When the Fiddle

Does the Talking

by Leah Wollenberg

The road we were on had been famous enough God-knows-how-long-ago to have a tune written about it, one of the first Irish tunes I had ever learned. I remember not liking it at first. Its smooth, minor taste left you wondering why the Road to Lisdoonvarna was such a sad, lonely place. Outwardly, the tune is simplicity itself. The chords, melody, and rhythms are predictable, and the structure is as basic as it gets when it comes to fiddle music. And it is because of this that, like so many Irish tunes, it is incredibly difficult to play right.

If we hadn’t stayed in England between Italy and Ireland, I’m sure I would have had cultural whiplash. We had been in Rome in the hottest week of the summer; the sun had practically fried the fuzz off my head. Thousands of years of history were juxtaposed proudly and elegantly with the current culture’s additions. The pizza, the pasta pomadora, and the gelato still haunted my taste buds. The colors of Italy, golden brown, rust, and sage, intertwined with the temperature to make the buildings and landscape glow.

Ireland. This was the wettest July in fifty years; any patch of blue sky was something to be gawked at. One of the first things the cab driver in Dublin said to us was, “ Ah, well, just ta warn ya, we’ve abolished the leprechaun.” Throughout our drive, we had seen other evidence of the country’s attempts to stifle its quaint image, mostly in the form of tall, contemproary looking monstrosities posing as houses. We had passed a castle some ways back, but only the cold skeleton of the building was left; there had been no visible attempts at preservation. At times, it seemed as if the famed magic of the Emerald Isle had been leached away by the modern era. But rain was my favorite kind of weather, (especially after the intense Roman heat,) and the gray of the Irish sky and stone, as pervasive as it was, was no match for the brilliant green of every field. If Italy glowed, Ireland shimmered.

I looked out of the window, the ridiculous grin that had been plastered across my face the second I stepped onto Irish soil reflected back at me. Almost reflexively, I hummed a sad, lonely tune.

Truth be told, the road to Lisdoonvarna took us about three miles short of our final destination: Doolin, County Clare. It was a town of many talents. People flocked to it in the hundreds, especially this time of year, to see the famous Cliffs of Moher, take ferries to the Arann Islands, traverse the wild limestone landscape of the Burren, visit monolithic sites nearby, or simply to spend some time on Ireland’s stunning west coast.

To us, these were merely perks. My parents and I were here for the sole reason that Doolin was the local capitol of traditional Irish music. People traveled from all across County Clare to play in its nightly pub sessions. Even in America, the town was legendary in the traditional music circles. As long as I was in Ireland, nothing short of tying me to a chair with about a mile of rope and bolting the aforementioned chair to a concrete floor was going to keep me away. Watch out Doolin, I had thought when we made our plans. Here I come.

We pulled into the small town mid-afternoon and decided to snoop around. Cool, wet air hit my face as the wind blew more clouds off the Atlantic. The fields sprawling across the cliffs were lit by a rare ray of sun. I shook my head and sighed, knowing I’d never be able to look at the green-gold of the California hills the same way again.

I walked up the road, passing shops full of items necessary for a tourist town. The fiddles, flutes, and concertinas of traditional music poured out of their doors and onto the streets. Places back home could learn from this, I thought. It certainly beat Kenny G.

A small whitewashed building with the old style thatched roof tucked slightly behind two others caught my eye. Doolin Traditional Music Store: Instruments, CDs, and More. Seemed like as good a place as any to start.

Every inch of wall space inside was covered with musical paraphernalia, CDs, flutes, whistles, drums, guitar, mandolins and fiddles—Santa’s storage house for Irish music freaks like me. I spent a good five minutes gawking, then turned to the woman at the counter.

“Will there be a session tonight?” I asked, slightly embarrassed by my American tourist accent and eagerness.

“Oh sure. They have them every night at McDermotts, O’Connor’s, and McGann’s.”

“Which would you recommend?”

