by John Hoban
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain,
then there is…
I liked to go and hear Planxty play as I was fond of their blend of songs and traditional music especially on the pipes. I have always loved Christy’s way, even more so these times. His music with Declan Sinnott gets deeper and more powerful by the day. As Dylan said in New York in 1968, “I am a firm believer in the longer you live, the better you get.” I understand where Christy and Declan are coming from musically and thankfully, providence saw that our paths crossed not only on ‘Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore’ but also on Van Diemen’s Land. It is all about music and friendship. I have learned oceans about songs and life from my friend Christy. Hopefully, I give back as good as I can. Fad saol (long life), as they say in Achill.,
Planxty, with the talents of Dónal and Andy, were a refreshing, exciting musical sound in my life in those days. I especially followed Sweeney’s Men, as I wrote earlier. Johnny Moynihan would be a very valuable influence on my own singing and playing to this day. He was the man who introduced the bouzouki into Irish music. I think Johnny is a real important innovator in music and an original musical voice.
The Chieftains and De Danann were on the go in the early ’70s too, I suppose everyone was thinking about making a few bob out of the traditional in those days. Why not? Go for it lads. At last, an interest in traditional Irish music.
The Humbert Inn had music sessions going continuously. The sessions were open and free to the public. We were all full of ourselves and full of porter, all the time. This was all new to Castlebar life, and we were discovering ourselves in so many ways. The music was like a back-drop to our lives. The Humbert days inspired younger lads and lassies to take up the traditional and to try to make music.
I never felt comfortable in any band situation, even though I was to play in quite a few such as Muigh Eo, Arcady, Bumblebees, Big City, and céilí bands. I simply didn’t enjoy the experience. I did not feel true to either myself, or to the music. Giving songs and tunes back to an audience in the form of learned repertoire seemed to lack spontaneity and individual expression. It lacked soul. It reminded me of school exams, so it had to go. I understand and respect others’ desire to perform in bands, but it is not for me. I feel music should flow freely from a place in the heart that can not be dictated to by any outer authority. Peace and Love, man. Let music flow like a river, natural like.
Feeling good was good enough for me,
good enough for me and Bobby McGee.
(‘Me and Bobby McGee’, Kris Kristofferson)
During this same period, I was first asked to teach music to children. I knew I could sing and compose lots of songs, all types of songs. I could play fiddle, banjo, kora, accordian, guitar, mandolin, bouzouki, harmonica, bodhrán, and many more instruments. However, teaching is a totally different gift compared to playing and performing. I soon discovered that I had this gift for passing the music on. I could do this, and do it well.
Here is an excerpt from an interview done by Heather Marshall about my teaching, songwriting and creativity:
An active musician, songwriter and teacher, John Hoban is a well-known figure in the Mayo area. Interested in everything from local archaeology, geography and social history he travels internationally, both teaching and performing music. Sees himself as an instrument/channel of communication for conveying the language of music. Determinedly non-materialistic and advocating the pursuit of a simple life, he resembles (and may just well be) one of the very last travelling bards.
John Hoban’s technique is to listen to his inner self, his inner voice. Asked if the words are written first or the tune he replied, “If words come from the heart the music and rhythm are in the words – it is all one thing.” He is not concerned with quantity of production driven by commercial demands but rather with quality. Love versus fear emerge as spur and impediment respectively to his creativity. Factors which block the creative process are fear, the self, the ego. These have to be acknowleged and discarded to create space to live and engage creatively. Establishing a dialogue through listening and response in an unconditional way is like loving or giving and fosters creative output. He looks beneath the surface and tries to capture the qualities of simplicity and truth in subjects which he finds in the global landscape and the people around him. Writing songs is living, walking, breathing. It is not a question of ‘how many songs did you produce this year?’ but that every encounter is a song. Children characteristsically sing their story, Aborigines walk their songlines – we are all born with equal music.
John’s musical technique has developed primarily by ‘doing’ and this is the message in his teaching. He has been playing music for the last 40 years. Prior to that he has listened to music and has been singing and dancing since the day he was born. Among his teachers have been all those who have played music with him from every imaginable background. He describes them as still with him metaphorically speaking as a circle of saints, always at his shoulder. In John’s class academic musical theory is not given so much emphasis as simply getting on and doing it. When he plays with other musicians there is no formal rehearsal; the performance is spontaneous with improvisation fitting the mood and moment.
His many teachers have each in their way inspired him. He acknowledges learning from others who gave him the permission to be himself musically and therefore to learn and develop. His greatest inspiration is silence. Meditation is important. Being awake, living a life that is worthwhile, looking beyond the surface for the underlying truth, sensing the rhythm of words, being aware of feelings all contribute to inspire.
He lives a simple life – not necessarily an easy one. Unencumbered by distractions and unnecessary possessions he lives for the moment – for the ‘now’. A varied network of ‘musical friends’ from ‘Belfast to Boston’ (‘Fiddle and Banjo’), New York, Ontario and Sydney interact with John and engage in a lively musical dialogue of ideas, songs and tunes. The creative process is not over laboured but occurs typically naturally, almost inevitably – like breathing, through contemplation of tranquil surroundings of favourite haunts in Achill or episodes of his own life’s journey.
