by John Hoban
Early on in my sojourn in County Louth, I was busking outside the post office on Clanbrassil Street, Dundalk. Two fine men invited me for a cup of tea and a chat, so off I go with them to the Fane Bar. They inquired if I would be willing to teach music out in the Cooley Penninsula. “Yes,” said I, “I would,” but I had to check with my ‘manager’ first (whoever my manager might be seeing as I only had a banjo, the clothes I was wearing and not a penny to my name!). I always knew I could rely on music and on my ability to teach. I was hired.
For a few days each week for a year or so, I hitched out to the Cooley Kickhams’ Hall and to Carlingford where I taught a lot of children the music which I had myself been given. I would head back into Dundalk for the evening, have a feed in Brady’s Café, or in some other kind household, of which there were many. From then on, I’d play for the rest of the day in Peter McManus’s bar, Mark McLoughlin’s bar, Jimmy and Maureen Kennedy’s in Stabannon, and any other houses, sheebeens, or sheds that would have me. I learned to sing and play a lot of music in these days. I recall meeting Tommy McArdle in Stabannon one time. Tommy was the brother of Peter, a wonderful fiddle player who had passed away by the time I reached Mark’s bar (although I think I meet him sometimes in the spirit world). Peter greatly influenced the O’Connors, Oliver Tennyson and Imor Byrne, the musicians from whom I had learned the tunes, ‘The Day the Ass Ran Away’ and ‘Tickle Her Leg with a Barley Straw’ and many more. The music goes around in circles and I was learning Dundalk music in Dublin, and in the town itself. I loved ‘the town’ as it was known, and I think of it as being an especially honest and creative place.
My time spent in Castle Lane, Castlebar, in Christy Hoban’s house of high renown, best of bacon, stood me in good stead as I helped my friend J.J. with his new venture of selling fruit and veg. This job helped me to supplement the ‘coupons’ (local term for money). We sold fruit and veg all around the town of Dundalk. J.J. used to sing while I rolled the smokes. I remember ‘The Piano Man’ was all the go, a big hit for both Billy Joel and, I believe, for J.J. in Germany when he was over there working. I’d give my best to ‘Poncho and Lefty’ and ‘Exodus, Movement of Jah People’. We sold only the best fruit and veg and I learned that even the poor cabbage had a heart! I felt totally at home selling fruit and veg around Fatima, St Nicholas Avenue, Muirhevnamor, and all over the streets and housing estates of Dundalk. When I was there around Christmas time, I was invited to more houses for the dinner, music and chat than I ever was anywhere else. There was an amazing heart to Dundalk people, and I felt more at home there than I did anywhere else I had been. Musically, it was very powerful for me.
Being a border town, Dundalk was full of music and people from the Northern counties and towns. I always felt a great closeness to these Northern people and I loved the music from these places. Dundalk was a very important place for me, it gave me a great chance to learn music and to play with all kinds of musicans and singers. I used to go to the North for gigs, sessions, and fleadh cheoils (festivals of music) all the time. I felt protected by the music, and I never had a day’s bother in Belfast, Down, Armagh or anywhere else. My friend Leon, the flute player, was a true friend and teacher to me in those days. Fair play.
Music taught me that every place has its unique sound or accent, Ardboe, Ardglass, Keenagh, Derry, Claregalway. Everywhere.
Sligo too was special because the music has lived on there, within the people, for eons. The picture is somewhat different in County Mayo, especially in West Mayo, where musicians seem to have taken the boat into exile or, in many cases, went underground. Sligo, of course, had Coleman, Killoran, Morrison and flute players galore. I recall one beautiful sunny day when I was busking in O’Connell Street (in the centre of Sligo), a man, whom I had never met before, just walked up to me, took out a concert flute, asked me if I knew ‘The Knotted Chord’, and then proceeded to play this beautiful music. His name was Pakie Duignan. He also played some of John McKenna’s reels. He had a fine suit on him with his winner’s medal from the fleadh cheoil in the jacket lapel. Wonderful. How could I go wrong?
