bad Habit,” a song their mother calls “intense.”

The huge head of a longhorn bull looks down on them as they harmonize with a rapturous twang. Over 100 people sit on the floor, fill the tables and stand along the walls. The whole room is silent, enchanted.

Between songs, Lydia tunes her guitar, and Laura chats with the audience, joking and telling stories. Chewing gum, she tells them about meeting the Everly Brothers. Laura says she was so excited, she burst into tears, and they weren’t pretty tears. She looked like she’d “just been born—red and shiny and wet."

The sisters love music from another time, and most of their favorite musicians are dead. It shows in their music—an old-timey feel with a sadness that’s older than they are.

“And now we’re going to segue into happier material by playing a murder ballad,” Laura says. It’s a sequel to their first murder ballad and will be on their next album, “You Don’t Own Me Anymore,” produced by Brandi Carlile and out this summer.

“Don’t tell us if you don’t like it,” Laura tells the audience, laughing. “That’s like telling someone they have an ugly child.”

The women get a lot of their inspiration from failed relationships, which is why Laura hasn’t written a song she likes since she got married to a “redneck from Alabama” last April. So they play the last good song she wrote: “He’s Fine,” about the last man who broke her heart.

These boots are made for dancing. And singing. And for delivering rip-roaring entertainment liable to leave you breathless.

Kinky Boots, winner of the 2013 Tony Award for Best Musical, has landed in Centennial Hall this week, courtesy of Broadway in Tucson, the group that makes sure Tucsonans can go about their lives humming plenty of show tunes. And if you want to laugh and cheer and have the cockles of your heart warmed and wowed, you’d better hop on this thing before it’s gone. Or sold out.

The show, which is based on a British 2005 movie, has been refashioned by Harvey Fierstein (book) and Cyndi Lauper (music and lyrics) to celebrate living out loud the person you are. Even if you are challenged  every inch of the way by small minds, find your calling, find your courage, find your soul.

It’s encouragement we all need and it’s most assuredly a show for these days.

The story is a bit complicated, but here’s the short version: A young man, Charlie (Curt Hansen), inherits his father’s factory that makes sensible shoes and he takes a huge risk, converting the factory to making footwear for drag queens: kinky boots.

The inspiration for Charlie’s decision is the most fabulous Lola (Timothy Ware.) A glorious entertainer with a group of talented lovelies, she becomes Charlie’s business partner. Along with the boots, the factory cranks out plenty of drama, as Simon, much more comfortable as Lola, must challenge not only the disdain of some of the factory workers, but the boss himself, a man unsure of what to do with his life. Lola and Charlie, different in many ways, find strength as they struggle with each other as well as with their own insecurities.

It’s hard to imagine this touring production being much better. Directed and choreographed by Jerry Mitchell, it’s high energy, grandly staged, and gloriously costumed, all coalescing to deliver a story with a very sweet heart. The spot-on performances of the entire company lead us on a joyous journey that culminates in an irresistible finale. Yes, the storytelling sometimes feels contrived, but it still resonates because of the strength of the performers and the explosive power of music and dance.

Ware as Lola is a marvel. He was the understudy for the Broadway Lola, and he is nothing less than full of the life that makes the world go ‘round. Sensitive, cocky, sweet and powerful, Ware struts in his glorious costumes, dances his booty off and makes the most of every moment onstage. This show would fall as flat as sensible shoes without a powerhouse as Lola, and Ware finds both her humor and humility. Our hearts simply swallow his creation.

Hansen also finds a fully-fashioned man in Charlie. He can be a bit whiny and a lot angry, but his heart slowly opens to himself and the world beyond what’s comfortable and safe.

Really, all the actors bring us full-throated characters. Aaron Walpole as Don, the big lug who has no use for Lola, discovers that he’s a big lug with a big heart. Understudy Julia McLellan owned a goofy-but-charming Lauren, the factory worker who’s got the hots for Charlie. And Lola’s team of “Angels” dance with flash and freedom and irrepressible exuberance.

Here’s something. Don and Lola make a bet that the winner of a boxing match to settle their differences will do the bidding of the other. Although Don wins, he’s curious about what Lola would have him do. He reads the slip of paper he was handed: You must allow a person to be who they are. Don responds, “What does that mean?”

Really? Is that it? We don’t really understand what that means?

Kinky Boots, in its humor and heart, gives us a high-flying, high-stepping, leave-it-all-out- there Big Clue. Get a ticket to this thing. Now.

Kinky Boots
Presented by Broadway in Tucson
Various times through Sunday, March 19
Centennial Hall
102 E. University Blvd. on the University of Arizona Campus
$29-$100
Run time: 2 hours and 20 minutes
1-800-745-3000; broadwayintucson.com

Everyday lost creatures, pure heartbreak. "Our 2 young children are devastated."


"Streets of This Town" is a little daily photo series featuring random pics I take on long walks through Tucson—to sort of coincide with Tucson Salvage.

Writing music is like falling in love. It’s totally unplanned and sparks something—a drive, said Crista Ru, half the POWERS duo.

Her and Mike Del Rio, the guitarist and singer, fill the voice memos on their phones with 15-second song ideas when inspiration strikes.

Headlining a showcase at Bar 96, on Rainey Street, on Monday—the first taste of some SXSW music—they make the crowd dance while breaking all their hearts.

One of South by’s badass babes, Crista plays bass and sings. Headbanging her bright red hair and stomping her platformed tennies, her voice is like dark chocolate. The audience swoons.

I wait to talk to her after the show while a guy chats her up about sunglasses. He doesn’t want to let her go.

Crista tells me music comes to them like a magical light from heaven that shocks both Mike and her in the brain. I tell them that is very convenient, and they agree.

From New York, the duo is now based in L.A., and despite being over-the-top babealicious and having 1.5 million followers on Spotify, they are sweet and down-to-earth.

When I ask them if they’re a couple, Crista responds, “A couple of nuts.” They look at each other lovingly.

Comely front-yard art near Stone Ave. Tucson! "Streets of This Town" is a little daily photo series featuring random pics I take on long walks through Tucson—to sort of coincide with Tucson Salvage.

Sophie Turner and Maisie Williams showed off their matching tattoos at South by Southwest. 07.08.09—the date they were cast in Game of Thrones.

Moderating a discussion with David Benioff and D. B. Weiss, the show’s creators, the two women (yes, they’re all grown up!) were candid and charmingly awkward. Reading from cue cards, the GoT stars fumbled the wording of questions, talked in funny voices to emphasize their authority as moderators, swore and generally won the hearts of hundreds at SXSW who waited in line to see the Stark badasses.

“Which house would you identify with the most?” said Williams, who plays Arya Stark in the show. Both women exaggerated lounging in their chairs and batting their eyelashes while they waited for the “right” response.

“The Lannister’s,” Weiss said—because you’ve got to “choose the winning team.”

Williams gasped. "That would suck," Turner said.

With two more seasons left to air until one of the most popular shows of all time (which Benioff calls a 73-hour movie) comes to an end, the world is wondering who will be the victor of the game of thrones.