Like accents in voices, the melodies in music can be traced to a particular location. Clare is a county relatively small in terms of miles, yet there are enough differences in its music for there to be an East Clare and West Clare style. So what is the East Clare style of music?
"It's in the rhythm of the music. It's a tighter style than west Clare. Between Miltown Malby and Carigaholt, you'd hear a difference in the way the music is played, but in east Clare, between Feakle and Scariff and Loughgreaney, people play the same way. West Clare music is looser, more open," says Mary MacNamara, a concertina player from Tulla.
We're driving from Ennis to Tulla, through the thin light of a January afternoon, frost glinting in the corners of fields. Wind buffets the car. It's bitterly cold. Getting out of the car at St Mochulla's National School in Tulla, the cold wind seeps through my clothes like water. We're on an impromptu journey through some of the locations of east Clare trying to make some small discoveries about why music has been played here so long. The school's music group is waiting in the hall, holding fiddles, whistles, concertinas, and a bodhran. MacNamara teaches here two days a week, but they won't be seeing her now for a while, since she will be touring the country extensively, along with brother and sister Martin and Helen Hayes, fiddler and traditional singer, and Patrick Marsh, bouzouki player.
The children play The Rolling Wave; a big lovely sound that swoops and falls with the fluency of water itself. There's a little silence when they finish, as if some tide has gone out. As a group, they have won several prizes, including last year's national Slogadh title, but competitions are far away from the hall right now; this music is all about pleasure.
All but one of them have music in their own families, and there are three siblings from the one family in the group. Where do they learn their tunes? Half at school and half at home seems to be the communal answer.
Eamonn Fitzgerald (12) says, "It's more fun to play music as a group," and the others agree. What do the words "East Clare music" mean to them? "It's different to West Clare," Niamh Torpey (11) volunteers. How? "It's kinda laid back," Kate McNamara (12) says, and everyone giggles. "Slower," someone else says, and heads nod. "The fiddlers in East Clare use the top of their bow a lot more," says Conor Moloney (10), gesturing with his own bow.
Mary MacNamara has two CDs out; would they know it was her playing if they heard her on the radio? Yes, definitely, is the consensus. How? "She has her own style. Her own little twiddles and things," explains Kate Minogue (12). It may not be the most scientific of explanations, but it says it all, and also says how much these children instinctively know about music.
The singer, Helen Hayes, who is from Feakle, joins us back out at the car for the next leg of the journey. "East Clare music is very melodic," she says. "And slow. The melody is the strongest thing."
The road east from Tulla goes through classic Clare countryside; flat and hedgerowed and empty, with a sense of possibilities around every corner. We're headed for the Clare-Galway border, and the townland of Lahawn. Turn the corner and there's Tom Nealon, a man in his 70s, up a ladder, scything weeds in the trees. He holds up the scythe like a question mark against the sky, and descends the ladder.
Inside the beautiful old farmhouse, Maureen Nealon welcomes us with apple tart and the strong tea that's brewing on the Stanley. In the hallway are baskets and creels that Tom Nealon makes, and he takes us out to admire his three-year-old horse, which he rides daily. The dog runs circles in the yard. Mary MacNamara takes her concertinas out of the car.
Nealon was taught to play the melodeon by his mother when he was 10, and has been playing ever since. "Ah, 'tis no good I am at all," he says, with a modesty we hear less and less often these days. He played his mother's melodeon through his teens. "I had an old wreck of a bike and I saved up for a year to buy a new one. It was into Gort I went with my money and wasn't there a melodeon for the same price as the bike in another window." The purchase of the bike was deferred for another year; the melodeon he bought that day in 1953 is the one he has played ever since.
IN the warm little front room, Nealon and MacNamara play tunes; their instruments answering each other across the generations.
Over tea, the talk is of house dances. "They died out about 1948," Nealon says. "Then it moved to the ballrooms, and then the pub. When women were allowed into the pubs and there was the music, that's what made the publicans wealthy. Musicians used to be dancers too, but you don't see that so often now. If you lived in Alaska, you could learn to dance now, but it has nothing to do with the music, d'ye see? You need to know the music to dance; a fast dancer is the sign of a bad dancer, but if you get good dancers, you could play for them all night."
Tom Nealon has a theory about why there is music in Clare. "You do get the music where the land is bad. Where there's good land, people would be out feeding their animals of a night. They wouldn't have the time to be playing music." We list the places famous for music: Donegal, Connemara, Clare, west Kerry. The theory holds.
Back in the car, on the road to Feakle. We're on our way to visit Lena Hanrahan, who ran Lena's bar in the village until her retirement a few years ago. The bar still carries her name; the new owners asked could they keep it, so famous had the place become over the decades.
"I was reared in Lena's place," MacNamara says. "You wouldn't call a pub with music a pub, you'd call it a house. A music house." What makes certain bars become associated with music? "The musician always knows when he's welcome," Hayes says. "It's in the attitude to the musicians," MacNamara explains. "You wouldn't go twice to a place you weren't welcome." Hayes is a non-drinker herself, and only goes to bars for the music.
Lena Hanrahan still has the barlady gene in her. There is a tray of glasses on the livingroom table and a bottle of whiskey and one of brandy waiting for us. No is not an acceptable answer. "The music started about 1971," she says. "We had built an extension. So there was a place for music, and there was space for a quiet talk, you could have a choice."
"There used always be sessions after Mass," MacNamara explains. "So the kids would be playing."
"We never had the Holy Hour here," Hanrahan remarks.
The other pub in Feakle famous for music is Pepper's, owned by Gary Pepper, and in the same family for three generations. That evening, it's the weekly session in Pepper's, which has been running for years now.
There is a little wooden plaque on the wall near the fire, P Joe's place. The P.Joe is PJ Hayes, the famous fiddler, father of Martin and Helen. His wife, Peggy Hayes, says he never misses the Wednesday night session. The tradition of giving the honoured guest the best seat by the fire is entirely appropriate here; a small gesture of respect to a superb musician.
The musicians come in twos and threes, with fiddles, concertinas, and accordians. The session grows. The fire is bright orange. Feet tap on the Liscannor flags. There's talk, too. These musicians do not insist on undivided attention, as can occur elsewhere. The music creates the talk; the talk fuels the music.
The only time there is pure silence is when Helen Hayes sings; her unaccompanied voice a presence in the silence like something physical, elemental. Hairs stir. The moon is full. I'm proud to be a Clarewoman.
Music Network/EBS Best of Irish Tour, with Martin Hayes, Helen Hayes, Mary MacNamara, and Patrick Marsh, started yesterday in Dublin. They will be touring 14 venues nationwide until January 29th. Further information from Music Network 01-6719429.