I had no formal music education at all. In fact, I did not feel I had a tradition. I was not sure about what people referred to as ‘styles of music’ or ‘settings of tunes’. I did, however, recognise how different individuals played and presented the music. Each county in Ireland held for me a treasure of sound, each county unique. I was totally drawn in by the colours and rythms expressed by the great people I encountered musically. I feel, as each day passes, more grateful than I can ever express by the way musicians (too numerous to mention) gave me their time and patience. It seems to me the music must be passed on freely and with respect in order to grow. I can remember almost the exact time and place I received a particular song or tune. I can also recall exactly how I was travellin’ at the time, what the score was, the craic. This is a true way of remembering and respecting those times, and those people who passed on the music to me. It is also a way of honouring my own journey, past, present and future.
The same idea applies to some contemporary music I have heard and learned from recordings, or by chance meetings. For example, I went to a concert to hear a wee man by the name of Alijah Bai Conti in Trinity College in 1987. He played the Kora, a lute harp from the Gambia in West Africa. He sang and played for two hours to eleven people, including myself. Nobody had heard of him I suppose, or else they were busy elsewhere. I felt so moved, I cried and laughed. I went up to him afterwards and asked him how did he learn music (I always ask that question of people as I feel it is the primary question). He replied to me in broken English, “My grandfather and seven more grandfathers!” I met his son, Denbo Conti, in Galway two years later and asked him how I could buy a Kora. He graciously sold me the one he was playing, so now I play it for myself at home. He made the instrument himself, and I feel honoured to have the Kora and to be making my own sound on it, strange harp-like music, in County Mayo. All the way from the Gambia. The Conti people are what are known as Griots or Bards. Like the old bards in Ireland, way before my time chronologically, but extremely close to me spiritually. I felt a very strong connection to these people, their lives and their music.
One day in Dublin, while busking, my good friend Desi Wilkinson came along and introduced me to Cathal McConnell. The three of us then played together on Mary Street, two flutes and a banjo. We played a request of ‘Danny Boy’ for a poor man on the wine, who looked like he might not see another day. It made his day, and mine. We made no money, but it sure was a great event, a great learning in life, in music and in the service of playing music for others – the giving of our gift for the good of others. Cathal McConnell is one of my first real heroes, a true teacher in Irish traditional music. He comes from Fermanagh, and was playing with a world-famous outfit called The Boys of the Lough. I had seen him in concert in The Eagle Tavern in New York. Now here he was with Desi Wilkinson and yours truly, playing on Mary Street for anybody and everybody – even the gardaí – free of charge and for fun. A great man, a great musician/singer, and to me, a great teacher, and a great example of a true artist. Desi, in my books, is one of the best I’ve ever met. A great musician, singer, and gentleman.
Another great musical experience came my way on a bright September morning in Donegal, 1971. As myself and my mate Bernard were trying to hitch a lift out of Glenties, a man crossed over the road to talk to us when he heard me playing a tune on the mandolin. He directed us to a wee pub, an ‘early house’, O’Faolain’s I think was the name over the door. Inside, the great man himself, John Doherty, was visiting for the day.
Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past and Future sees
Whose ears have heard,
The Holy Word,
That walk’d among the ancient trees.
