From the Plain of the Yew Tree

by John Hoban

  Hank Williams and Professor Longhair are two music people who called to my door, moved in, and have never left. I can’t describe the sense of timelessness I experience with the music world of Hank, the crayture. I believe every word he sings, and feel every note he plays. I keep finding new songs by Hank, and they transport me to that world again.

  My wife and I befriended a Japanese Soto Zen monk, Venerable Raido Kimura, when visiting a Cistercian monastery in the South of Ireland. He was over here studying the monastic way in Mount Melleray. He used to meet up with us and help us so much by sharing his wisdom and kindness. We covered all topics. One day we moved into the world of music and chant. I never will forget this man’s face as he looked at me and asked did I like to listen to Hank Williams sing? He said he thinks that Hank Williams is a real artist, and he wears a bow tie and dresses so well. Japan, a Zen monk and Hank.

  Professor Longhair, or Fess as he is also known, came to me via my friend, Noah. The sound of his music, his way, drew me in immediately, and always when I listen to him, I am rooted to the spot. I almost feel afraid to breathe in case I miss a sound. I’d love to sit beside him and hear him knock out some rock’n’roll gumbo or ‘Tipitina’. He was, and is, so free. Just like his name says, Henry Roland Byrd.

  All over the USA, the music traced and followed the invisible map that I hold inside me, the songline. The same songline I spoke of experiencing with the Aboriginal people in Australia. It is an inner musical score, mapping out places, locations and states of being that I must visit in order to heal myself, and others, by sound and by self-forgetting.

  So, in all the places that I have visited along the way, the only reality for me, and indeed the only reason for me to be present, is the song or piece of music. It’s this way all my life, everywhere I’ve ever been. A mystery to me, but I’m sure the manager knows the story.

  My travels throughout the USA have brought me to many places. I loved Galveston Island, New Mexico, California, Green Bay, Lambeau, where I saw the Packers and The Bears slug it out. I have been to San Antonio, Texas, the home of the band, The Tornados and their famous brand of tex-mex songs such as ‘Adios Mexico’, and ‘Guacamole’.

  I have a special grá (love) for Connecticut. My good friend Joey Moran from Curraun, Achill moved there and brought me out to teach a small group of people in Fairfield, Connecticut in the early ’90s. They call themselves The Shamrogues. Over the years, The Shamrogues have grown into a fine orchestra of traditional Irish music and song. Every year since, I visit them and we have become great friends as the music grows fiercer. The Burnetts look after us well when we are there. Joey loved the song ‘Farewell to the Gold’, so he once made a trip to New Zealand, and he sent me a postcard from the Shotover river telling me that he was having no luck panning for gold. Joey has passed on and when I sing the song, I remember him:

  Shotover river, your gold it is waning,

  and it’s years since the colour I’ve seen.

  There’s no use just sitting

  and lady luck blaming,

  I’ll pack up and make the break clean.

  (‘Farewell to the Gold’, Traditional)

  Houston, Texas, is a town I have often visited and have grown to love. My wife lived there at one time. So did Townes Van Zandt. He, too, is part of my songline. I listened to his records in Dublin in the 1970s, and went on to meet him in the Róisín Dubh club in Galway in 1997. I bought him a drink before he went on stage, for the last time in Galway as this was near the end of his short life. He certainly struck many’s a chord with me. When we met he was alone, shaking but smiling and he said to me, “Can you give me a hand out?” It wasn’t about money, it was about a recognition of each other, a kinship even though we had never met before. I thanked him for his music and I shared a bit of my story with him. He had his drink, told me he enjoyed our time chatting, then he played and sang for an hour or so. I am so glad I was there. I sat on my own, and there were about ten other people in the club. I will never forget who I heard singing that night, and the man who wrote ‘You Are Not Needed Now’, ‘White Freight Liner’, and ‘Waiting Around to Die’.

