The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

And yet somehow we were a little bewildered, as most musicians are after winning at a Fleadh Cheoil competition. As a matter of fact we were almost stuck for words – except for Seamus. ‘Lads,’ he said, ‘maybe we’re better than we thought or maybe we were just lucky.’

  After supper we met again in Hough’s pub. This gave us enough time for a short rehearsal that lasted much longer when a few of our group arrived late. The first to join us were fiddlers Mickey Doorley and Cyl Donlon. Then came Teresa Hough, who began accompanying us on the piano. Its rousing rhythm was refreshing and seemed to galvanise us together and as we played our first selection our two flute players came through the door. While they made their way among us Joe Cashin found a stool and handed it to Johnny Coughlan who was behind him. An empty chair was waiting for Joe, who when seated began blowing into his flute while Johnny was busy assembling his. I could smell a strong odour of soup and porter coming from both of them, especially when they began playing. Looking across the way I saw that Tom was squeezing his mouth as though he was trying to push his lips upward in an attempt at shielding his nostrils from the smell. A tittering fever came over me and I lost my way in the tune and so we all stopped playing. Then someone mentioned another selection, but before we began, Cashin issued a mild warning. ‘No fuck-ups this time.’ He never knew that he had indirectly caused us to lose our concentration. It was after we had played for nearly an hour that one of us noticed the time – it was almost eight o’clock! We put away our instruments quickly and headed down the street to the hall. When we got there the sound equipment was already set up, and within minutes we found some chairs and positioned ourselves on the stage. The céilí was a typical Fleadh Cheoil céilí with lots of people and a great variety of dances inspired by several dancing groups from Birr and other parts of Offaly, Galway and north Tipperary. I was so preoccupied with the music and watching the obvious enjoyment of the dancers that when a short break was announced I hardly believed we had played for a little over an hour. Even though my appetite for playing was insatiable, I relished some time out from playing, and leaving the stage I walked down into the hall for a short stroll. I hadn’t gone far when I heard a voice shouting from behind – it was Johnny MacNamara, who was walking towards me. He had a wide grin on his face. ‘Not a bad céilí.’

  John was a box player from Dublin whom I knew from meeting him at music sessions during other Fleadh Cheoil events. We had become friends and shared an interest in the older styles of traditional music, especially the music from County Clare. ‘Not a bad turnout either,’ he said, before reminding me to turn up the sound system.

  ‘It’s turned up as far as we can get it,’ I replied, and I was about to explain more when he turned aside and shouted, ‘Hello Tommy, Tommy, com’ere!’

  The fellow he was shouting at turned and began walking towards us. As he came closer he looked like a well-built eighteen-year-old with dark eyes peering from under a grey tweed cap. He also wore a grey tweed jacket, pink shirt and black pants. Johnny was clearly excited and said to me, ‘This is Tommy Peoples – he’s the young Donegal fiddler I was telling you about.’

  Tommy appeared slightly irritated at having to ask me who I was and when I told him he said, ‘Yer playin’ here at the dance?’

  I said I was, and asked him if he’d like to play with us for a while. ‘I would,’ he said, ‘except I don’t have the fiddle with me.’ It was the first time I met Tommy, and little did I know that we would play many a tune together in the not-too-distant future. The end of the céilí capped off the closing hours of the Fleadh. I suppose the Fleadh was officially over when the last of its revellers were herded out of the pubs onto the streets. Some diehard musicians tried to extend their love of session playing on the sidewalks; there were box players sitting on window sills, while fiddlers, bodhrán players and others were content with playing standing up. However, after half an hour of session fever they were grossly interrupted and forced to abandon their merry-making when a nagging drizzle of rain became a serious downpour.

