by Bryan McMahon (Retired Judge of the High Court)

With age, memories become dim and fade. As a result, furnishing a narrative from memories spanning more than sixty years is a challenge, and is probably unreliable, in some details at least. So when I now cast my mind back to the early 1960s and the Fleadhanna Cheoil I attended around that time I cannot pinpoint accurately in time or in place, when or where, I first fell under the spell of Leo Rowsome’s magic uilleann pipes, or first heard the heart-piercing pluck of Barney McKenna’s banjo or the soaring thrill of Slieve Luachra reels as played by Denis Murphy and Julia Clifford. Was Rowsome sitting on a low stone wall in Clones? Was McKenna playing behind a pub in Mullingar? Did the fiddling duo enthral their audience in Kerin’s yard in Ennis?

Truthfully, I cannot say for sure. But one thing I do know for certain is that their music, first encountered back then, infused my whole being at the time, and their graceful notes, even at this remove, linger long as powerful formative realities.

The musicians just mentioned are randomly recalled. There were many others: who could forget the deeply moving ‘Lament for Staker Wallace’ as played on the accordion by Tony McMahon? Or the excitement of Sean Maguire’s virtuosic rendition of ‘The Mason’s Apron’ (Apologies to the purists!). Or the rakish Joe Burke signalling the end of the session with the rousing reel, ‘The Bucks of Oranmore’ on his button accordion? And now, out of the corner of my eye, I see the educated doyen of all the papers: Seamus Ennis. His angular body accommodates a dignified elegance, and his long, graceful fingers were made for piping. His eyes are closed as he plays the slow air, and a wry smile flashes across his face when he re-engages with his audience. ‘Did he always wear a three-piece suit?’, I ask myself.

I could have mentioned a host of other ghosts, who from the dark recesses are now putting their hands up for recognition. Many are now gone, but their music will never be forgotten, due in no small measure to the early recognition and the extraordinary intuition of Comhaltas Ceoltóirí Éireann to promote these magical musical events at that time.

It is difficult to appreciate now that in the 1950s Irish traditional music was under threat and had retreated into carefully selected venues, where dedicated devotees stubbornly and joyfully clung fast to the music of their ancestors. Inheritors of a dwindling legacy, and sometimes in the teeth of ridicule, these musicians were, in fact, preserving and curating a rich legacy of ancestral music for posterity. For the most part these activities were to be found in rural Ireland, but occasionally sympathetic venues could also be found in Dublin and in this connection the Pipers’ Club in Dublin must get honourable mention. 

For those of us who grew up in a house where there was no fiddle hanging on the dresser or no accordion to hand, our initial contact was with the ballad rather than with the concertina. For us, and for much of rural Ireland at that time, the song lived on as the music retreated. The ballad told a story and immortalized our heroes. It was more accessible to those of us who had but a slight acquaintance with ‘the music of no words’. It survived at the fairs, at the race meetings and at the football and hurling matches. And in the shadows, I now observe the ghostly figure of John Wilson, survivor from an earlier era, a lonely flagbearer, complete with his weatherproof cape, singing and playing at country fairs, even in the most inclement weather.

Outside of this, however, there was little welcome for the customer who attempted a rendition of ‘The Rocks of Bawn’, even on the eve of an All-Ireland final. O’Donoghues of Merrion Row had not yet been invented and ‘The Embankment’ in Tallaght was just beginning to make its mark, thanks to the hospitality of Mick and Sean McCarthy.

I had some experience of that hidden culture as I had accompanied my father in the late 1940s collecting ballads in north Kerry and west Limerick. At the time he scripted a seminal ballad programme for Radio Éireann, called The Balladmaker’s Saturday Night. Looking back now I see myself sitting in a farm kitchen in the Ballydonohue/Ballylongford area of north Kerry. I have a mug of tea and a slice of soda bread in my hand as a young man stands in the middle of the kitchen floor and is singing two songs into the German (? Grundig) wire-recorder – ‘The Shores of America’ and ‘The Cliffs of Dooneen’. Hearing these songs for the first time I learned all I ever needed to know about emigration. They were broadcast the following Saturday night on Radio Éireann.

It is not surprising, therefore, that my interests at those early Fleadhanna Cheoil leaned towards the songs and the ballads rather than towards the unfamiliar instrumental music. I can still see Robbie McMahon delivering ‘Spancil Hill’ in his unique tempo, and the inimitable Séamus Mac Mathúna singing ‘Mo Chile Mear’ with his shoulders! As for the women, singers like Nora Butler, Ann Mulqueen and Ann Brolly were not found wanting. And we were all awestruck by the incomparable Dolly McMahon whose voice was as pure as a mountain stream and as sweet as the nectar of heaven. There too, is the ubiquitous Ciaran of the soft eyes, coaxing shy musicians with his tape recorder and a promise of immortality.

