A crash course in Irish culture

Sean-nós singing is just warbling? Sean-nós dancing is only a shuffle and step? If only it was that simple, discovers FIONA McCANNwhen she tries to get up to speed with tradition in advance of next week's Temple Bar TradFest

“O, old man, burnt old man,

O old man, it’s a pity I married you.”

THAT’S A ROUGH translation of what we’re singing on a wintry afternoon in a room in Temple Bar’s Filmbase. Or rather, we’re attempting to sing it, though some of the other workshop attendees, hailing as they do from the Netherlands and the US, are having enough trouble getting their tongues around the Irish words without also closing their eyes, sticking a finger in one ear and working a bit of a sean-nós warble into things. As a result, “Orú, ’sheanduine, ’sheanduine dóite” comes out a little differently from Gearóidín Breathnach’s famed interpretation. Then again, she’s a two-time winner of the Oireachtas na Gaeilge Corn Uí Riada, which our teacher assures us is “every sean-nós singer’s dream”.

So much for the impression that only seandaoine sing sean-nós these days. Not only are the country’s various sean-nós singers still battling it out annually for this coveted Corn, but our teacher, Máire Ní Choilm, is a sprightly blonde woman in her early thirties, and she’s been singing sean-nós since she was 12. She gives us a few bars, and it sure sounds a lot sweeter than the more nasal, plaintive tones you might associate with this old style of Irish singing. Then again, Máire sings in the Donegal style, which veers away from the trademark note-bending ornamentation of the Connemara or Munster styles.

Máire and many of the country’s remaining sean-nós singers may be surprisingly young, but the songs they’re singing date back to the 16th century, and while their themes of love and loss are still relevant, there are certainly fewer arranged marriages to burnt old men. After she’s given us a bit of the history, and a sense of the customs that surround this ancient Irish tradition (the “windáil” for example, is a listener who holds the hand of the singer as a form of support, as if to wind them up as they sing), she introduces us to the work of some of the big names in sean-nós. Towering above them all is Joe Heaney, aka Seosamh Ó hÉanaí, the most documented of the sean-nós singers, legendary for his ornate Connemara singing style. We’re treated to a tune from our teacher’s recordings, and to make the point that Heaney’s voice is an acquired taste is to understate the situation, though he does give Mariah Carey a run for her money when it comes to vocal undulations.

Undaunted, we study the lyrics while Máire takes us through a song about some poor young woman who’s being forced to marry a piper. Bad as that may be, it is a fate surely preferable to listening to us murder this song about her: “Téir abhaile riú, téir abhaile riú,/ Téir abhaile riú, a Mhary.” We try. We warble. We try again. We warble more. Maybe we just need a windáil.

THANKFULLY, IT'S TIMEto move on to the sean-nós dancing part of our workshop, about which we're collectively upbeat – we've seen Riverdance.

How hard can it be? After a short break, our dance teacher arrives – another young woman, Catherine Ní Shúilleabháin, who hails from the Ráth Chairn Gaeltacht in Co Meath. One suspects that if the young men of Ireland knew sean-nós was so popular among the young women of Ireland, they’d be a bit more in touch with their cultural heritage.

First up, Catherine dons her dancing shoes, presses play on a frenzied jig, and gives us a demonstration. From the knees up, she maintains a look of utter calm, arms slightly swinging, while down below there’s all manner of stomping and tapping. In contrast to the big swoops and leg kicks of the reels and jigs of traditional Irish dancing, sean-nós keeps things low to the ground, the feet tapping time to the music and forming a kind of percussion with apparently minimal effort.

We all applaud roundly – this is more like it. Then we try to learn it ourselves, and I begin to miss Joe Heaney. We start with the “bun step”, a basic step that’s counted out in 4/4 time by our patiently metronomic teacher. Stamp shuffle shuffle stamp. Stamp shuffle shuffle stamp. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Stamp shuffle shuffle stamp. Stamp shuffle shuffle stamp.

Some light years later, we master the basics, and Catherine is emboldened by our progress to suggest the introduction of a cross step that almost has us all a little lower to the ground than anticipated. We keep our feet, some of us even keep step, and Catherine introduces the walk, a simple advance across the floor. The American brings to it a Michael Jackson flourish, and we all get a great kick out of the stamping. Maith an grúpa. Time to put it all together so.

Catherine does so first and it all looks easy and sounds as rhythmic as a perfectly executed drum roll. We follow suit and the walls tremble. It's only when the music is introduced that it becomes apparent how truly out of time we are. If this were Glee, at least one of us would suddenly shine, I'm thinking, but it's clear we're all as bad as each other, and the only thing we get right is the mighty stamp at the end of each walk.

The rest is a cacophony of clatters that would put even the most seasoned trad fiddler off the beat. Later I read that traditional sean-nós dance surfaces included doors that were taken off their hinges, the tops of tables, or even the tops of stools, with the skill of the dancer shown by how well he could produce the steps within the smallest of confines.

We have a whole floor to use, and still can’t quite get it right, though anyone with a hangover attempting to work on the floor below us is truly suffering by now. By the time we’ve sean-nós-ed through one entire song, everybody is breathing heavily. This damhsa business is quite the workout.

We give it a few more goes, one at a time in the sean-nós style, and with a bit of abandon and a lot of improv the result at least sounds a little more like the stomping beat we’re aiming for, even if it all looks a bit haphazard below the knee.

The great thing about sean-nós dancing, however, is the lack of rigidity – you’re encouraged to make it up as you go along, and once you keep time to the music and make your steps audible, you can pretty much do as you please. The lack of a dance partner ensures there’s no danger of stepping on toes, and you’re even allowed – gasp! – to swing your arms and sway your hips a biteen in the process.

Not that any of us are ready to lep up for a shuffle shuffle stamp to the Kilfenora Ceili Band. And while I, for one, am a convert to this visceral, heart-pumping dance, it may take a few more workshops before I’m ready to take to the tables. For this year’s TradFest, I’ll be sticking with the windáil.

Anyone interested in doing a crash course in song, dance and the Irish language can sign up for the Temple Bar TradFest’s Irish culture workshops, which take place on Jan 30 and 31 from 11am to 1pm and from 2pm to 4pm at Filmbase. The workshops are presented by Gaelchultúr in conjunction with Class Trad (classtrad.ie). Admission is €12. More details at templebartrad.com