  60

  The Drimnagh Session

  Some months earlier I had visited Dublin to meet with a group of musicians for what turned out to be a memorable music session. The session was held at Johnny MacNamara’s home in Drimnagh and when he wrote telling me who he expected to be there I didn’t need any persuading. With his promise of great music plus a chance to hear other musicians I had no problem in answering John’s letter with one of my own that ended with: ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’

  He had also written of another enticement that got my attention, which was James Keane’s name and a promise that he would also be at the session. James was an exceptional box player who played with the famous Castle Céilí Band along with his brother Seán, who played the fiddle. I was familiar with James’s playing and had often heard him on the radio with piano accompanist Bridie Lafferty, who was also expected to be at the session. As luck would have it I had just bought my first car, an old Ford Anglia that was in good condition and sold to me by my friend J.J. Conroy. But I had never driven to Dublin and the prospect of how I’d navigate the journey daunted me a little.

  Armed with a small map and a few written directions from Johnny, I set out for the capital late on Saturday afternoon. On the first leg of the journey I drove to Edenderry and straight on to Prosperous and then somehow as I travelled southwards I found the Naas Road. Turning left I drove eastwards until I came to what was then known as ‘the dual carriageway’. This was a drive of seventeen miles until I came to the Long Mile Road where I proceeded to drive southeast. There wasn’t a lot of traffic in those days and at the end of the Long Mile I stopped at the first traffic lights. It was 6.30 p.m. I was early. When the lights turned green I made a left into Drimnagh and with a couple more turns I was at Johnny’s house.

  Within a minute I was knocking at his door. It was opened by Johnny’s father, and when I told him who I was he took his pipe out of his mouth and said, ‘Yer as welcome as the flowers of May.’ Inside I was introduced to Johnny’s sister Marie and his mother, who was drying her hands before she took my hand and shook it. She and her daughter had just finished making sandwiches in preparation for the evening’s entertainment. After shaking hands with everyone I was invited into the sitting room and Marie asked me if I’d like a cup of tea. It was exactly what I craved and I told her she was a gifted mind-reader. She giggled shyly and turned away in the direction of the kitchen.

  After I had some tea and sandwiches we sat and talked for a while until the doorbell rang. The door was already left open and this allowed Johnny’s dad to yell a hearty, ‘Come on in.’ When they heard his voice they came inside, one by one. There were at least a dozen young musicians, who politely introduced themselves and eventually found some chairs in the living room. A few minutes later came a young County Cavan fiddle player who was introduced to me as Tony Smith. When everyone was seated, Johnny lifted his voice and said that tea would be along in a while, but in the meantime everyone was busy tuning their instruments.

  When they started to play, it was a wonderful sound of flutes, whistles and Tony’s fiddle – and Jesus, they were playing tunes I didn’t know. I was in heaven! One of the first tunes that caught my attention was a jig called ‘The Exile’s Return’. I remember how the fiddle joined in as the tune progressed. Then Johnny lifted his box and began fingering and squeezing and playing along – my God, he also knew it! The effect was instantaneous as everyone united in music that filled the room with what I felt was the most melodic tune I had ever heard. I wasn’t sure what was happening when some of the musicians began dropping out of the jig, but my instinct told me it was being tapered to a finish. But not so – a lone whistler beckoned the jig forward with her lovely lonesome solo. As she continued, the room was magnified by another instrument that suddenly gave the tune another meaning. It was the accompaniment of a set of bones played by a young fellow who was sitting on the floor. As he played he was
swaying his head from side to side and with his eyes closed he was clicking two short rib bones together in his right hand. I also saw that he was twisting and flexing his wrists while he moved his arm up and down to the rhythm of the music. I had never heard anything like it. There was something primitive in the essence of its sound and I was almost hypnotised by its tempo and beat. I wondered how he was producing such a neat clicking rhythm and the fact that he never missed a beat was amazing. It played games with my imagination and I found myself wandering amid the depths of a huge rainforest in South America. And then the playing stopped very abruptly along with the last beat of the bones. There was a finality to it that was exciting, adventurous and even mesmerising. What vision or imagination was responsible for its conception was a thought that became a question. I would have to ask someone. ‘We learned it from a recording of Seán Ó Riada and Ceoltóirí Chualann,’ replied Tony Smith, when I asked him where they got the tune and the idea of using bones for accompaniment.