The story of his own life and influences, his travels and trials provide abundant original souce of material for his songs. Certainly the ‘knights of the road’ drinking tea in his mother’s kitchen years ago passed John Hoban a creative spark or two from the fireside.
I have taught music to many, many people of all ages. I am still teaching. I love it, the method, the individual expression. From day one, the development of my life in music was always going to lead me to teaching and passing on my songs and tunes in West Mayo. For me, it was a natural progression, part of my journey. I was also seeking out musicians in every corner of the County Mayo. Some were to be found in the psychiatric hospital, St. Mary’s, where I visited regularly. One resident told me his story. He told me that he was put away in the ’60s by his kin for playing the tin whistle and talking to the birds. He was a wonderful person, and I learned music from him. ‘Off to California’ and the ‘Three Little Drummers’ were from Richard. He’s always around, like a robin.
Traditional music was not at all popular where I came from, and neither was folk music. There was little to no traditional music being played in Westport and Castlebar and their surrounding areas during the 1970s. Pubs only started to have music when the tourist asked for it, or so it seemed to me. A lot of players had switched over in the ’60s to play modern popular music, leaving the traditional behind. Showbands, singing lounges, fancy footwork and velvet suits were all the rage. So, when I started teaching traditional music to children in Mayo, I was aware that the wider community wasn’t too familiar with slides, or the Tulla Céilí Band, or with traditional music in general. Sean-nós singing and dancing were even more unfamiliar to them.
I trawled the country for music and for musicians from whom I could learn, and with whom I could play. This was a strange experience to me. I was so glad t
o have met Tom Needham, Joe Keane, Billy Gallagher, the Stauntons in Tourmakeady and the Mayocks from Ross (I have fond memories of great Sunday nights in Paddy Hoban’s on Main Street playing with this young family, it was the highlight of my week). There were more, Julie Langan, the Kilroys, and Rosaleen Stenson Ward, and a few other families who were great lovers of, and later, great players of the traditional. Walter Sammon was a great friend of mine at this time too.
I remember hitching down Quay Hill in Westport one dark November night in the ’70s to join up with the Staunton family for a bit of music. I met up with Pat, Mary, Kathleen and Catherine-Anne in the Asgard Tavern. I had a bouzouki, or a banjo, and little else with me. The Stauntons were a real joy for me, a musical oasis. They were very young at the time but they played really lovely music. Both parents and grandparents had music, as they say.
My good friend Walter also had music from both sides of his family. He played the bodhrán, the bones (human ones!), and later the box. ‘He was ploughing the raging main’, or, in another words, he worked as an engineer at sea with Irish Shipping, travelling the Seven Seas. His time on terra firma was spent between his home, and travelling away all over the country, following and seeking out the traditional, the ceol, the music. This man gave me a present of a fiddle, from Liverpool, which I value, cherish, and play to this day, everyday. Thanks again, a chara (my friend).
I think a music tradition takes a long time to build up. Thousands of years maybe. James O’Malley, or James Gulf, as he was known, was a tin whistle player whom I loved to listen to. I learned a lot about music and life from James. A noble, gentle man, a true friend in music and a true friend to me. So too was Jack Harte and his great neighbour, Tom Heneghan, Francie Mack, Rose Nixon, Dominic Grady, John Chambers, Paddy Kilroy and Mick Barrett, real music people. These people kept the tradition going in small pockets throughout Mayo. They did this for the love of it. This is the music that fed my soul and, as each day passes, I become ever more grateful for the gift of music.
In the ’60s, the only music I heard coming from the Royal Ballroom was imitations of American country music, and imitations of pop music from the USA and England. Everybody wanted to be somebody else. They sounded like they came from Texas or Nashville, not from Kiltimagh or County Monaghan or Tucker Street in Castlebar. It was as if they had disassociated themselves from where they came from. Some things never change. The people followed the crowd, living life by numbers. It never appealed to me.
The genuine music people I met were almost all rebels, loners, individuals of a sort, who had a very small, but dedicated band of artistic and genuine followers. For example, often, my good friend and music man, Norman, and I used to make our way to Jack Halpin’s Ale House in Ballyhaunis on a Monday night. I knew that Mary Staunton, from Tourmakeady, played and sang there, and she was joined by a host of wonderful people who played, sang and listened to music of the highest quality: Mick Conroy, Dominic and Mary Rush, Jimmy Killeen, John Austin Freehily, Andy Flanagan, the Waldrons and sometimes Dermot Grogan, to name a few. Almost all gone to their Maker now, but I have kept the music I learned from them and continuously pass it on to all those I teach, my students, or anyone that happens to come along. The likes of those evenings were not big, loud affairs. In fact, Jack almost vetted his customers as to their eligibility to attend these sacred sessions. It was like a crowd of Native Americans, wise men and women, sharing the medicine in the sweat lodge.
