DISGRACELAND - Thin Lizzy: Gangsters, Drugs, Punks and St. Patrick

Episode Date: March 11, 2025

What made the band Thin Lizzy different from your standard 1970s rock and punk? Crime, that’s what. The criminals who populated Phil Lynott’s mother’s bar and the stories they told that influenced the songs Phil wrote. That and a harmonized guitar assault. Who is your favorite Irish band? Why? Tell Jake at 617-906-6638, [e-mail], or on socials @disgracelandpod.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about a rock star's rock star and his band. A band that made Ireland proud. A band that makes me want to drive fast and break things.

A band that some of you, for some reason, think I hate, but I don't. A band born belly up in a bar filled with bad, bad men. A band who never really broke in America the way they should have. A band named Thin Lizzy. A band that made great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Roll Me Over and Do What Now, MK, 2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to desolate.

December, 1963, oh, what a night, by the four seasons. And why would I play you that specific slice of Jersey Boys' cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on March 26, 1976, and that was the day that Thin Lizzie released their sixth studio album, Jailbreak, featuring the hit single The Boys are back in town, a song that changed everything for them, for better and for worse. On this special St. Patrick's Day episode, a rockstar's rock star. Bad, bad men. And the pride of Ireland, thin Lizzie.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. You're St. Patrick, the primary patron saint of Ireland. You're the reason why Barb in accounting wears green to the office each year on March 17th. You're also the reason why, on that same day, the lads knocked back pints of Guinness down at the pub at an ungodly hour typically frowned upon for drinking. But although people around the world drunkenly celebrate you once a year, they don't really know you. They don't know that you're not even Irish, or that your name isn't actually Patrick. Your real name is Maywin, or something, but it doesn't matter. The point here is that you, St. Patrick, are not who everyone thinks you are.

They don't know that you were born in Britain, or that when you were a teenager, around 400 AD or so, you were kidnapped by pirates, who took you to Ireland and made you a slave. You toiled in the fields as a shepherd boy for six long years, and then the voices started. Voices inside your head. They told you to leave this place, flee your captors, make a break for it, and go back to the motherland. And so you did. For 200 miles straight, you ran. Your chest was pounding.

Your knees were weak. You made it to the Irish coast, where you convinced a group of sailors to let you board their boat headed to Britain. But the seas were too rough. The vessel shipwrecked near the coast of France. You were starving, and the food was all gone. So the sailors began to pray. And this is when you found out that the sailors were pagans,

because they were praying to their pagan gods, which got you all, Buccas. So they turned to you and they said, hey, why don't you try praying to your Christian God? So you did. And do you know what happened? Suddenly, a herd of pigs appeared out of nowhere, which you, for one, were thankful for because it meant you no longer had to worry about becoming a meal for a boat full of starving heathens. Hold up. Did this really happen? Did St. Patrick pray pigs into existence? Probably not. But this is where the larger-than-life myth of St. Patrick begins.

a myth which includes the story of how he later returned to Ireland, this time not as a slave but as an apostle, to preach the good word, fight for the end of human bondage, and drive all the snakes out of the country. And since it's likely that Ireland never actually had snakes in the first place, that part of the story, just like the pigs thing, it probably isn't true either.

But if St. Patrick didn't drive out actual snakes, he did drive out demons from Ireland, real demons, through his work as an anti-slavery activist. Thus, St. Patrick's spirit and legend loom large, just like a 47-foot statue of him now looms large on the western coast of Ireland. These days, it takes about three and a half hours to drive from that huge statue of St. Patrick all the way across to the opposite side of the island, specifically to Dublin, where a different statue celebrates a different patron saint of Ireland. Philip Linen, lead singer, bassist, and the primary

songwriter for the band, Thin Lizzie, which formed right there in Ireland's capital back in 1969. Like St. Patrick, Phil Linick was born in Britain and later came to Ireland, in this case at seven years old. But unlike St. Patrick, Phil was Irish on his mother's side. Phil's father, who left when Phil was born, was from British Guiana. So, as Phil said in his own words, he was Irish, and he was black, and he was a bastard, which meant from the jump, growing up, he had cultural, social, and even psychological barriers that made his personal struggle unique.