(‘Songs of Experience’, William Blake)
We, Bernard and I (the visitors), were put sitting beside John himself. We had no money, but we were given food and drink all day as we s
at in awe and wonder at what was going on. John Doherty spoke, sang, danced and played the fiddle until six o’clock that evening. He gave the greatest performance – if you can call it so – of Irish music I have ever experienced. Even now I get the most powerful, warm, inspirational feelings when I think back on that day. He introduced each piece of music with a wonderful story, moving between the Irish and the English languages. He asked me if I would play for him on the mandolin. I gave my best and I also sang a song. I remember thinking, What will I play for this man at all? My best had to come out. I didn’t have many tunes or songs, so I played the ‘Foxhunter’s Reel’. I know that I played my best but I’m sure it was a pretty innocent rendition of the tune. John Doherty praised my music, and made sure the ‘audience’ showed appreciation too. He then said to me, very quietly and kindly, “I’ll play the same tune for you the way I got it.” He announced to the listeners that he would play a piece of music on the fiddle that was composed before people could write music. It was called ‘The Hare and the Hound’. My God. Talk about being blown away. I was moved to tears and till the day I die, I will never forget his descriptive fox chase piece. It still rings in my soul and in my heart. Afterwards, he asked if I would sing a song, so I sang ‘The Faithful Sailor Boy’ which I heard first from The Keanes of Carlestrane in County Galway. He listened with his eyes closed, thanked me again, and gave me such wonderful support and encouragement for my efforts at music. I felt blessed beyond words. Maybe six people were present all day, and in the evening, his great friend, the doctor, called for him and away he went.
I have since learned that both John Doherty and his brother Mickey are buried in Fintown Cemetery in County Donegal. A friend of mine visited the grave and he told me that it’s easy to fnd. Growing out of it is a mountain ash tree, a beautiful, humble tree which bears berries each year to feed the blackbirds. The day I met John Doherty in Glenties he spoke so lovingly of the blackbird, and of course he played the air, the set dance and the reel called ‘The Blackbird’ (which I once saw my mother dance) in an extraordinary fashion.
My rambles also took me to the South of Ireland on many occasions where I met singers on the street like Geordie Hanna from County Tyrone, and Nicholas Toibin from County Waterford. I had heard of both these men before and I loved their singing. They opened up to me immediately and sang song after song, as if we were lifelong friends, as if they knew that music was our first language, as if it was more natural to sing than to rattle on talking about the weather. ‘Old Ardboe’, ‘Lisburn Town’, ‘Na Conneries’ (in whose house I was later to lodge in Camperdown, Sydney, Australia), ‘An Caisideach Bán’, were all passed on to me on the streets of Thurles and Listowel. I was feeling increasingly more like a musician as I learned from all the people I was meeting on my path.
Another ramble brought me to AnCo training centre in Galway to learn welding. I lasted three days maybe, then on my last day, I walked out and just kept walking until I reached Mrs. Cullen’s in Foster Street. There was a session of music and drink in full swing in the bar, middle of the day. I never welded again.
While busking (down on my luck, hungry, thirsty, confused) in Waterford city one day, ‘the Pecker’, Padraic Dunne, stopped and gave me encouragement and showed me kindness. I will always remember these times, singing and playing to live. Just to live. During times like this I felt that I didn’t have anything else to do or to live for. All of these encounters were, and are, hugely important in my life. In fact, I feel that these chance meetings with the ‘music people’ saved my life. I only had music, nothing else. It was my entire life. I didn’t have a past, and I certainly had no future. I didn’t have a home, a country, a job or career. All I had was the song they were singing and the grace and gift of music I was receiving. These people weren’t only my heroes, they were masters of music, song and sound. They stood and sang for me because I believe that some energy, or higher power, directed it to happen. I have had many other experiences and musical/spiritual events in my life.
It was a long and a windy road that brought me here. It was a good road that tended to me. A hard and a hungry road as many of my kind fell by the wayside. I think of them today as I listen and ramble and sing. I connect with these spirits always, a communion of souls. I sing and play for them with humility and respect. They passed all this music and the stories on to me so that I may pass them on and carry the tradition on. Buíochas le Dia (thanks be to God).
KNIGHT OF THE ROAD – FIDDLE AND BANJO
(John Hoban)
I’m a ramblin’ man from the County Mayo
When spring comes around
I’m willin’ to go,
wherever my spirit longs to be.
The road is my friend,
it takes care of me.
(Chorus)
With my fiddle and banjo
I’ve covered some ground.
From Belfast to Boston
and dear Achill Sound.
Okemah, Oklahoma, and old Santa Fe.
But the place I call home
is ’round the shores of Clew Bay.
I met two black swans, in Queensland one day,
they restored me to sanity,
like making hay.