She pondered this for a moment before answering, “Well, O’Connor’s is best on Sunday. McDermott’s is good, but Kevin Griffin will be playing at McGann’s. I’d go there. Do you play?”

“A bit of fiddle, yeah,” I answered, looking down.

“Going to join in?”

“I . . . maybe . . . do people usually?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. There’s no law against it. But you have to be able to play, you know.”

“Of course.” I bought a penny whistle for my friend, and left with only half the smile I had come in with.

Back at the bed and breakfast we were staying at, I took my fiddle out of the case, tightened my bow, and ran it cautiously across the strings, finally letting my fingers fall into the familiar pattern of a tune. It had been a while since I had really practiced my fiddling. In Italy and Switzerland, I had been playing with the BHS jazz band. England had been spent sick and catching up with family. No situation had exactly lent itself to playing this kind of music. Now my hands were stumbling over melodies they had been able to fly on just weeks before. Sweat gathered in my palms. Even my fiddle seemed exasperated.

Oh come on. You lug me all the way across the Atlantic, haul me around planes, trains and boat, bashing my case at least three hundred times in the process, I might add, and now you’re chickening out. Why bother bringing me in the first place?

I switched to a different tune, hoping I’d have better luck.

This is IRELAND, for God’s sake! You know, the place that the music you play on me ALL THE TIME comes from? You do realize that, right? PLEASE don’t tell me this is all I’m gonna get.

I started playing faster. If I just had some assurance that the fiddle would sound good, I would throw myself into every session I could find.

My bow slipped. It sounded like an aggravated sigh. Dammit woman! I’m a violin! I don’t play myself! That’s your job.

An hour later, I left for downtown Doolin with my fiddle in my hand.

It had started to rain again (surprise surprise), but McGann’s Pub was so crowded that the water in my clothes turned to steam almost instantaneously. It was early still—the sign outside said the session wouldn’t start until nine, (and the word around the bar was that really meant 9:30), so we ordered some food and sipped Guinness. I looked around. Like the music shop, there was barely an inch of wall space that wasn’t occupied. Ancient posters advertising tobacco companies mingled with pictures of musicians playing in the far left corner of the pub that was reserved for them.

My stomach gave a funny jolt as my eyes fell on a photograph of a man completely absorbed in the music of the long-gone moment, long ringlets bouncing around the fiddle beneath his chin, eyes closed behind his glasses, mouth slightly open.

Martin Hayes. The man who had made me take the leap from liking Irish music to loving it with the fervor of a jazz sax player studying Charlie Parker solos.

My ever-so-slightly-drunk bar neighbor must have noticed the strange combination of awe and panic on my face, because he turned to me and asked, “Which one o’ those pictures are ya giving that laser stare o’ yours?”

I pointed to the wall behind him. “Martin Hayes. He played here?”

“Oh sure, he’s played here a couple times. Mighty fiddler. How’d ya know about him? Popular in America, is he?”

“Yeah, I guess. I met him at a fiddling camp I went to last summer. He was one of the teachers. Totally amazing.”

The man nodded sagely. “Do ya play fiddle then?”

“I try to.”

“Great stuff. Are ya going to play tonight?”

I could almost hear the violin locked up in the trunk of the car screaming.

“Yeah, maybe . . .”

The man grinned. “I’ll tell Kevin you’ll be joining in. He’s a master banjo player. The local genius.”

And before I could say another word, he got up and disappeared into the fray.

I watched the musicians setting up like a rabbit eying a hungry fox. There were four of them, and they played in McGann’s every night. An established band. I asked the bartender if there were any come-as-you-please-and-join-in-sessions, and he had replied yes, at O’Connor’s, though the good ones were on Sunday. But you can join in here, he added kindly, gesturing to the pictures of Martin and the others. They did, after all.

I may be a lot of things, but I’m sure as hell not Martin Hayes.

