It’s with a sad and heavy heart that we see the passing of the Irish troubadour Liam Clancy, last of the Clancy Brothers, who died this past Friday at the age of 74. Liam, with his brothers and Tommy Makem, lifted Ireland’s heart high in the folk music revival of the last century, and brought much of Ireland’s soul to America. This music fed me for many’s the year, and many’s the meandering through green fields and woods. Their music hits the heart, and leads the mind into open spaces and forgotten things. The things that shaped a people, and continue to shape them. In our day of glitzy pop music, pyrotechnics, and shock and awe lyrics, the Clancy Brothers are a refreshing blast of salty air from the Irish Sea. Enjoy this classic tune “Red is the Rose” and a real gem; the Brothers being interviewed on a Scottish program, speaking on their art of folk music and the need for the genre now more than ever.
Archive for the ‘Ireland’ Category
Irish Soul – Liam Clancy and the Passing of an Age
December 7, 2009Pádraig, Take Us Back…
March 17, 2009
Pádraig, take us back…
Saint Patrick’s Day
March 17, 2007
“St. Patrick suffered mightily at the hands of the Irish,
but rather than seek revenge, he came back to share his faith.”
– Cardinal Sean Patrick O’Malley, O.F.M.Cap.
From the Confessions of St. Patrick:
I am Patrick, a sinner, most unlearned, the least of all the faithful, and utterly despised by many. My father was Calpornius, a deacon, son of Potitus, a priest, of the village Bannavem Taburniæ; he had a country seat nearby, and there I was taken captive. I was then about sixteen years of age. I did not know the true God. I was taken into captivity to Ireland with many thousands of people and deservedly so, because we turned away from God, and did not keep His commandments, and did not obey our priests, who used to remind us of our salvation… And there the Lord opened the sense of my unbelief that I might at last remember my sins and be converted with all my heart to the Lord my God, who had regard for my abjection, and mercy on my youth and ignorance, and watched over me before I knew Him, and before I was able to distinguish between good and evil, and guarded me, and comforted me as would a father his son…..
And there I saw in the night the vision of a man… coming as it were from Ireland, with countless letters. And he gave me one of them, and I read the opening words of the letter, which were, ”The voice of the Irish” … and as I read the beginning of the letter I thought that at the same moment I heard their voice – they were those beside the Wood of Voclut, which is near the Western Sea – and thus did they cry out as with one mouth: ”We ask thee, boy, come and walk among us once more.”
Snatches of Poems
March 15, 2007
When I was a teenager, we went to an Irish festival run by the Ancient Order of Hiberians near Hamilton, NJ. This was serious business. The music was rich, the smell of wool and pipes abundant, and the love of the open air rang out. The gypsy spirit, the wanderin’ wonder of the pilgrim laid heavy on the crowd. And curiously, every face looked like a relative to me. Here’s where those snatches of songs and pieces of poetry first began to stick and settle into my spirit.
I picked up my first tinwhistle at that festival and have been “foolin'” with the melodies ever since; a jig or a reel, but mostly the slow, soulful airs are what I like to play. And a tune must start with a poem. My brother and I know a few. They were absorbed by osmosis, by the listening over and over again to the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, in the wake of that great resurgence of Irish music and new folk music that struck in the 60’s.
As I grow older, from time to time, I try and recite those old poems or songs in my head. God forbid I should ever slip and they fall right out altogether. This one has the weight of the world in it. The tragic beauty of a man, made in the image of the King, but through his own weakness subject to act the fool. But it’s charged as all good poems are with the same sense of hope. Hope that man can rise up again, be lifted up to glory if only he can remember where he came from!
He stumbled home from Clifton Fair
with drunken song and cheeks aglow
yet there was something in his air
that told of kingship long ago
I cried and innly burned with grief
that one so high should fall so low.
But he plucked a flower and he sniffed its scent
and waved it toward the sunset sky
some old sweet rapture through him went
and kindled in his bloodshot eye
I sighed and innly cried for joy
that one so low should rise so high.
Fiddles, Whistles and the Slowly Poured Pint
March 14, 2007
Sometimes we want too much too fast. We want it all! But in the wise words of comedian Stephen Wright “You can’t have everything. Where would you put it?”
A Tangent…
One of my favorite traditional Irish bands is the Chieftains. They’ve been around forever. They are amazingly gifted musicians: on the harp, the flute, fiddles, bodhran, tinwhistle… and Paddy Moloney on those Irish pipes! “Cheese and crackers!” (as Grandpa Donaghy would’ve said)… it sounds like the mystic moan of the poets and warriors of Ireland, calling us out to Tir na Nog!
Matt Molloy plays the flute for the Chieftains, and he owns a pub in Westport, County Mayo. On our tour of the west coast of Ireland, we stayed a night in Westport. After setting up in a little B & B, with great reverence and a dose of excitement, we walked into town and entered the dark cavern of this legendary pub. Our eyes adjusted, and our ears as well, just as a stream of music came gushing out of a cozy little back room.