  North America, or Turtle Island, has inspired me all my life. This inspiration has come from many quarters, from the Brooklyn visitors and the Carolinas, to the Native Modoc/Klamath/ Karuk people I know in Oregon, Mount Shasta in the West. I especially love the Native people. Their way of being makes sense to me. I also identify strongly with the Elders, they are great people, Black Elk, Fools Crow, Geronimo, Crazy Horse and Red Hawk. I have a close connection with the Choctaw people of Oklahoma. Our histories merge in the not too distant past. The Choctaw people have strong connections with all of us here in Mayo, in Dubh Loch. In 1847 the Choctaw people heard of the Dubh Loch Tragedy, when hundreds of Irish people died while crossing the Mayo mountains in search of food during the Famine. They gathered $710 US and sent it to help the suffering Irish people. Let us not forget that these people did this when they were suffering from their own ‘Trail of Tears’.

  My father brought us to Dubh Loch as children, told us the stories of the Drochshaoil (the Famine, the Bad Life), showed us the bleached bones piled high in mass graves on the Talamh Bán (white ground) beyond Louisburgh. I remember those people, my own ancestors, always in song and in my soul.

  What a great life this is, songs to warm the heart, songs to show the way and songs to question all that is important. Gift ó Dhia (from God), as Micho Russell said once to me.

  THE CURRAUN SONG

  (John Hoban)

  I’ve travelled the world from the east to the west.

  Playing my music, turning a song.

  I’ve been on all kinds of roads, botharíns, dirt tracks,

  you name it, I’ve been there before.

  As soon as we reach Mulranny town,

  turn left at the church, pass the school,

  the heart fills with joy, with wonder and awe.

  As we make our way to Curraun.

  It’s some road so it is by the shores of Clew Bay.

  Gaze at Croagh Patrick so high.

  Cliara, Turk, Bofin below,

  it’d make any grown pilgrim cry.

  As soon as we reach dear Poll-a-Rick,

  we feel we’re already home, our

  hearts fill with joy, wonder and awe,

  as we make our way to Curraun.

  You step into The George, smell the turf fire,

  you’re greeted with handshake and smile.

  “Sé do bheatha tá fáilte romhat,

  suigh síos, lig do scíth for a while.”

  We have a glass, exchange the news,

  a sing-song starts up right away.

  ‘The Rocks of Bawn’, ‘The Foggy Dew’,

  We used to sail ’round Clew Bay.

  ‘Major John’, ‘Mulranny Town’, ‘Shanagolden’ also.

  ‘Cúil na mBinn’, ‘The Youth of Mayo’

  and of course ‘The May Morning Dew’.

  ‘Dan O’Hara’, ‘Michael Hayes’, ‘Dangerous Dan McGrew’,

  ‘Behind the Bush in the Garden’,

  ‘My old Home in Mayo’, too.

  ‘My Lagan Love’, ‘Moonlight in Mayo’,

  ‘A Lady That’s Known As Lou’.

  Mick Flanagan ‘the great’, God rest his soul,

  ‘The Red River Valley’ too. ‘All the Ways to Galway’

  John Jim miming a jig.

  ‘The Lakes of Ponchatrain’ is being sung

  “Ciúnas, one voice please.”

  Everyone here has a song to sing,

  everyone listens so well.

  The melodeon is passed from a hand to a hand,

  and it too weaves its own spell.

  Football’s discussed with a passion so fine,

  as is turf, the aimsir and hay.

  We’re great, so we are, to be here at all,

  with such nature by the shores of Clew Bay.

  We crossed over one time to Cliara so fine,
r />   in a vessel called Banríon an Ghleanna.

  We were friends on land, enemies at sea.

  To the home of the Great Grainne Uaile.

  We drank plenty, played music, pulled tug-of-war,

  danced half-sets in Bernard’s till dawn.

  Just how we got back to sweet Ath an Aoil.

  It was all a great mystery to me.

  Now to conclude, to finish my song,

  let me sing to you one and all,

  I’ve hit the deck, so I have many times

  but I got up after each fall.

  No matter where I ever wander,

  no matter what punches are thrown,

  my heart and my heels will le cúnamh Dé,

  make my way to Curraun.

