Irish
pubs—historically known as public houses—were the social and entertainment hub
of the community, as well as refuge from passing rain showers, and in many
places still serve these important functions. Traditionally they were a man’s
domain, a place men could go to discuss politics and local happenings away from
the family. More recently the gender bias has faded away, though as we
discovered, a heavy imbalance in patronage remains. Story telling, fiddle
playing, and singing often accompany a good drink, while the TVs, if any, are
ignored until the occasional soccer or rugby match comes on. For many
individuals the pub is a home away from home, the other regular patrons their
extended family, and traditionally the pub owner was a central and
well-respected figure in the community.
Studying
the guidebooks, one cannot help but notice the emphasis placed on the pub
experience. More ink is spilt describing where to find the best pubs, the best
pub music, and proper pub etiquette than on any other attraction or experience in
Ireland.
The stereotypical Irish pub is named
O’Conner’s, O’Donnels, O’Sheahans or the equivalent, at any given time, no
matter how early in the day, has at least one or two very old men (usually
drunk) bellied up to the bar (who may or may not be singing depending upon how
many pints they have had), and in the evening serves as a magnet for local
musicians, interested in trading a few tunes on the guitar or fiddle for a
pint. The sign of a good pub is one with an elderly local in attendance, since
one can expect they should know the best local pubs by this point in their
life. Unlike some other expectations set by the guidebook, here it did not
disappoint.
It
was about 6:00 P.M. when we entered Mulligan’s Pub in search for a quick bite. The
place was lifeless, except for the sole patron precariously perched on a bar
stool enjoying a pint of Guinness and belting out the chorus of “You are the
Wind Beneath My Wings” at the top of his lungs and with more heart and soul than
Bette Midler on her best day. Not even the bartender was in sight—perhaps no
coincidence. We were disappointed to discover there would be no dinner and a show,
as this pub didn’t serve food and forced us to find the day’s ration of potatoes
elsewhere.
Enticed
by the rumor of a traditional music session, we stepped into the Kingdom bar a
couple of nights later only to find a similar scene—but without the singing. A
friendly local was enjoying his evening as the pub’s only customer by chatting
with the proprietor/bartender, who also appeared to be a close friend by
default. Since the pub had long ago ended their weekly jam sessions when
Ireland’s economy slowed during the Great Recession, we took advantage of his
story telling propensities.
Wanting
desperately to find some good, traditional Irish music (all too often we discovered
Irish musicians playing popular American music), we surveyed the streets of
Kilarney where amongst the various options we discovered two young men playing
up-tempo Irish reels and jigs on the fiddle and guitar, with an occasional
ballad thrown in the set-list. The pub owner politely interrupted them when it
came time for the winner of the Rose of Tralee contest to be announced on TV. This
contest is an annual event where representatives from across Ireland and Irish
communities around the world compete to win the prestigious title and crown.
The locals were a bit disappointed when Haley O’Sullivan from Texas won. I think
it fair to assume they would have preferred she stay home and compete to be the
Yellow Rose of Texas and left the Tralee contest to the local gals.
We
did finally discover the traditional Irish music session we were searching for,
the type where locals just show up to play each week for no compensation other
than a couple of pints. Fiddle, accordion, guitar, tambourine, and a bodhrán (an Irish drum covered in goat skin) comprised
the band once everybody had showed up and settled into the dimly lit corner of
O’Sheahans pub. After a bit of small talk the accordion player started in on a
tune and the others joined as if they had rehearsed all week for this evening
show. Within moments the entire pub was overwhelmed with the driving sound of
rhythm guitar, the drone of the accordion, and the smooth melody of the fiddle.
This wasn’t just background music. Conversation ceased and everyone in the pub
drew their full attention until the last note was drawn. At that time
conversation would resume briefly while the musicians took a few sips of their
brew and considered what tune to play next, and then the whole cycle would
start over.
During
one such break, a patron who appeared a little unsteady on his feet approached
his friends in the corner and eventually convinced the accordion player to give
him a turn at the squeezebox. My low expectations were shattered when after a
slow and groggy start this guy expertly squeezed out a quick reel, with the
rest of the band joining in sync. After similar experiences elsewhere, you come
to the conclusion that most everybody in Ireland can either play an instrument
or sing a tune and they aren’t the least bit shy about sharing their talent,
especially after a couple of pints.
In the two
hours we were in attendance, we watched the skinny, 70-year old fiddle player
down five pints of Guinness—each set before him by a bar patron as soon as he
finished the last swallow of the previous pint. Meanwhile, the music never
suffered in spite of it, and in-fact, makes me think that perhaps Guinness is
the key ingredient—keeping those fingers loose and strings in tune. I am eager
to test that hypothesis myself to see if a few pints might improve my own
fiddling.
My
description of the pubs, thus far, fails to recognize or consider the
destructive effect alcohol and too much time and money spent at the pubs can
have on families and individual persons. Pictures of Ireland often display rows
of colorful houses. The joke is the houses were painted different colors so the
man of the household could more easily find the right abode after a night at
the pub. While there is another side to this story, the Irish (and guidebooks
for that matter) emphasize the good cultural aspects of pub life and for better
or worse make light humor of the less glamorous past rather than dwell on and take
offense at the drunken Irishman stereotype and underlying reasons for it.
I
must admit we didn’t find any bagpipers in the pubs, and thank goodness. We
might have left our hearing in Ireland if we had. That’s the only instrument I
could think of that came close to starting with a “p” to give this piece a clever
and catchy title. Luckily the pipers were relegated to performing on the
streets for mere pocket change.
And no, I
did not take my own fiddle. I knew I wasn’t prepared to keep apace to these pub
house professionals. Those ambitions will have to wait for the next trip.