He once said that if he couldn't make it as a singer, as a rock star, well, then he couldn't make it, period. Phil was motivated by these insecurities, just as St. Patrick was motivated by those voices in his head, and I believe it's those insecurities that inform Phil's code as a professional musician, a code which insisted that, one, You always be professional.

Two, you never lose your cool. And three, you always remain in control. Which is why in the early 1970s, when Thin Lizzie were starting to make their mark, Phil Linnick kept his transgressions out of the public eye, at a tucked-away joint that only those in the know knew about. Up a set of back stairs, past some tough geyser standing lookout,

and finally passing through the door into a place called the showbiz. The showbiz, or The Bizz, or The Bizz, if you're into that whole brevity thing, was an after-hours bar attached to a hotel in Manchester, owned and operated by Phil Linnet's mother, Philomena. Inside, you get to rub elbows with the so-called Quality Street Gang, a loose collection of scrappers and safecrackers, used car salesmen and other con artists,

guys with pickled faces and long rap sheets, the kind who may or may not have a concealed weapons smuggled into their fancy tailored suit. On any given night at the biz, You'd run into guys like Jimmy the Weed, named so because, well, he grew on you. Jimmy the Weed was an underworld zealig, busted for fraud, for drugs, even for murder, but somehow eluding conviction every time. And then there were the local heroes, like George Best, the legendary Irish footballer,

a winger for Man United. It was this crowd of famous and infamous faces that Phil Linnet and his thin-lizzie bandmates, guitarist Eric Bell and drummer Brian Downey, were hanging. out with on one particular evening in 1972. Just hours earlier, they'd performed as the opening act for the popular glam rock band, Slade. While Phil thought that Thin Lizzie's set had been pretty good, he was shocked when, just minutes after they finished, Slade's manager, Chas Chandler, was all up in his face. Normally, Phil would welcome such an interaction, seeing his Chaz had previously served as Jimmy Hendricks' manager, and to Phil, Jimmy was a god, but Chas Chandler was not in a compliment

giving mood. In fact, Chaz was pissed. The fuck was that? He asked Phil. That, of course, referring to Thin Lizzie's set. You're here to wake the crowd up, not put them to sleep. Any more of that ho-hum bullshit on stage and you're off the tour. Phil then carefully watched Slade's headlining set,

focusing specifically on the group's frontman, Noddy Holder, his flashy manner of dress, his wild charisma. Every move calculated to put the audience in a fist-pumping trance, and he understood exactly what Chaz was saying. Getting up there and simply playing the songs wasn't enough. Bowie knew this, Rod the Bod knew this, and now Phil Linant did too.

Just like he knew that to truly succeed, he and Thin Lizzie would have to do better than Whiskey in the Jar, their version of an old folk song that was currently sitting at number one on the charts in Ireland. It was the band's first bona fide hit, but Phil thought it was a joke. It was kind of a novelty song, wasn't even his song. Phil's own songs reflected his life, and whiskey in the jar was not his life. Not like his mother's hush-hash-h-bar, the biz, and the men who haunted him, the quality street gang. Sitting there in Manchester's best-kept secret, he looked around the room.

This little speakeasy of sorts overrun with footballers, gangsters, actors from hit British television soaps, Jimmy the Weed in the corner making Man United to George Best nearly snort lager out of his nose with a joke. And it was at this moment. that the Thin Lizzy we know now truly began to take shape. Before I go any further, I need to clear something up. I have no idea how this rumor started online that I personally am not into Thin Lizzie. But nice work to all you wise guys who have been keeping the joke alive.

It is ludicrous. I love Thin Lizzie, and I pretty much have from the first moment I heard them. But don't take my word for it. Everyone from Huey Lewis to Sid Vicious loved Thin Lizzie. Phil Lainett even called both of those dudes his friends. And to paraphrase Henry Rollins, there's a thin Lizzie song for everything, whether your head over heels and love or crushed halfway to death by a bad breakup.