  Notes on the song:

  Thanks to John Gallagher, we ended up in The George, ‘the big house’, in Curraun on the night of an ordination celebration of a priest from Castlebar. It was in the 1970s. I had returned from Camden Town for the event. So, to be in such a wonderful place and playing music was like being in heaven, on the shores of Clew Bay. This song remembers fondly, and gives thanks to all those people, those days and that music. The Curraun people are all ‘in the know’ of who sang what. God be good to them all. Ní bheidh ár leithéidí arís ann (our likes will not be around again). Hopefully!

  CIARÓG EILE

  (John Hoban)

  My name is Mary Hoban,

  also known as Ciaróg Eile.

  Born in Connacht - Ireland,

  raised in West Tyrone.

  My family deserted me,

  the old man joined the navy,

  my gran lived till 93,

  she sang her rebel songs.

  19 hundred and 54, I heard tell of Memphis, Tennessee.

  They spoke of Sun Records, The Killer and young Presley.

  I’m no bad flute player myself,

  I learned from John McKenna,

  I bid farewell to Pomeroy,

  and head for Mexico.

  The streets were no more paved with gold,

  but for the Hopi, I’d have died of cold.

  They fed us whiskey and dried beans,

  gave me the sraideog for the night.

  Bit by bit, I made my way, played the flute for an honest pay.

  As I heard a woman say one time,

  ‘Anything is better than the rain.’

  My best mate was a boy named Jim,

  six foot four, horrid thin, he clocked a man in Juarez,

  we hightailed it out of town.

  He’d come home from somewhere back East,

  Lordship, Cooley or Kilcreest,

  he hurled for Behy le cheile,

  he danced to the old Ballinakill.

  Now to conclude and to end my song,

  I never did anybody wrong.

  I played the flute, made my way,

  and fitted in nowhere.

  So good luck, adios, a chairde go léir.

  Keep the faith and never fear.

  Just remember in all fairness,

  aithnionn ciaróg ciaróg eile.

  It takes one to know one, she smiled.

  Notes on the song:

  This song written as a tribute to one of my all-time favourite singers/musicians, Jimmy Rodgers, ‘The Singing Brakeman’. Not sure how I first heard his music but it certainly has stuck with me. On a plane to California from New York, I started thinking, dreaming about Tyrone, dustbowl times and refugees, rebel songs and hurling in the Parish of Behy, South Galway, Hopi Indian prophesies and ways, and famous Céilí bands in the West of Ireland. When I awoke I was in California, ‘...many miles from Spancil Hill’. Isn’t it marvellous how these songs appear out of nowhere.

  Chapter 11

  TROUBADOUR, TEACHER, MUSICIAN

  I’ve walked these roads for eighty-odd years.

  Between the rose and the heather.

  (‘Between the Rose and the Heather’, John Hoban)

  It’s hard to put all my life experiences in a nutshell. It has become clearer to me by the day, clear as crystal, that music has shown me a way to live. A way to go. Music continues to teach and inspire me, to guide and direct my thoughts and actions, and most of all, it shows me where I am in creation.

  As I grow older in music, it becomes richer and easier in many ways. Naturally, through years of practice, I have become more adept and skilled in the technical aspects of music. Of course there is more to music than technique and rules. At the end of the day, it’s the feelings of the singer, the song and the listener all coming together which create the magic and the sense of wonder. Music to me is an awful lot about friendship, fellowship, kinship and listening to each other. I believe there are four stages of music:

  Talking, singing or playing.

  Listening, with an open heart (no judgment or criticism).

  Processing, meditation.

  Responding, the action, playing in response.

  I have developed a great sense of gratitude for the many gifts I have been granted. I am beginning to understand that it was humility, kindness and integrity that I saw in those kind music people I encountered along life’s pathway. I also see now, so clearly, how the mixing of music with the use of alcohol/ intoxicants/chemicals was hellish for me. Perhaps it works for other people, but as I’ve said all along, I can only tell my own story and allow others to do whatever works for them. I do not express opinions or ideas about other people’s music. Of course, people ask me what I think of so and so as a singer, musician etc., I now answer with, “I don’t think. I don’t have an opinion on others’ music.” I let my heart decide, and for me, that is a personal, private place. I speak freely of what inspires me in music, art and life, but I believe the old expression If you can’t say a good word, don’t say a bad word. Just letting go of old ideas and opinions allows me to live a much better life, free from the burden of having to defend my own views, or oppose the views of others. Nothing to prove. Free from expectations and free from opinions, at least for the time being.

