Long, long ago, in rural County Cumberland, located along a central river valley deep in Penn's Woods, four friends sat down to talk. To talk and plan and dream. To plan about the finest band in all the land that would play traditional Irish and Scottish music. They would also play sailing songs and brave new songs that they would write themselves. As the beer and whiskey flowed, the band became finer and louder. As the beer and whiskey ran out and the friends sobered up, they realised that perhaps being the finest band in all the land was out of reach. But, being the most heavily instrumented Celtic Rock band in Penn's Woods with the loudest cymbals was well within the realm of their individual, and combined, talents.
Thus began the search throughout the land for the loudest (or at the least the most inebriated) musicians to complete the line up. One friend put the word out on the List of Craig that the loudest and most inebriated band in all the land was in dire need of both a singer/screamer/poser and one who has mastered that fretless instrument thingy played by whipping it with horse hair. After listening to a couple of candidates that seemed more interested in drinking (not so bad) and playing an instrument other than singing (that's the bad part), this friend put his face in his hands and wept. Hard. One friend asked his brother-in-law if he knew anyone that could play the banjo and mandolin. The brother-in-law said "I don't have a mandothingy, but I can play this funky little caribbean guitar with 10 strings that sounds mostly the same as a mandolin, but mostly not. Mostly." Of the other two friends, one immersed himself in the genre and the other staggered home through the woods never to be seen or heard from again (really, it's a happy story, keep reading).
Alas, there finally came a time when a resounding answer was heard from a young man medium in stature, yet tall in vocal projection. Within mere moments, a quiet lass happened upon our band of friends. She said "I have mastered the fretless instrument that is played by whipping it with horse hair." "Yeah, that's great," the first friend said, "but I can't hear you over the hum of the eye-searing light behind you." As they all turned to see the source of this mystical illumination, it turned out to be another young man with a shining, golden accordion. A gift from the gods as it was. At this point, three of the four original friends all smiled a knowing smile at each other and said "Does everyone know 'The Leaving of Liverpool'?" With a quick nod of agreement, the seven launched into the song with a fury unmatched by anything any of them had ever heard before. Precisely three minutes and eighteen seconds later, soaked and panting, the seven looked around the circle at each other and smiled a knowing smile. The the most heavily instrumented Celtic Rock band in Penn's Woods with the loudest cymbals had just been born in a subterranean horse farm and that pasture would never be the same...
This band of seven would struggle and labor much to name themselves, but after much deliberation, and a half-cooked vote scoring system, agreed upon the name "Kilmaine Saints" (not "The Kilmaine Saints," just "Kilmaine Saints" or "Saints" please). The Saints began to play far and wide in publik houses and festivals for gold, and more importantly, a stipend of juice of the barley. Eventually, their fame and reputation added to their network of admirers and they were at long last granted audience outside the kingdom of Penn's Woods. They travelled to the Court of Queen Mary and even to the Fiefdom of the Donkeys and Elephants. Sadly though, one of the friends decided to leave to pursue other interests and all were sad as this friend was beloved and admired. But then bespoke the friend with the funny little caribbean guitar "I know of a champion knight that plays a mean electric guitar." After inviting the knight to jam with them, the Saints were in savvy accord of his skills and beguiling personality and extended membership to their little group of hoodlums and merrymakers. Then again as before, from out of nowhere, or everywhere as it was, another searing light shown so brightly that it deafened them one and all. Twas not a meteor, but a savage multi-instrumentalist draped in a kilt of the clan Loud Macleod. The Saints were pleased with his musical skills as well as that of technological know-how and once again the hand of friendship was extended from the Saints to include him in the circle of loudness. A circle of loudness much like the circle of loudness that comes from cymbals - not the Japanese Heavy Metal band from the 20th century...
...and that's the story so far of Black 47. Um, no, sorry, oops, Kilmaine Saints. Definitely Kilmaine Saints.