Plus, just look at them. Or actually, just look at Phil, the platonic ideal of a rocker. High-heeled boots, black leather pants, big hair, sharp mustache, Mr. Johnny Cool himself. Those long legs spread in a power stance, his fender Peebase shooting straight up in the air like a crotch rocket. It's a move that says, this base is a giant weapon, and also, this base is a giant penis, which is about as rock and roll as it gets. But again, it didn't begin that way. It began when Jimmy Hendrix's former manager, Chas Chandler, read Phil

line at the Riot Act. And then when Phil recognized that the true inspiration for his biggest hits and thus the image of Thin Lizzie, those below the table badasses at the heart of incredible songs like the boys are back in town and jailbreak, were all sitting around him at his mother's tiny pub in Manchester. And then went in Lizzie's original guitarist, Eric Bell, exhausted from touring, from the non-stop partying at the communal house where the band lived, from the hamster wheel of promotion to make the suits at Decca Records happy,

distraught over his girlfriend running off to Canada with their young son, taking one too many bad trips himself, by which I mean LSD, getting paranoid. Eric finally melted down halfway through his show in 1973, threw his guitar on the stage, and quit the band. Eric Bell clearly was unable to adhere to Phil Linens's strict coat. He was not in control, and he most definitely lost his cool. Phil, on the other hand, was very much in control, which meant that he was the one who was left to pick up the pieces. And he did, because he was built for this. He was born against all odds.

and he didn't ask for help to do it, just as he didn't ask for help back when he was the only black kid in his school. This time, you got not one but two guitarists, and not for artistic reasons, but for insurance. When asked why he hired Brian Robertson and Scott Gorham, a Scotsman and a Californian, respectively, to replace Eric Bell, Phil said, and I quote,

the next time one of those cunts walks out, there'll be another one there. I'm not going to be caught out again. Failure for Phil Linen was not an option. Remember, if he couldn't make it as a singer, as a rock star, then he couldn't make it, period. The thing is, Phil Lennett had no idea that the choice he just made would lay the groundwork for Thin Lissie's breakthrough innovation and pushed them higher than he ever could have imagined. If you know Thin Lizzie, you know what I'm talking about.

That harmonized twin guitar attack, an integral part of Thin Lizzie's sound, which began on their fifth studio album, Fighting, released in 1975. But the twin guitar thing wasn't planned. In fact, it was a mistake. It happened like this. Brian Robertson, Robo, was laying down his guitar part in the studio. Some real nice melodic stuff, unaware that the engineer had absentmindedly left an echo or delay effect on what he was playing on guitar. So the guitar begins to feed back on itself and thus harmonizing with itself. Scott's guitar was harmonizing with Scott's guitar.

And then when they start hearing it in the playback, they're all freaking out. The engineer's like, fuck, and he leaps from his seat to fix the issue, worried that he's going to get his ass fired. But he's shocked when he hears the guys in the band say, no, man, don't touch anything. That's awesome. This is great. And thus was born the process by which Robo and Scott wrote out harmonized lead guitar parts,

which, yeah, I know weren't new at the time. The Allman Brothers, for one, have been doing it for a minute, but the way Thin Lizzie did it was fresh, because it truly was an attack, written and performed. formed like dual switch blades that snapped open in the middle of the song. This sound perfectly complimented Phil's songs about tough guys, about cowboys and escaped inmates, powering the big hits on their beloved 1976 album, Jail Break, both the aforementioned title track and The Boys Are Back in Town, the band's biggest hit in America.

And man, oh man, what a song. When that song was climbing the charts in the summer of 76, then Lizzie were forced to cancel the second half of their American tour. which was supposed to finally break them in the States after seven long years of making music. Instead, Phil Lynette, who had quickly fallen under the spell of a sex, drugs and rock and roll lifestyle, looked in the mirror and saw that his eyes had turned orange, hepatitis. He told a friend he probably got her from shooting up with a dirty needle. And though it should be noted at this point,

Phil was merely dabbling in heroin with cocaine, marijuana, and alcohol being more central to his drug diet. Regardless, instead of conquering America, Phil watched from a hospital bed in Manchester as a pre-tapped performance of the boys are back in town, played on top of the pops from a tiny television set on the wall. While back in the U.S., the singles slowly slipped back down the charts after peaking at number 12. Just months later, it happened again. Thin Lizzie were set to conquer America a second time, only to once again be forced to cancel when Robo got in a fight at a London nightclub,

severing tendons and an artery in his hand when he tried to deflect a broken bottle. It seemed that Americans were destined to never truly know Thin Lizzie. Breaking America, of course, was the dream of any band from across the pond, and for Thin Lizzie and Phil Lynette, wrong place, wrong time, quickly became an unfortunate reality. Dublin. August 20, 1977. Hometown heroes Phil Lynette and Thin Lizzie were back to headline the capital of Ireland's first open-air rock festival. but that was tomorrow.