So now I was sitting at a cramped table with my fiddle at my side, scrutinizing the players with my “laser-stare.” A woman with a bodhran (an Irish drum), was yelling something to a young man nearby, who was sent scurrying away as fast as the crowds would let him. Kevin Griffin, the “local genius,” was tuning his banjo with a frown visible even through his stern moustache. The flute player was noodling, eyebrows as thick as the hedges outside furrowed in serious concentration. The guitarist was tuning as well, his long grey hair splayed across his grey sweatshirt and his black beanie pulled down over his forehead. No fiddler. All of them looked like they were in their fifties. Experienced. Formidable.

Kevin Griffin looked up. His gaze landed on me and the fiddle case in my hand. He raised his eyebrow, then turned back to the others musicians.

I almost stood up. I almost walked right out of the door.

But then the music started.

And damn, this was music. My foot automatically started tapping. I felt the muscles in my shoulders and fingers loosen. The creases in my forehead changed direction as my eyebrows rose to unimagined heights. No session that I had played in back home had been anything like this. The four musicians worked together seamlessly—the guitar and bodhran kept the beat with the drive of a 100 horsepower engine. The melody didn’t soar over the accompaniment, it dug in so deeply that the band seemed like a single unit, not four separate ones. And the man at the bar had been right. There was no way I would be able to tell a banjo joke with true conviction again, because Kevin Griffin was indeed a genius. Never before had I heard anyone in Irish music, or any other music, for that matter, get into such a strong groove. It was dance music for the body and soul.

They played set after set, the reels and jigs floated through the pub like tobacco smoke would have in the old days. I was so immersed in the tunes that it took me a second to realize that I knew this one. My hand tightened around the violin case.

It’s now or never. And please don’t let it be the latter.

To hell with it.

I put the case on my chair and whipped my fiddle out faster than I ever had before. My bow was on the strings even before I had reached the musician’s corner. They looked up in surprise, but then the bodhran player smiled a big toothy smile and scooted over so I could join them, yelling, “Gorgeous!” as she did.

I had jammed with enough musicians far above my level to know that playing with people who are better than you has the potential to boost your own playing up notch or two, but never before had I experienced this phenomenon so strongly. My fingers could fly again. The almighty groove took the sound of the fiddle and wove it with in with the others. Since when had I played so percussively, with such drive? I tried to analyze what I was doing, but gave up a moment later. The music was all encompassing—there was no room in my mind for anything else. I would have to take it on faith that I would be able to conjure up this musical force again. And if I couldn’t, well, I would count myself lucky anyway.

We finished the set after a couple more times through the tune.

“Gorgeous!” the bodhran player said again after the applause had died down. “What’s your name, love?”

I yelled out my reply over the deafening conversation that rivaled movie theatre surround sound. I asked her what hers was, and she said something that sounded suspiciously long and Gaelic.

“Why don’t you play something by yourself? We’re all going out for a smoke.”

This I had definitely not signed up for, but now everyone who had heard her was watching me expectantly, so I numbly put the fiddle back under my chin, prayed the magic from the last set was still lingering in my fingers, and started playing Banish Misfortune, a tune I could play in my sleep.

I knew I had made the right choice when other musicians stopped putting their instruments down, grinned at each other, and sat back down to join me.

I didn’t recognize the majority of the tunes they played after that, but I threw myself into the ones I did with a fervor that surprised even myself. By the time 11:30 rolled around, I felt like I was glowing. No. Shimmering.

The bodhran player (whose name turned out to be the ever-so-Anglican “Geraldine”), put her arm around me and said, “That was lovely! Will you be coming back tomorrow?”

I glanced down at my fiddle. “If it’s alright, I’d love to.”

Back on the road to Lisdoonvarna and the B and B, I hugged my fiddle case to keep it from bumping around on the uneven pavement.

Well, you got over the biggest hurdle. A little bit of nerves is good, but lets not have a total relapse tomorrow, okay?

No promises, I thought. Still, I couldn’t help but smile.

That’s more like it.