A Song Said

Now, he told her, if you want to recreate one of these old songs, the songs of your ancestors, on an instrument, you must adhere to a very specific rule. Her dad had bent towards her as she sat at the piano with hands poised above the keyboard and spoke seriously, as might a conspirator of secret things. These songs are not endless, meaningless melodies to wander over both ocean and river with no direction in them. They have a precise story and timeline to be conveyed, sometimes with great urgency, other times as a lament or bearer of news. And each note has its own purpose. She nodded while listening to his words, watching his eyes alight with enthusiasm. This here Biano, he pronounced it as they did in Gaelic, is not really accepted in the tradition. Well, Sean O’Riada introduced it alright. It was, however, associated with the haughty singing of the Anglo-Irish, with their choirs and pianos. He rolled his eyes. But whatever about that, we’ll make use of it now that you’ve been practicing for so long, and a fine tune you make out of it altogether.

He returned his attention to the keys under her static fingers, still poised midair, and put an awkward thumb on middle C. He coughed and found the note among the phlegm in his throat and let out a sweet sounding octave leap from C to C, then continued to sing the first phrase of the song, “On Whit Monday Morning”. She bent her head and listened to the beautiful phrase and the timbre of his voice, letting her hands rest on her lap. Ar maidin Luan Cincíse, Labhair an síofra sa ghleann. He nodded to her to start the melody after him on the piano. She sorted through the keys quickly in her head and played exactly what he had sung. He gave her a nod of approval and continued onto the next phrase. They played on like that together, him singing, she imitating his melody for just over an hour until a cup of tea was in order, and they stopped for a little break.

They shared a contented silence as they sipped their tea. Both of their hearts filled with ancient song and melody, and it was a very peaceful state of mind to have. The dogs barked out in the yard and a tractor drove by on the road outside. He hummed the melody in between bites of a biscuit and suggested they do some more. While he cleared the plates and cups, she began again the melody she had learned so far for him to assess, beginning with the octave leap and falling notes of the first phrase towards the ornamental turn which brought the melody back to the tonic note. She knew not to add classical cadences to these songs with her left hand but instead used the simple open fifth intervals of modal harmony. So simple and so effective, she conceded: it was the melody in these songs that were the noble carriers of the story. Then the rich texture added by ancient harmonies made the song feel transported by more than one voice. She liked it like that. It was a feeling of community whenever she played this music, something spiritual.

Her father joined her again, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and they started from the beginning. He explained the meaning of some of the words which were new to her, and she learned that the proper rendition of her ancestral songs was meant as a message, a story to be told, said more importantly and for all to hear, not only those with worldly ears.

Abair Amhrán girl, he told her: say a song.