Today, or tonight, was Phil's 28th birthday, and he was celebrating in style at Castle Townhouse, a lavish mansion owned by the Guinness family, specifically Desmond Guinness, second son of Brian, the famous brewer and heir to the Guinness Beer Empire, but I digress. The doctors had told Phil to avoid these sorts of environments where the booze and the Coke flowed like,

well, you can imagine the delusion of booze and Coke at a party happening at a Guinness Mansion in 1977. It was simply too dangerous, given the complications from his hepatitis. Phil, however, didn't look to doctors as role models. These days, he looked up to the great Freddie Mercury, whom Phil had witnessed during a recent tour when Thin Lizzie opened for Freddy's band, Queen.

Freddy was decadence incarnate. The hotel suites, the entourage, the willing and able groupies, the piles of illicit substances served on silver platters. Everything was bigger for Freddie Mercury, and Phil Linnet wanted to reach that hallowed ground where Freddie and Queen now found themselves. followed suit. In Freddy, Phil even saw a reflection of himself, someone who had his own set of

insecurities to overcome simply based on who he was. Freddy's bravado gave Phil confidence and hope. But any feelings of hope or of birthday joy were suddenly dashed when the front door of the Castletown Mansion flew open. Into the party barge the Gardner, the state police force of the Republic of Ireland. They were here on a tip that they'd find musicians and thus drugs. And they did. A ton of blow in weed was seized. But one of the many things Phil Lainit had learned from a guy like Freddie Mercury was how to keep your vices a secret, which is how Phil had managed to get someone else to hold onto his stash at the party when he was stopped and searched by the Gardner.

He was clean. Two days later, however, the headline on the front of the Irish independent newspaper read Six Held and Drugs Raid on Pop Party. And none other than Phil Linnett's name was right there in the mix. Phil was furious. Was he using that night? Sure. But was he holding? He wasn't that stupid.

At least not on that particular night. The police hadn't found anything, and now here he was being branded public offender number one by the press. He walked over to the paper's office and paid a personal visit to the editor, whom he berated in front of the entire staff. My grandmother saw that, he shouted. It's not fucking true what you printed.

I didn't have any fucking drugs. It was just as Freddie said. It was all about what you showed them, What they saw, the controlled narrative. Phil Linen for one, locked down his private life, even as it began to spin out of control behind locked doors. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Sid Vicious, base player for the sex pistols,

stumbled out of Phil Linet's bathroom with his girlfriend Nancy Spungeon hanging off his track-marked arm. Behind them, they left their own blood splattered on the bathroom wall. The junk was coursing through their own. veins now, slowly animating them like stop-motion skeletons down the hall to the living room where they collapsed on a couch next to Phil who was watching an old Elvis Presley movie on a giant TV. Hey, Sid, Phil said, himself high on one substance or another at the moment. When are you going to let me show you a few things on the base, mate?

Sid scrunched his face in disgust. I'm not interested in that crap. I'm in the fucking sex pistols. It was the summer of 1978, so actually Sid's math. or more likely his mind was off. The pistols had broken up earlier that year after releasing one studio record which sent shockways through the rock and roll world.

Things were changing and changing fast, all because of bands like the sex pistols taking the piss out of the status quo. Phil Lynette and Din Lizzie were not exactly status quo when it came to rock and roll, but they were close enough. Phil knew that adaptation was essential for survival.