  Another musician, who played whistle and flute, was Mick Allen, a friendly young man who seemed to have an insatiable appetite for playing and appeared exceptionally confident and contented. He was indecisive about which instrument he wanted to use during the next round of tunes, but finally settled on the flute. The session was heating up with everyone playing except myself, for even though I had my accordion ready, the tunes were unknown to me. Nevertheless, I was satisfied and got a great charge out of hearing many new jigs and reels, and the fact that Johnny was taping the entire session was an added bonus because I knew he’d make a copy for me later.

  After playing for what seemed like an hour we were pleasantly surprised when Bridie Lafferty walked into the room, and everyone stopped playing. Her presence was a great boost to everyone and we immediately felt drawn to her personality and sense of humour. She had a wonderful, gutsy laugh that usually became a nagging cough due to a problem with emphysema. She took a seat near the piano and began rummaging through her handbag until she found a packet of cigarettes. She was wearing dark glasses and a costume of a light beige colour that was tastefully set off with two pearl necklaces. She was a very polite sort of woman and when she said, ‘Keep playin’,’ and ‘Don’t fuss over me,’ her Dublin accent had a warmth and kindness that suggested hospitality and friendship. After lighting her cigarette she again reached into her handbag and brought forth a tiny bottle of Babycham. Then she reached again into her handbag and retrieved a small glass and began pouring. Before she drank she lifted her glass, and raising it she wished us all good health before taking a sip. Johnny asked her about playing and in a gentle show of respect he ushered her to a seat in front of the piano, but before she sat she asked someone to pass her an ashtray. Then she lit another cigarette and chuckled a little. ‘God, ye’re all so patient and quiet, I could have sworn I heard a cricket in the grate.’ Somebody shouted about playing ‘The Dublin Reel’ and Bridie turned towards the piano and tapped out two chords and the music erupted once more. Bridie’s accompaniment and the combined sound of all the other musicians had the effect of engulfing our surroundings and this in turn was taking us on a musical hayride as reel after reel hit the walls of the little room. During a break for tea John introduced me to several young ladies whom he mentioned as the ‘Booterstown crowd’. These were the Bergin sisters, Martha, Mary and Antoinette. I would guess that Antoinette was perhaps fourteen and she was already adept at playing the harp. Her two sisters were playing whistles, and Mary also played a concert flute that she switched with the whistle from time to time, depending on the choice of tune. Another talented girl who sat beside me was Proinsias Ní Dhorchaigh, her instrument being the wooden flute. During a quieter moment she played a reel that she had composed; it was, as she later said, her first effort at composing. I was drawn to her tune and I wanted to know it but somehow it wasn’t recorded on John’s reel-to-reel.

  All of these young girls and their companions were a great inspiration to me. Their enthusiasm and uncanny taste for old west Clare tunes was delightful and a valuable introduction to my own sense of what gave Irish traditional music its true nature and value. Nowadays I remember that particular night at Johnny MacNamara’s home as perhaps a turning point in my life and one that would lead me to become more involved with the music.

  Over the next couple of years I drove to various Fleadh Cheoil events and met the Booterstown crowd at several street sessions. Whenever we played together I was struck by their humility and encouragement, especially if I played something they hadn’t heard before. They brought real musical spirit to these occasions and I have always remembered them for it.

  As their playing continued I was hearing more and more of what I felt was a feast of new tunes, many of them from recordings of Seán Ó Riada’s Ceoltóirí Chualann or from radio broadcasts of the great Castle Céilí Band from Dublin with whom Bridie played piano accompaniment. It was almost midnight when a very tall young man walked casually into the room; it was the box player James Keane. James wasted little time in taking out his nine-coupler Paolo Soprani accordion. He had been playing earlier in the evening at Mick McCarthy’s pub, The Embankment in Tallaght, after which he drove, Fangio-style, a distance of nine miles to the session. When he began playing I was dazzled by the power and energy of his music. His natural ability and fingering prowess was obvious and he had an abundance of reels that not everyone knew, but also had enough for the rest of us to chime in. Then I remembered that Johnny said he was taping the whole session and that he’d make a copy of the tapes for me. With this in mind, I can’t thank Johnny MacNamara enough for all his help and generosity.

