JIMMY NOLAN is a musical man, and as with most musical men he's encountered his share of adversity. Nolan's Accordion School opened in Dublin's Liberties in 1975 during the oil-shock recession of that decade. It closed at the end of September. The ailing music teacher called it a day with few if any regrets, having hit the right note for more than three decades, writes BARRY CLEARY
Nolan’s Accordion School at No 3 Dean Street, a stone’s throw from St Patrick’s Cathedral, has been a familiar landmark down the years, its distinctive blue livery and sign an echo of a bygone era. A decorative makeover has submerged it beneath the artifice of a barber’s shop; the school has run its course.
Jimmy Nolan was born in Chapelizod, Dublin, in November 1929, his childhood defined by a passion for music, especially accordion music which he discovered while listening to radio in the 1930s. The impact was profound, and by age 11 he had secured a place in Gerry McDevitt’s North Frederick Street accordion music school in Dublin’s north inner city.
His craft provided opportunity, some notable solo successes and a “few bob”. Experience sharpened his skill and by 1953 he was earning “more in 10 hours playing the ballrooms than he could in 40 hours” on the day job.
Turning professional was not a difficult decision. “You name the ballroom and I played in it.” His stint in the professional ranks was informed by the idea that he should work with the best people whenever possible. But the emergence of showband hysteria made little appeal to his big band instinct, and as the curtain came down on the 1960s his run in the pro ranks ended.
He started selling sewing machines from the Dean Street shop in 1971, having leased it “from a fella who used to live across the bridge from me in Chapelizod”. But by 1975 demand for sewing machines, and much else besides, had collapsed. Nolan was broke. But where Marlon Sewing Machines failed, could Nolan’s Accordion School succeed? Converting
No 3 Dean Street to a music school proved a wise move: parents and children from the locality responded. Fees were kept “manageable for ordinary people” and those unable to meet the weekly expense were advised to have a discreet chat.
By the 1980s Nolan had discovered his musical vocation, Córfhéile na Scoileanna – an annual musical festival held over several days and organised by primary schools, chiefly in Dublin. Córfhéile’s appeal was irresistible: it was a non-competitive event that encouraged interest and cultivated talent. He had been invited to participate in the festival because of the accordion school’s growing reputation among teachers in local schools and beyond.
“Did we win, Mr Nolan?” the children would ask after the highlight of the year, he recalls. “There’s no winners here,” he would chide, a place for everyone and each to their station.
Primary school teacher and Córfhéile public relations officer Joe Johnston has known Nolan since 1985 and describes him as “one of our most loyal and supportive members, always willing to give of his best”.
His visits to local primary schools were a source of encouragement to teachers and parents alike.
“Jimmy visited schools and encouraged children to attend lessons who might not otherwise have had the opportunity to learn an instrument. These children might well have missed out on a music education only for him.”
Throughout the 1980s and into the 1990s the music school’s accordion bands toured Ireland. Up to 20 children travelled with Nolan, his wife Peg and a supporting cast of volunteers and parents; a bus was hired and hotel accommodation booked. The bands played variations on popular musical standards of the era: the Sound of Music, Oklahoma, Oliver!, Elvis and Abba covers, in addition to classical and operatic pieces such as La Traviata.
Moreover, Nolan’s versatility meant he could adapt contemporary numbers with his own arrangements, harmonies and instrumentation. The music school’s performances were often marked by competitive success, reducing the struggle of earlier years to a distant memory.
“He became an institution in the Liberties . . . part of the furniture down there” his son, Jimmy jnr, says. “He was there for so long; wouldn’t retire, and continued to teach . . . He had a passion for music and for teaching.”
When he set up on Dean Street, opposite the bottom of Francis Street, Nolan’s neighbours included the maternity hospital and Magnetic Paste company in the Old Coombe, which extended as far as the Capstan Bar, now Fallons. On either side of his music school were housed Myra Glass, Byrne’s Motorcycle Sales and Lowe’s pub, which straddled the corner of Clanbrassil and Dean Street. While continuing to sell glass across the way on Kevin Street, Myra’s old shop, like the school, is now closed. The rest are gone, with the exception of Fallons.
Nolan’s life in Dublin’s Liberties teaching accordion, saxophone, recorder, keyboard and clarinet to generations of the city’s children stretches back 34 years. He can recall talented soloists passing through his hands but the agenda never altered over the decades: “Lessons had to be manageable for ordinary people.” When parents found it difficult to pay fees, they could “come and talk to me”.
For Jimmy Nolan it was enough to make a living from his music school.
He wasn’t in it to make a fortune, but to send a child home happy and in wonder of musical magic were riches enough for this old teacher.