If you can't beat him, join them and all that. Which is how Phil found himself moonlighting in the greedy bastards, a supergroup of sorts that featured Sid Vicious, Steve Jones and Paul Cook from the Sex Pistols, plus Brian and Scott from Thin Lizzie, Bob Geldof, from Dublin's own Boontown Rats, and more. They played sets at places like the Electric Ballroom in Camden, and a version of the group even appeared as the Greedies on top of the pops. And it wasn't just the punks in England who were taking the film. Over in America, in New York City, Johnny Thunders was sitting in his room at the Chelsea, balancing some heroin on his guitar

pick to kill time waiting for his fix and waiting on a friend, that friend being Phil Linen, who wound up playing bass on a bunch of the tracks on Johnny's classic 1978 solo record, So Alone. The thing is, 1978 was supposed to be huge for Thin Lizzie, punks or no punks. This is the year that they released their double live album, Live and Dangerous, a record which not only featured Phil's very unpunk buddy Huey Lewis on harmonica, but is widely considered one of the greatest live albums of all. time. It was a huge hit for the band also. Number two on the UK chart. This is the kind of record

you pull out when the aliens land and they want to know what a killer rock show sounded like in the 1970s. Fuck, Frampton comes alive. Live and Dangerous has got the goods. As amazing as it is, however, Live and Dangerous by Thin Lizzie has a dirty little secret. And I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but your favorite live album probably shares the same secret. And it's this. Live and dangerous is not live, at least not entirely. Here's what I mean. Then Lizzie's producer, Tony Visconti, was tasked with assembling a cohesive listening experience from a ton of concert tapes taken from shows the band played throughout Europe and North America. A lot of live albums are made this way. You cherry-picked the best versions of the songs you want to include

from an entire tour. But Tony Visconti had a problem. The tapes were all different speeds, different formats, and in various shades of quality. He couldn't end. together a consistent balanced sound based solely on what he had in his hands. So the solution was to have Thin Lizzie come into the studio and re-record some of their parts. But once they started the overdubbing process, they thought, well, instead of just re-recording the bass part or that vocal part, why not re-record the whole thing? By producer Tony Visconti's estimation, about 50% of live and dangerous is not live and is therefore not dangerous. But instead, it's a studio recreation.

Some of the audience noise isn't even from Thin Lizzie shows, but instead from the tapes for David Bowie's so-called live album, stage, which Tony Visconti was also working on at the time. The true backstory of Live and Dangerous was just as much of a secret as was Phil Linens's life these days. No one on the outside knew it, and many on the inside didn't either, but in addition to cocaine and marijuana, Phil was continuing to do more heroin, or whatever he could get.

On tour in New York, he checked in on Sid and Nancy at the Chelle. Chelsea Hotel while his limo driver drove up to Harlem to score some Dalladet, which he melted down and shot up. Two weeks later, Nancy bled out from a stab wound to her abdomen, and the cops fingered Sid for the job, but just a few months later, he was dead too. And the reason Phil's own transgressions were never salacious front-page news like his friends, and when they were, like the bust at the Guinness Mansion, the reason he was so adamant to shut them down, was because of the strict code he lived by. He was always professional. He never lost his cool, and he was always in control. And now he was a family man with a wife and two daughters. If someone wanted to get at the real truth, the whole truth, it'd have to come and get him.

November, 1980. The doorbell rang at one of Phil Linens' houses, not the one in his beloved Ireland, but the one at 184 Cue Road in Tuckinam, England, where he lived with his young family. He answered it and was greeted by employees from the gas company, there to carry out a routine inspection. Phil was confused. No one had told him anything about an inspection, but it was possible he'd missed the letter in the mail. These days, Phil had a lot more than usual on his mind. Two small girls and a wife to provide for, his band, Thin Lizzie, constantly touring all over Europe, Australia, and Japan, despite their latest album, Chinatown, getting some of the most lackluster reviews of their

career. And last but not least, was the constant turnover in the band, with Gary Moore replacing Scott Robertson on guitar and then Gary replaced in short order by Snowy White. Phil struggled to keep it altogether. He chalked up this gas thing as something he'd overlooked and welcomed the men inside his home. They began to look around, but not where the furnace or the piping was. Phil watched as one of the men walked into the master bedroom, which was odd. Suddenly Phil began to panic. Paranoia set in.

The kind of paranoia that his old friend, Eric Bell, thin Lizzie's original guitarist once experienced just before. he threw his guitar to the stage and walked away for good. But there was no walking away from this for Phil. He was surrounded and not by gasman, but by... Philip Lainet? Phil spun around to see the so-called gasman who'd entered the master bedroom standing there.