  The Drimnagh session was the first music session I attended outside Offaly and the first one I played at in Dublin. The experience is one I still cherish because it introduced me to the Dublin music scene with its many young musicians of my own age. It probably inspired my thinking of moving to the city, but that was a matter of when and how because as fate would have it I didn’t reach a decision until a couple of years later.

  The following morning I said goodbye to the MacNamara family after they treated me to a breakfast of tea, bacon, sausage, eggs and brown bread. I found my way out of Drimnagh and drove west on the Long Mile Road and settled into a ninety-minute journey to Tullamore. It was a bright Sunday afternoon as I continued along the Naas Road. I could still hear a mixture of sounds from the night before and a surge of mixed emotions came and went as I courted my memory of ‘The Exile’s Jig’.

  Finally I arrived in Tullamore, drove west to Church Street and parked my car alongside the towpath. Just across the street was Joe Lee’s pub where I intended to have a couple of pints of Celebration beer. It was a new brand of beer that I’d grown fond of and I had plenty of time to have a few before driving to Mrs Doran’s for a quiet supper. That was during the autumn of 1967.

  Meanwhile I continued working in Boora for another two and a half years, during which time I played dozens of céilís with Dan Cleary, Peter Kilroe and the other members of the Ballinamere Céilí Band. Some of our bookings involved long hours of travel that brought us to County Cork, Connemara, Sligo, Roscommon, Tipperary and the Irish Club in Parnell Square in Dublin.

  I played with the Banagher Scóraíocht group for one more competition, which we won. As always, the experience of playing with other musicians was a challenge because of having to figure out the extent of their repertoires so we could build together a separate group repertoire. Another important consideration of a more delicate nature involved the inclusion of particular tunes that would accommodate Tom’s uilleann pipes. My memories of the competitions are full of victories and defeats but they were always a good experience for me during my younger years. There were also a few disappointments from a few mean-spirited individuals from within our group. This was another learning experience that helped me understand that negativity comes in many guises and that it’s always at the expense of something. In our case it was the music and the joy that came wit
h it. In the beginning it was a social message that I was slow to learn, in part because of my addiction to the music and my complete trust in all of my companions.

  I still remember myself as a young teenage apprentice fitter in Boora workshop and the many co-workers whose kind consideration was of enormous help to me.

  And then there are those musicians, especially Tom and Seamus, who taught me many of the old jigs and reels that were the foundation of my repertoire, and many other players in Offaly whose friendship and music motivated my own humble efforts. I’ve cherished the memory of them all and have never forgotten the great times we shared.

  Photo Section

  My parents Christy and Molly O’Brien in the haggard at the end of our old thatched house in 1944, just after they were married.

  My father coming home from work at quitting time in about 1953, after a day out on the bog cutting turf for a neighbour. He’s smoking a Woodbine cigarette, and that’s a sleán, a turf spade, he’s carrying on his shoulder.

  My father out cutting turf in a neighbour’s bog in around 1953. That’s his workmate Tommy Wright standing in the background.

  Flute player P.J. Moloney and accordion player Francie Brereton at a Fleadh Cheoil in around 1958. Brereton was my first accordion hero.

  My father and his workmate Leo McGill on their bicycles, heading home from working a day in the bog.

  Paddy Brien and my father in their vizards, preparing to go out with the wren boys. This was taken in our new house at Castlebarnagh in around 1962.

  My mother and me at about two years of age, taken in around 1947 in the haggard behind our house in Castlebarnagh.

  I was eleven years of age when this photo was taken in 1956, at the Daingean National (Boys’) School. Not many people had cameras at that time, so a travelling photographer would visit the school each year to take pictures of the pupils for their families.