dublin

On Saturday night I was in a bar in the Camden Street area of little Dublin, a breath of fresh air after a typically not-so-great tourist experience the previous night out in Temple Bar.  If you are not familiar with Dublin, Temple Bar is a neighborhood in the center of the city known for its live music scene and, well, tourists.  We had other lovely moments there during our weekend stay, but that night will be forever memorable for an agressive drunk on the street, a bad frat-style band, and a wasted couple that was actually better live entertainment than the music.

Anyway, a knowledgeable friend had told us to check out the area, and that this bar, Devitt's, was a great spot for "Irish jam", not to be confused with marmalade.  After we made that distinction, we still weren't sure what to expect.  This is one of the best parts of traveling: having an idea of which direction to go, but not really a clue as to what awaits upon arrival...

So we climbed up the steep stairs to the lounge area of Devitt's and were greeted by the typical scene: waxed wooden bar tops and heavy leather-capped stools, dim hanging lamps and tons of ruddy cheeks gulping pints of dark chocolate beer.  Toasty.

After we took it all in, we drew our attention to the instruments strewn about the floor and tables.  The musicians--there were 12, I counted--were on break.  We ordered our pints and sat tight.

The music started up again soon after--and we finally understood what constituted an Irish jam.  Musicians of all ages, sitting about each other in the booths and short stools--there was no stage--dipping in and out of the session at their pleasure.  The songs, incredibly repetitive but nonetheless breathtakingly lovely, lasted 10, 15, 20 minutes, an incredible amalgamation of flutes, fiddles and accordeons.  Sadly this was an acoustic performance that was heavily deadened by the roar of the other side of the bar, the regulars for whom the music and scene at Devitt's was just another night on the town...

But there were moments of hushing, which came between every few songs when one of three vocalists would begin to sing a capella, sometimes joined in harmony by the others.  

I was mesmerized, frankly quite drunk on my 3rd tall beer of the night, and perhaps I had something close to a religious experience during one of these a capella sessions. I had a vision of rolling Irish hills, a small village tucked away somewhere, some celebration, pints clinking and feet stepping to a circular dance, holding hands, the whole village is there, the women in their busty dresses and the men in their sweat-stained smocks, muscles most definitely bulging, everything absolutely bulging with gaiety.

Now I have this song, bits of it really, resounding in the confines of my body...

I could let it out but the frustration of its fragments is killing me, and I fear, I actually am truly afraid, that I will never hear this song again, unless I may find myself anew in ye' olde Ireland, somewhere in my uncertain future...