  I have learned to live one day at a time. I have discovered that I can feel very free in myself and in my music providing I do certain practices which I have developed over the years. It’s all to do with the spirit and dealing with my thinking, and perceptions of life. For me, it is like letting go completely of ideas about music/life. It’s about being free to live in the moment. Not to be driven or controlled by the past or the future. In music, it involves singing or playing without any expectations about the outcome. It’s quite like living and dying in a sea of music, vibration, and truth. It’s very simple to me, but I find it difficult to describe this state of being in words.

  Intoxicants made this peace and truth impossible for me to reach, mostly because it turned me into a slave to outer conditions, for example, people, places, things, audiences, venues. Alcohol and its allies helped me to cope with the often harsh, and sometimes dangerous, realities of my existence. I used substances which made me sick, and also helped me block out whatever my reality was during these times. Unfortunately, it also made me block out love and life. Not today, by the grace of God. Not for many’s the long day, thankfully.

  In school, I remember identifying with poor Antoine Raifteirí, the blind poet. I knew him, I was him, a victim, an artist, even though he lived his short life in the 1800s. He was born in Cill Aodhain, near Kiltimagh, County Mayo. He was banished from the area by the landlord for reputedly stealing a horse. He made his way to County Galway where he composed, and played his music on the fiddle for the rest of his life.

  Mise Raifteirí an File: I am Raftery the Poet

  Mise Raifteirí an file,

  lán dóchas is grá,

  le súile gan solas,

  le ciúnas gan chrá.

  ’Dul siar ar m’aistear

  le solas mo chroí,

  fann agus tuirseach

  go deireadh mo shlí

  Féach anois mé

  is mo chúl le balla,

  ag seinm ceo
il

  do phócaí folmha

  I am Raftery the poet,

  full of hope and love,

  with eyes without light,

  calm without anguish.

  Going back in my travels

  with the light of my heart,

  weary and tired,

  to the end of my journey

  Look at me now

  and my back to the wall,

  playing music

  to empty pockets.

  When I sing these words today, or when I play the fiddle, I feel a sense of celebration in life. I feel I am one with Raifteirí. I honour his life, and I honour my own life because I am sober and clean. It is everything. A friend once said to me, “We know a new happiness and a peace we’d never have known. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.”

  It means so much to me to be able to sing, to play and pass on music without chains, baggage and resentments. Just sweet, raw, truthful music. These days, I live in music without the fear of being found out, or the fear of being five pence short, or the hideous fear of not being good enough to be myself. I won’t die trying to be some other imitation in order to be seen to be successful. Reminds me of standing outside the church in November for Sunday Mass – just in case there might be a grain of truth in what the preacher says.

  My life in music has led me to work in the world of community arts and music. I like to think of this as service, serving others in the community. I first remember hearing of St. Francis of Assisi’s concept in St. Jarlath’s, of all places, “It’s better to understand than to be understood, better to console than to be consoled, better to love than to be loved.” St. Francis, a fiddle player too, I believe.

  For many years I have been travelling around Mayo bringing my music to small groups of people gathered in houses, halls, community centres, old schoolhouses, from Blacksod to Ballindine, from Knock to Killadoon, from Keenagh to Achill. Imagine hearing a woman from Achill, now in her nineties, sing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ for you each Tuesday, for years. And then to see a man from Ballycroy, in his hundredth year, dancing with a lady to ‘Moonlight in Mayo’. It is great to hear him explain, after being complimented on his dancing, that “You have to do what you can for the old people!” Of course, his dancing partner is younger than himself. The truth. What more needs to be said there except, “Dance on, my friends!” Set free by the truth, no doubt