There was a band of 7 souls gathered around a wooden table covered with pints and glasses. They were kicking out jigs and reels like kung fu masters. Making “moosic” with wild abandon; fiddles flew, whistles wailed, drums beat. The room was packed, but we managed to squeeze in beside a mantle against the back wall. Then I realized, my hand was empty. And so was Rebecca’s.
Now if you’re ever in a pub in Ireland, having an empty hand is like not burping after a meal in Turkey. You follow me? I hastened back to the bar; “Bailey’s with milk, please,” I said to the man, “and a pint of Guinness.”The music played on, rising up, swirling about in a Celtic cloud of glory; feet were pounding the hardwood floors, hands smacking hands, smiles, joy, an occassional “woo!” I could see Rebecca back there, crammed in the shrinking space, her face pleading “hurry!” as the room filled with people. It became a microcosm of the larger world: Germans, Italians, Poles, Chinese, Americans, that’s the magnetic power of this music, this Irish stream of melody that is still a riverdance running through the world.
“I’m coming!” I mouthed, and turned back. The drinks were laid on the polished bar. And then I did what I knew I should not have done. I reached for my pint before it had *”settled.”
Now there are those who know what an offense this is, and those who don’t. The bartender, of course, was in the know. As my hand touched the glass in obvious haste, he took it, and drew it back. With a look of sincere pity, he shook his head. And I hung mine. No words need be said. And so it goes. As the dance of life continues, and the rooms around us fill up, can we stop and simply let it be? We are in it. No need to grasp, no need to rush. I made it back in time, and there was room to spare. Of course there would be. And the pint was just right. When will I ever learn!
__________________________________
* settled – there’s a distinct gap between the
dark liquid and the head or foamy cap.
The Irish Chronicles – Part One
March 13, 2007
Now we’re well into the octave of St. Patrick, so it’s only fittin’ that we should open up the floodgates of Story, of the Remembering and of Recollection. For the Irish, you see, are full of it (the art of storytellin’… that is.)
A few years ago, my wife and I had the chance to visit Ireland. We stayed with Rebecca’s cousins in Cork and Killarney, touring up and down the western coast. We even made it up to the northwest corner of Ireland, to the windswept, rocky fields of Donegal where a section of my family traces its roots. We hiked up Slieve League and down the Gap of Dunloe, we prayed at Knock, and sang songs with the cousins for Denis’s birthday party at the little red pub just near his house. The family took us in, as they say, and we experienced Ireland from the inside out (this being the third time for my wife!)
“And now a song from Bill” cried Rebecca’s Uncle Pat one night. And like it or not, I was singing in the kitchen, “Four Green Fields”, surrounded by the relations, with pints and glasses and poems being read. It was just like the stories I heard growing up.
Everyone I have ever spoken to about Ireland praises her. Everyone who has ever been there longs to go back. When I was young, images of Ireland were so often repeated, breathed in with the scent of tea and mince meat on the stove at Grandma Donaghy’s, that I thought perhaps I had already been there, and was just now remembering. I heard the songs of Frank Patterson and the Chieftains, Liam Clancy and Tommy Makem, the Pogues and the Wolftones and all the stories; about the land and the “moosic”…. about the time dad (at 19) showed up at Grandma Roses’ step and they thought it was Frank back from America. About the way little Hughie at 9 could call the sheep better than the locals, and how when they first landed, they followed Uncle Hugh on his scooter on the winding road from work, threatening to pass and annoying him to no end, until he finally pulled over, tore off his cap and realized with tears that it was his brother Frank and his American family behind him all the while. I have a picture in my head of them embracing beside green fields, with a gravel road curving away.
I found the following lines years ago, a bit of verse on the Irish. When I first read it, I had that sense again that I already knew it. For most of it sounds like my family.
What Shall I Say About the Irish?
The utterly impractical, never predictable,
Sometimes irascible, quite inexplicable, Irish.
Strange blend of shyness, pride and conceit,
And stubborn refusal to bow in defeat.
He’s spoiling and ready to argue and fight,
Yet the smile of a child
fills his soul with delight.
His eyes are the quickest to well up with tears,
Yet his strength is the strongest
to banish your fears.
His hate is as fierce as his devotion is grand,
And there is no middle ground
on which he will stand.
He’s wild and he’s gentle,
he’s good and he’s bad.
He’s proud and he’s humble,
he’s happy and sad.
He’s in love with the ocean,
the earth and the skies,
He’s enamoured with beauty wherever it lies.
He’s victor and victim, a star and a clod,
But mostly he’s Irish—
in love with his God.
Tomorrow Irish Lesson: “Fiddles, a Whistle and the Slow Poured Pint”
The Heart of Things 