My musical horizons, however, were quickly extended beyond the ballad when in those early years, in places like Cashel and my native Listowel, I was exposed to the magic of the flute, the fiddle, the pipes and the accordion by some of the best exponents of these instruments. A new world opened up for me – a world of jigs, double jigs, reels, hornpipes and the Sliabh Luachra specialities – sets, slides and polkas. In contrast to the ballad, this music was more elemental. As it spoke directly to my blood and my heart, my brain did not have to process it. I simply experienced it as a deep pulse charging through my body. Predating language, this music did not have or need heroes or sagas or stories. 

And as if I was not already enthralled, the tune titles, like musical flash-cards, teased and entranced me further. ‘Pigeon on the Gate’, ‘Geese in the Bog’, and ‘The Sally Gardens’ – beautiful evocations of a simple way of life, forever gone. ‘The Rambling Pitchfork’, ‘Saddle the Pony’, ‘Speed the Plough’ and ‘Devil among the Tailors’ – the list is endless. And although these diverse title tags were frequently laced with enigmatic humour and intriguing ambiguities, they rarely provided more than an oblique squint into the composer’s mind. What is the story behind ‘The Cow that ate the Blanket’? Does ‘Tossin’ the Feathers’ refer to shaking our the feather mattress or to the playing of darts? And what is one to make of ‘Upstairs in a Tent’? Is the tent stored high up in the cottage loft of is there a new kind of tent – one with two levels?

And how the imaginations of hungry young blades were stirred by the more suggestive titles – ‘Nancy’s Fancy’, ‘Wallop the Spot’, ‘Kitty Come Tie my Bonnet’, ‘Kitty’s Rambles’ and ‘If I got Maggie in the Woods Today’ and ‘Roll her on the Mountain’.

I collected and stored these titles in much the same way as I collected and stored seashells as a child on Béal Bán strand looking west towards the Blasket Islands. Even at this remove, I frequently recite them as a warm mantra which prompts a kaleidoscope of images which still resonate somewhere in the deep core.

Back then we hitch-hiked to the Fleadhanna with ill-defined expectations and with the vague excitement that drives all adventurers into the unknown. Certainly, things were happening in the world of Irish music at that time.

By the 1960s the crowds attending these gatherings were enormous and the fleadhanna were becoming annual fixtures for Irish musicians. Although the majority of those early spectators sensed something in the air and travelled for the excitement, they had yet to be fully convinced of and converted to the music. Numerically, however, they far outnumbered the musicians. It seemed to me, too, that the women at these gatherings, young and old, were more prominent that heretofore and stepped out with confidence and freedom in equal measure. A discernible social shift could be observed as the excited crowds poured into these provincial venues. Post-war rationing was over and emigration which characterized the 1950s was beginning to recede. T. K. Whittaker’s economic vision, announced in 1958, was taking hold and a brighter future seemed possible. Irish music was creating a new constituency, a new community even, and like the children of Hamerlin we followed the Pied Piper with total optimism.

Globally too, the folk scene was exploding. In America the Clancy Brothers were bringing the songs and ballads of our school days to a wider audience and Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, following Woodie Guthrie, the Carter family and others were also embracing their own folk repertoire. At home, Seán Ó Riada and Ceoltóirí Chualann were bringing something else to the party. We sensed the change and were willing to join in. We felt the Fleadh Cheoil was Ireland’s answer to Woodstock.

Those early festivals were only the beginning. There was much more to come…

I will be in Mullingar again this summer. I will park the car outside the town, cross the bridge and turn right into the Main Street. I will salute old acquaintances and I will seek out familiar tea-rooms. I am more strategic now, and armed in advance with the programme, I will carefully select vents from the wide choice on offer. I will mark the sean-nós singing and dancing competitions. And I will round off the morning listening to some of the céilí bands. I will look out for the concerts provided by the teaching mentors and I will book my ticket for the prize—winners’ concert on the final night. I am older now and am reconciled to the fact that I cannot take in everything. I am still confident, however, that some of the unscheduled impromptu sessions that arrest my progress will produce young musicians whose ability simply takes my breath away.

Some of the older musicians will no longer be there. Seamus Begley, for one, will not be there. I know, however, that he will be plugged into Mullingar and, is it too fanciful to imagine, that together with some old friends, in some heavenly marquee he will be driving the dancers on with his vigourous rhythms, playing, literally and musically perhaps, ‘Upstairs in a Tent’.