THE question of what constitutes “traditional” Irish music can still provoke strong opinion in certain places. Which said, it’s probably not true – contrary to what I once claimed elsewhere – that disputes over the issue are adjudicated by “bearded holy men in Clare”, who ensure the music is played “in accordance with laws laid down in the 4th century”.
For one thing, purists are not always bearded. Nor are they always from Clare. Take Seán Ó Riada, a Corkman with only a moustache, who was nevertheless known for having some very severe views on what was permissible in the traditional format.
I heard his voice again on radio recently, relayed from a lecture half a century ago, giving out about the piano accordion. “Designed by foreigners for the use of peasants who have neither the time nor inclination to learn a more worthy instrument,” he said of it.
Then, having damned the thing in its entirety, he also identified a particular accordion-related scourge of his time: the habit of Irish céilí bands resorting to what he called the “semi-tonally inflected downward mordent”.
At least I think that’s what he said. I have since circled that phrase repeatedly, examining it from all angles, while kicking it occasionally.
And I’m still not sure what it means. Much as I’d love to be able to complain loudly after a concert somewhere that the musicians had been overusing the “semi-tonally inflected downward mordent”, I still could not do so with any confidence.
But maybe Ó Riada comments shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Maybe, behind the clipped radio voice that otherwise sounded like a parody of purism, there was a twinkle in his eye. He was, after all, as much a revolutionary as a traditionalist.
More than anyone, for example, he was responsible for making the bodhrán respectable. And I know that remains a work in progress. In the mullah-controlled tribal areas of Clare, convicted bodhrán players still risk amputation of one or both hands. But Ó Riada did at least help to reinstate the instrument as a native drum: which is an odd legacy for a purist.
IN ANY CASE, at last weekend’s Féile Patrick Byrne in Monaghan, watching a band called At the Racket, I couldn’t help wondering what the same man would have made of them. Not that they had any piano accordions. And not that it matters anyway. As that fine guitar player Arty McGlynn said of the group, they play music that “makes you smile”. But they’re probably guilty of several breaches of the musical purity laws too.
Formed by London-born fiddle player John Carty, the line-up includes a saxophonist: something rarely heard in the vicinity of jigs and reels.
Less unusually, though equally frowned upon by the trad music Book of Leviticus, it also includes a banjo player.
In fact, at one point in Saturday night’s concert, Carty laid aside his fiddle to turn the band briefly into a two-banjo affair. Before which spectacle, perhaps fearing the presence of purists (he needn’t have worried in Monaghan, where the last native-born purist died in 1972, during a Big Tom concert), he interjected a note of apology.
Bowing to the Mecca of Irish trad, Milltown Malbay, and to its annual Haj, the Willie Clancy Summer School, he noted that until recently, banjos had not been among the instruments taught there. Then, a few years ago, the school relented. But only up to a point. The man charged with organising the classes had been told that, while banjos were now welcome, this wouldn’t be advertised, because they didn’t want the place “littered with them”. And yet, even when littered with banjos, At the Racket could claim to be traditional, in their own way. They are at least a throwback, Carty having formed the group as homage to the Flanagan Brothers, a Waterford-born family that emigrated to the US in the early part of the last century.
Playing traditional music in New York in the 1920s and 1930s, the Flanagans found that they had to tailor their act to an audience reared on Vaudeville, and on a certain amount of stage Irishry. They had no problem obliging. The result was great popularity and a successful recording career. At the Racket was one of their hit albums.
On their old record sleeves, Joe Flanagan is credited with “accordion and low voice”, while Mike Flanagan performs “banjo and high voice”.
Their song harmonies included that Hiberno-American classic, My Irish Molly-O. And further to their purism police rap sheet, the sleeve pictures suggest Joe’s accordion was of the piano variety.
But forensic analysis (my thanks to Mick Moloney) reveals that the black and white keys alternate evenly, proving that this was just a modified two-row accordion, with keys instead of buttons. The PA charge can thus be struck out, although the Flanagans would probably have been given life on the other counts anyway.
John Carty’s affectionate tribute to the group did not extend, as I say, to including an accordion of any kind. So the risks in this regard were probably minimal at Saturday’s concert. But for what it’s worth, I didn’t notice so much as a single semi-tonally inflected downward mordent anywhere. Not that I knew where to look.