He was holding two wrapped packages of cocaine in one hand. And the other, he was holding a badge. Not a gas man badge. These guys were the drug squad. Philip Linaet, the phony gas man said again. You're under arrest. In addition to the Coke, which had been stuffed into one of Phil's jackets, the Narcs found grass in Phil's Mercedes and a cannabis plant growing inside his house.

And that next summer, on his 32nd birthday, August 20, 1981, Phil Linnet stood before the judge, who sentenced him to a 200-pound fine. It was a lenient penalty, but only because Phil had convinced one of his rowdies a guy they called Big Charlie to take the fall for the drugs and swear under oath that the jacket belonged to him and not to Phil. It was a page taken right out of Freddie Mercury's book. Keep your secrets.

Control your narrative. Or, as Phil Linen's own code instructed, always be professional, always be in control. Sean O'Connor couldn't believe his luck. His Dublin-based band, the lookalikes, had managed to score an opening slot on Thin Lizzie's tour. And though you didn't have to look into a crystal ball to know that their best days were now behind them,

For any Dubliner or Dub as the local parliaments goes, then Lizzie were, it. The rest of the world can have St. Patrick, give us St. Phil. Lizzie were a source of tremendous national pride. Sean O'Connor in particular was stoked to be able to support such legends night after night. And he knew what came with the territory, the parties, the women, the revolving door that was Phil lined its private room. So many women coming and going that, despite Phil's relationship status at the time,

earned him the nickname Phil line him up. And then there were the drugs. They were everywhere. Dealers, hangers on, guys looking for a one-way ticket to the big show with a little baggy. One night backstage, one of these dudes approached Sean, flashing his ready supply of cocaine. Well, Sean thought, went in Rome. But before he could indulge, out of the shadows sprung Phil lining. He put his hands on the dealer's arms, pushing him away from Sean and violently slamming him up against a wall head first.

The dealer felt like his brain was oozing from his ears. With one hand, Phil held him in place and with the other, he stuck out his finger and pressed it against the dealer's chest. If you ever offer Sean Koch again, I'll fucking have you killed. This was just one side of Phil Linen, the side that fancied himself a character down at the pub with the quality street gang. A badass, a jailbreaker, a no-shit-taker. One of the boys who is back in town and who's going to fuck you up

for turning this young grasshopper here onto dope. And then there was the other side, the gentler side, the more vulnerable Phil Linet, the self-described black Irish bastard from Dublin, who successfully drove out his own insecurities in order to realize this dream of rock stardom, just as his fellow saint, St. Patrick once drove the snakes out of Ireland, allegedly. But there was no one protecting Phil Linet the way Phil Linet was now protecting Sean O'Connor. No one to step in when he showed up again at Johnny Thunders' room at the Chelsea, this time with a bag of heroin in his house. hand, or when he was stopped at the Dublin airport with more junk, grass, and methadone in his

possession. Not just because he ignored his own advice and the advice of doctors, but because he did so while delving further into his addictions in secret. Phil's longtime bandmate, guitarist Scott Gorham, also struggling with a heroin addiction, got himself under control using neuroelectric therapy to kick his habit. Unlike Scott, however, Phil wasn't so lucky. On January 4th, 1986, at just 36, at just 36 years old, his heart, liver, and kidneys gave out. It was just about seven years since Phil's old friend Sid Vicious died from a hot shot. And roughly five years after Phil's death, another one of his friends, Johnny Thunders, would also die from an overdose.

Phil's buddy from the other side of the musical tracks, Huey Lewis, looked around at all the carnage, all this talent and promise, wasted, a handful of his friends gone or on their way out. Huey, for one, wanted a new drug, one that wouldn't make him sick. One that made him feel the way he felt when he listened to the rich musical legacy of Thin Lizzie, which is to say something like Grace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. All right, happy St. Patrick's Day, everybody. This week's question of the week is,

which Irish artist or band is your favorite? And why? Is it Thin Lizzie? you two, The Undertones, Cranberries. Who is it, which artists, and why? Let me know, 617-90666-66-3638. Leave me a voicemail, send me a text. We'll get into it in the after-party this week.

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