I spent three days by train,
crossed the Nullarbor Plain,
with no tree in sight,
nearly went insane.
It was great to arrive in New Mexico,
to be met off the bus by a man from Mayo.
We played music with cowboys and Indians too.
We ‘saddled the pony’ for the Navajo and Sioux.
Istanbul is in a world of its own,
met a father and son play a fiddle and drum,
in a shop that was close
to a thousand years old.
We sang and we danced,
till the cats came home.
While I’m still young at heart,
I’ll ramble I’ll say,
playing this music,
for an honest day’s pay.
When he calls me ashore,
I’ll be ready to go,
far from the blue hills
of County Mayo.
Notes on the song:
This song came down from Curraun Hill, Achill, County Mayo, one day in spring. It sets off on the road to New Mexico, the dustbowl of Oklahoma and back again with the wind to the shores of Clew Bay. Then away to Turkey, Australia, the Nullarbor Plain, the plain of no trees, and back again to Clew Bay.
CRAZY HORSE
(John Hoban)
In the middle of the country
behind Croagh Patrick
in a wee thatched house
that’s now in poor repair
lived this quiet little music man,
not many knew him.
Put me in mind of Crazy Horse
with his feathers and white hair.
Any day and us coming home,
from school daydreaming,
you’d be sure to pick up
on strange sounds you’d likely hear.
The silence carries clearly
the flute or lonesome singing,
it sort of cast a spell on us,
as we stood in the crossroads.
Many moons later,
us squattin’ ‘beyant’ in Kilburn,
we came across the same vibe,
in a pub in Cricklewood.
We bid farewell to the subbies,
to the diggin’ and the dossin’.
Farewell to McAlpine,
we were rockin’ from here on out.
The sounds that we followed were unique,
like Skip James.
Like the clash of the ash,
like the howlin’ of the wolf.
The sounds were very beautiful,
like the playing of Coleman,
like the sound of the skylark,
soar high but for his grace.
So, we tramped and we traipsed,
to the corners of Irel
and,
from Wexford to Belfast,
from Dublin to Mayo.
We searched every townland,
every village, every valley,
to meet up with these people,
we knew only by their sound.
Some of them played boxes,
others stroked fiddles,
some were raw singers,
while others made strong tae,
some of them danced stories,
others studied ‘25’.
But all of them knew heartache,
by the number all their lives.
Most of them have passed on
to meet up with their Maker,
who knows what follows after,
or what awaits for them on high?
I’m so, so glad I heard them singing,
saw them dance and disappearing,
back into the land or sea,
or from which they came.
Notes on the song:
A story about following the sound of music. A story about the type of people I followed. A story about trusting what is up ahead because of the goodness and truth that comes out in the sound and the energy of music stories. For me, faith in a higher power is the beginning and end of it all. So, that’s what Crazy Horse is kinda about. Not easy to follow. Simple but not easy. I once heard Sufi musicianers say, ‘freedom is the absence of choice’. Too true, Horse.
Chapter 8
THE TRADITIONAL…
He was humming an old jig that I’d never heard,
it sounded so lonesome, so high and so clear.
He drained the last drop. He bid me adieu,
and the song that I’ve sung, has the same tune for you.
(‘A Day out in Sligo’, John Hoban)
When I returned to the ’hood (Castlebar, Mayo) in the ’70s, the traditional music was beginning to catch on like a new fashion. There was a folk club in the Imperial Hotel, which brought in people like Fred Finn and Peter Horan as guests. Kenny’s pub on Main Street (now a thriving Chinese restaurant) hosted the first sessions of ceol in the town, The Live Show. A few musicians kept it going, people like Mick Monaghan, and before him Martin Ruane and Snooky Ellwood, who was a street banjo player. A short time later, a few of us got together in the Humbert Inn, also on Main Street, and started a band called General Humbert. When we got our act together, I decided to leave and travel the roads to discover more music. The band became quite famous without me, fair play to them! At this time in Ireland, many bands were beginning to appear on the scene. I saw Planxty myself when they first started, as support to Donovan Leitch:
