With a rich Irish baritone reminiscent of Ronnie Drew, Seamus Kennedy barrels through this winking, ribald classic at a tempo that accelerates with each verse. What begins as a jovial pub singalong gradually turns into a breathless verbal obstacle course, daring both singer and listener to keep up without tripping over the innuendo. By the end, the sheer exuberance of the performance tempts you to sing along for the pure joy of it, but don't try it in a group of easily-offended strangers. "I'm not the pheasant-plucker, I’m the pheasant-plucker's mother / And a mother plucking pheasants is as good as any other." This is the wry humor of the Irish folk tradition, the flip side of the dour songs of death and rage.
"A great song mutates, makes quantum leaps, turns up again like the prodigal son. It crosses genres. Could be punk rock, ragtime, folk-rock, or zydeco, and can be played in a lot of different styles, multiple styles... A great song is the sum of all things." - Bob Dylan
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