With live dates and solo and group albums in the offing, Altan are experiencing a sort of rebirth on this side of the Atlantic, says Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh
TRADITIONAL MUSIC enjoys a certain schizophrenic existence. On the one hand, the soloist is revered but on the other, it’s the energy of the session that lures countless pretenders to the tunes.
Altan have taken highly-polished ensemble playing in traditional music to new plains. Originally founded by Gaoth Dobhair fiddler and singer, Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh and the late Belfast flute player, Frankie Kennedy, the quintet has grown in stature, from small beginnings in the mid 1980’s to being the first traditional band to be signed to a major label.
Altan made their debut on the Virgin label in 1996, and from there ratched up 10 album collections that captured the fiery spirit of their Donegal home place. At the same time, they transported the music into the 20th and then 21st century by way of their inventive arrangements.
Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh has long been seen as the figurehead of Altan, despite her protestations to the contrary. Still, her effortless ability to connect with audiences whether in a snug or a concert hall has stood Altan in good stead. And that’s not to mention her filigree fiddle style and genteel voice: a pair of calling cards that any musician would be happy to deal with.
Lately, Altan have taken the decision to refocus their energies closer to home. It’s a choice that’s been influenced by a number of factors, not least of which is the plummeting value of the dollar. Having spent the last decade nurturing a very healthy following in the US, the band saw their earnings decimated by an exchange rate that favoured the euro far more favourably than the trusty old greenback.
“When the dollar started to decline, we realised that it just wasn’t the place to be, unless you could afford to spend a long, long time there,” Mairéad says, although she’s quick to acknowledge that the band’s collective decision to put some distance between themselves and America was also coloured by their growing family commitments.
“The older we were getting, the more we realised that we wanted to be at home and to have quality time with our own families. That had become a big priority for us. I suppose that’s when we began to think about how we might be able to work more at home and in Europe. You come to a stage where you have to accept who you are and where you are in your life, and this is just another aspect of that.”
Altan are all too aware of the reality that very few traditional Irish musicians manage to earn a decent living on home turf. Basking as we do in the luxury of being surrounded by this music, few of us are prepared to pay to hear it live.
“I see that as a positive thing for the music itself,” Mairéad smiles, ever the optimist. “For those of us who make our living from it, it’s a reality. We’ve got to make people believe that it’s going to be different to what they hear in the pub: which it is. But why not make the music more popular here? Because this is where people understand it most.”
Ní Mhaonaigh has weathered more than her share of personal tragedy over the years. The death of her husband Frankie Kennedy in September 1994 was a blow that might have felled a less resilient artist permanently. Instead, Mairéad eked whatever she could from the searing experience of loss. “A huge image came into my head at the time when I realised that he was passing away,” she recounts. “Internment stopped in August of that year, and everybody was rejoicing in west Belfast, and I just remember thinking it was like a Calvary: we had given up someone we love for this. This was something that Frankie was so happy about. The peace process was just beginning to happen then, but it was a strange moment in my life.”
Music was what helped Mairéad through that dark period. “Words weren’t going to say it, so music said it,” she admits. “Music is incredibly healing and to me, it spoke words that I couldn’t say otherwise.”
Altan have learned much from their audiences over the years, not least from those in Japan.
“We haven’t ever changed our music for audiences,” Mairéad says. “We just play the music and hope that they find something of substance in it. But when I asked them [Altan’s audience in Japan], they said that they could actually feel the space in the music. If you live in Tokyo, your apartment is so small and if they could actually feel that space then we’re bringing some of where the music was composed with us too. People are able to sense that openness, that ruggedness and the beauty of the place. I’ve seen people cry at a love song, even if they don’t understand the words, because they hear the intrinsic value of the music and the poetry of it all.”
Earlier this year, Mairéad separated from her husband and fellow band member, Dermot Byrne. Again, personal turmoil won’t deter her from a life making music. These days, she’s composing both tunes and songs with greater facility than she could ever do in the past, when the road was a constant distraction. She plans to release a solo album at Christmas, titled Imeall [threshold].
“I feel I am on an imeall at the moment”, Mairéad smiles. “I live on the edge of the Atlantic, and I see what we’re doing now as a new beginning.
“We’re just about to start a studio album at home in Donegal. We can do it at our own pace. And it is important to us to go back to the source. You can never stop learning from it, because there are so many layers of depth there. When you first learn a tune, you might learn the notes but there’s so much more to it than that. There’s the person who played it, the locality it came from, and the more you play the tune, the more you do see the geography of the place it came from.
“And you know, playing music is like breathing and eating and drinking: it’s a need that we have, that we can’t ignore.”
As well as releasing their own studio albums, Altan have explored the orchestral possibilities of their repertoire through collaborations with the Ulster Orchestra, the Royal Scottish Opera Orchestra and the RTÉ Concert Orchestra closer to home, under the watchful eye of producer, Fiachra Trench.
“It fits like a glove,” Mairéad declares, almost as surprised by the discovery as she is animated by the challenge. “It’s as if it sits behind what we’re doing, and gives it more definition of colour. It doesn’t change the way we play, but it just seems to accentuate it.”
Mairéad’s late father, Francie Mooney, was recently honoured in a documentary, screened at this year’s Oireachtas na Gaeilge in Cork, which will be screened on TG4 over Christmas. Titled Áit I Mo Chroí (A Place In My Heart), it’s a snapshot of a musician and a man who lived for the music and passed it on to all who cared to listen or play, with extraordinary generosity.
Mairéad hopes to bring some of his magic to their forthcoming live performances. The band have kept their dance cards full as we hurtle headlong into a recession. Tomorrow they start a three-date residency in the Button Factory in Dublin. It’s a chance to reconnect with their audience, after a three year absence from the Dublin live scene.
“Without boasting, I think we’re playing really good music at the moment, because we’ve had that time to reflect and we’re enjoying a resurgence of energy”, she smiles. “It’s a rebirth of Altan, and we’ll have lots of friends to celebrate it with.”
Altan play a three-date residency at the Button Factory on Nov 9, 16 and 23. Special guests include: Liam Ó Maonlaí, Seamus Begley and Jim Murray on Nov 9, Eddi Reader Nov 16 and Tommy Peoples and a special surprise guest on Nov 23.
www.ticketmaster.ie
