open cases, ease bellows, tune strings – spread the rosin;
some chit-chat about weather, the match, a bit of world
news thrown in. Flute enters, shrugging off the raingear,
bicycle clips; Banjo tries to order drinks, plink-plink of
a coin on an empty glass. A few are already warming up
fingers, loosening wrists, softening lips; taking off into a
gentile O’Carolan set, maybe a jig or two, before letting
rip with a few high tempo reels…
Each takes a turn starting: Whistle leans towards polkas
and slides, Fiddle often picks a mazurka; there’s a pause
every now and then for Singer. The evening reveals more
habits and rituals: Bouzouki will check the soccer scores,
while Mandolin slips out for a smoke; Bodhran is bound
to come back from the loo saying we don’t sound too bad
from in there. Concertina’s quiet tonight, maintaining her
own distance, squeezing thoughts…
The music fills the absence, names of tunes taking on new
resonance: Last Night’s Fun, Happy to Meet Sorry to Part,
– My Love is in America – there’s a call for “Ciunas” when
someone announces a lament, but with no stag parties, darts
crowd to compete with, the TV off, there’s already silence…
