A Journey in Song: reminiscences of a ragged balladeer (part 1 of 3)

Hastings is a treasure trove of musical talent which is accessible most nights of the week, and the folk tradition is a vibrant part of this musical feast. HOT columnist  Sean O’Shea gives an account of his own Journey in Song.

I was born in the town of Caherfert in the west of Ireland. This is a famous town situated by the beautiful river Lethe. It has many respected and celebrated people: singers, musicians, writers, footballers, beauty queens, politicians, millionaires – as well as bulls, horses, goats, and even talking dogs.

Most of the folk in Caherfert, and some of the animals, are in fact famous for one thing or another, and you can hardly get about the town nowadays without bumping into a statue of some celebrity or other. These life-size monuments are admired and photographed by the tourists, pissed on by the dogs and argued with in the late hours by the occasional carouser.

As well as having regular fairs, music festivals and race meetings, Caherfert also had frequent visitations from wandering minstrels and balladeers many of whom were gypsies. You could purchase their ballad sheets for a few pence.

One travelling musician I particularly remember was the Pecker Dunne with the gravelly voice and amazing banjo playing. I was in awe of him as a boy, and would follow him from pitch to pitch and gaze mesmerized at his jagged profile and long, black, curly locks.

In my youth I spent many a summer’s day fishing by the river Lethe and enjoyed the quiet fraternity of the waterways. A famous local poet Brian O’ Hara in his melancholic poem Oblivion’s Enchantment writes:

I wander no more by the purling river Lethe
In whose changing moods in bygone days I sought retreat.
But one day soon I surely will return
To escape once more into its dank oblivion. 

There was no TV in those days so we made our own entertainment. When there was a gathering everyone took a turn to sing, quote a bit of poetry or dance. There were also loads of local characters that were good at story telling, mimicry and animal noises.  Then there was the radio: every Saturday we had the “Walton” programme, which broadcast the best of Irish music from across the land.

 If you sing a song
Do sing an Irish song.

Though I wasn’t aware of it at the time, I was slowly absorbing a rich cultural heritage of fine songs and melodies which were to seep into my bloodstream and become faithful, lifetime companions.

Next stop Dublin city and another river, the Liffey:

 The Angelus Bell o’er the Liffey’s swell
Rang out through the foggy dew.

Charles O Neill, The Foggy Dew

The use of scurrilous nicknames for public monuments is characteristic of the Dubliner’s habit of deflating pomposity and their enjoyment of word play. The bronze statue of Anna Livia who personifies the River Liffey is referred to as “the whore in the sewer” or “the floozy in the jacuzzi.”

Dublin is a city bursting with song where most people seem to have the gift of ink as well. Conversation is easy here and it’s hard to get them to shut up once they capture your attention.

Whenever I visit Dublin I take a stroll by the Royal Canal and remember Dominic Behan’s beautiful song The Old Triangle.

 Oh the wind was sighing, and the day was dying
And the lag lay crying in his prison cell
And that old triangle went jingle jangle
All along the banks of the Royal Canal.

Dublin is a great town for live music and of the many songs I’ve heard sung in O’Donoghue’s Pub off St Stephen’s Green is a Scottish border song called The Raggle Taggle Gypsy.  Another traditional tune (author unknown), which I recall from those days, and which was made famous by the Clancy Brothers, is Reilly’s Daughter.

Dublin is also famous for its writers and one in particular, Patrick Kavanagh, wrote a beautiful lyric called The Raglan Road. The story goes that, nearing his death, Kavanagh was singing this song in a pub one night and Luke Kelly of Dubliners fame was amongst the appreciative audience. Kavanagh bequeathed the song to Luke.

On Raglan Road on an Autumn day I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I would some day rue.
I saw the danger yet I walked
Along the enchanted way
And I said ‘let grief be a falling leaf at the dawning of the day.

Many changes have occurred in Dublin since the 1960s. The Rare Old Times by Pete St John is a response to these changes.

 Fare thee well sweet Anna Liffey, I can no longer stay
And watch the new glass cages, that spring up along the quay
My mind’s too full of memories, too old to hear new chimes
I’m part of what was Dublin in the rare auld times.

We can’t leave Dublin without mention of two other famous writers, James Joyce and Samuel Beckett. Joyce suffered badly in the eye department and Beckett was prone to chronic boils on the backside. Forgive the pun, but these were not assets for a writer. It didn’t deter them, however, in the successful pursuance of their chosen vocation, and it is said that both men enjoyed a jar and a song. Beckett writes somewhere:

When you are in the ditch, there’s nothing to do but sing.

Joyce’s writings are peppered with song and he named his final novel Finnegan’s Wake after the song of the same name. I never had the privilege of meeting these august characters in the flesh, they were a bit before my time, but their ghosts are ever present in the streets and pubs of Dublin.

Joyce says in his Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man that “No one with any self-respect stays in Ireland.” This was an understandable response to the repressive church dominated climate of his day. Ireland has changed a lot since then and, in some respects at least, for the better although people continue to be one of its main exports. I would qualify Joyce’s comment by saying that no one who isn’t already a millionaire would find it easy to return to Ireland.

In the early seventies I took the boat to England. As we set sail for Holyhead I stood on deck and watched Dublin harbour grow smaller and smaller. Eventually Poolby Lighthouse winked me farewell until it too disappeared in the thickening fog.

July 2012

 

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