Macker learned his skills during his Dublin youth when his grandfather and uncle put him to work in their construction business. When his father signed the whole family up for the emigration lottery, Macker made his way across the Atlantic, following his dad to San Francisco. There he continued to ply the McMahon trade. His talent got him work, but the green hair got him noticed. “I realized I had an image going,” he recalls.

    He found his way to Minneapolis. “My friend here kept telling me how great it was. You could afford to live and buy a house. People had gardens. Punkers had businesses.” So he made the move and opened up shop with a van painted to match his hair. Meanwhile the punk craftsman also became a regular local with his wife, Smoggy (“We met at the anti-poll tax riots in Trafalgar Square,” he smiles wistfully of a bygone day), three daughters, and a house in southeast Minneapolis. “I like it here. People are nice. It’s true, the Minnesota nice thing, it reminds me of Ireland, especially of people in the country.”

   But hasn’t he heard about Minnesota ice? After all, he’s striking out into some very unpunk territory. “I get along with most everyone. I’ll never know about the rest because they don’t call. It’s at the stage where I can choose the job.” Besides, he doesn’t do suburbs. “I like staying in Minneapolis. A lot of my crew bikes. We draw attention, then it’s up to us whether it’s good or bad attention.”

    Still, it takes a little mental scaffolding to bridge the notion of a guy with a mohawk and shredded jeans as licensed, bonded, and insured. Punks are supposed to tear things down, not build them up. He can’t help it if he has a thing for fine oak.

    The lads on Macker’s crew all have mohawks too, even when they’re lassies. But McMahon says it’s not a job requirement. “I’ll hire anyone and give ’em a try. They just have to be open-minded. They have to be able to laugh on the job site. It’s good to have people that enjoy workin’ together.” Agreeing to Flogging Molly on the boombox all day certainly can’t hurt.—Jon Zurn