These times seem to be just a wonderful memory now. However, when I play the ‘Broken Pledge’, ‘Miss Monaghan’, or ‘Wallop the Spot’, I hear a ‘B’ flat set of uileann pipes, or I hear the tin whistle style of that area and of that era. These memories bring to mind a line in ‘Danny Boy’, ‘I will live in peace until you come to me’.
My teaching has brought me to Achill, Westport, Clare Island, and all places in between. Not too many of those I taught continue to play music. Many were forced into lessons, competitions and performances for the sake of their parents, the school or for Mother Ireland. As soon as they could drop the music, they did. And then they took to the hills.
It is my belief that competition, and cravings for fame and financial gain, kill the soul of music. My experience has taught me that traditional music should not be read from a sheet of paper, but ó ghluain go gluin, from knee to knee. I fully appreciate the value in being able to read music, however, it is my opinion that this method of learning destroys the music from the soul. A fiddle and a violin may be the same instrument, but how they are played are worlds apart. A lot of older musicians had the ability to read music, were musically literate, however, they chose to learn by listening to others. Traditional music is an oral tradition passed down through generations, learned by ear. No traditional musician plays music with a book in front of them, or a book in their head (unlike a classical musician whose reference is the printed text).
The question ‘Did you learn by note or did you learn by ear?’ has been put to me many times, hundreds of times probably. Another question that is shot at me as often has been ‘What kind of music do you play?’ I will try to address both questions honestly and briefly. The answer to the first one is that everything I’ve learned has been by eighty per cent listening and twenty per cent practice (roughly). I picked up from the older musicians that the only way to learn and to play music is by ear, as it is called. I feel if a person learns by note or solely from reading music notation, they have closed down the greatest of all musical attributes, which is the ability to play and to listen at the same time. It is not possible to play with others without this talent or gift. All a person becomes is a voice that must be followed, that must dominate other voices, or else a person must become like a worker on a musical assembly line playing only the one part as instructed. It is what happens in orchestras, rock bands, céilí bands, all bands in fact. Some people love that role. I never took to it myself even though I read music fairly well, just like most of the older masters from whom I learned music. They too read notes in books but chose to learn by ear for a few reasons:
It was the way the music, all music, was passed on for generations throughout the world.
It meant people could listen to each others’ individual expression of music and learn from each other.
People remembered the music far better when learned by ear. It seems to come from the heart rather than the head.
Music books, and collections of songs and music play a very important role in preserving the music as an archival resouce – a wonderful resource. They continue to be of great value today.
As for the question about what sort of music I play, I always answer by saying that I play my own brand of music. A mixture of all kinds. No category. No label. No Rules. Just from the heart. It’s not the answer that is looked for usually. Ná bac leis (not to worry).
In teaching, I try my best to pass it on as I got it. I am still working with this method. It is an individual approach to music rather than the group or one size fits all approach. It comes from the heart, to the heart. My experience has led me to totally oppose all competition in music. Who can say one person is better at singing than another? Competition, like stardom and status in music or art, instills a fear within us which stops us expressing ourselves in the wonderful world of music, which is God-given in us all. I encourage always, – Mol an óige agus tiocfaidh siad (Irish proverb-praise the young and they will respond) – and I teach never to compare ourselves to others, and never to judge others. I also encourage people to keep an open mind in music, and to listen closely and learn from all kinds of music, from the Gambia to Peru, from Donegal to Dun Chaoin, from Mozart to Mali from Howlin’ Wolf to Margaret Barry, then, ar aghaidh linn (on with us).
Around this time in the ’70s, people were discovering that there was plenty of money – beaucoup de bucks – to be made from the music. With money-making in the picture, it all changed. The music was owned and run by a false market of non-artists, business heads, organisations, and much ego-driven self-p
romotion. A far cry from the hob-nailed boot crew ‘deep in the heart of London town’, or the turned-down wellingtons dancing sets in Clare Island. I said good luck to them, one and all. I sought out (and I still seek out) those people who play music for themselves, and for each other, for free and for fun, rather than simply satisfying the call for entertainment or music for the tourists. I loved to read Rainer Maria Rilke say, in no uncertain terms, to the young poet, “Don’t write unless you have to.”
I read and listened to Brendan Breathnach speak about traditional music, song and dance, and I learned a great deal. For example, he wrote in Folk Music and Dances of Ireland:
Genuine traditional players were fast disappearing and the young people attracted to the music were acquiring, by choice, tunes made popular by public performers to the neglect of their local music and under a misapprehension about the virtues of classical tone and techniques, were striving to play in a manner more appropriate to art than to folk music.
I went to Cork to hear the great man from Japan, Dr. Suzuki, speak about music education. He told us that we are all born with music, equal in music, but it is the environment which decides where we go from there. I studied the writings of the great Sufi musician, Inyat Khan, from the early 1900s. My friend and neighbour in Morton Street, New York, Noah Shapiro, introduced me to music of Ancient India, the music of the spheres. At times I have felt very strong connections to the Vina and the Sitar.
