1. |
Inlet
06:52
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(In the city of Manchester) lies Angel Meadow
These days, the name fits
Tranquil, verdant, sacred even
The lungs of the city
How things change ...
c19th Angel Meadow was ...
“The lowest, most filthy, most unhealthy,
most wicked locality
Full of cellars inhabited by
prostitutes, bullies, thieves,
cadgers, vagrants, tramps
... and in the very worst sties of filth and darkness
those unhappy wretches - the low Irish.
The Irish came, in their hundreds, and thousands,
Leaving Bog and Famine behind
In hope of better times
Amid the relentless industry
of Cottonopolis.
Closer by lies Red Bank
And these days, with its new flats and hotels,
It’s the Green Quarter of a regenerating city
How things change ..
c19th Red Bank was ...
“A densely populated district of close, dirty,
ill-ventilated and ill-drained habitations”
cramped above the “coal black”,
“pestilential effluvia” of the Irk.
From the East they’d come, in their hundreds and thousands,
Leaving shtetl and pogrom behind
In hope of better times
Amid the relentless industry
of Cottonopolis.
And what if, amid the murk in which they lived and worked,
What if they’d caught strays of melody drifting across the Irk?
And what if musicians from Angel Meadow and Red
Bank had ventured to the other side?
We’ll never know for sure ....
But we can imagine their meeting
The play of fingers of fidl, breath on flute,
The remorseless energy of the music
A respite from hard times
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2. |
Yiddishe Reels
04:48
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3. |
Butterfly-Babele
03:42
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4. |
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He knew that he was being watched from afar, well - across the street anyway, and like so many young men, he found the attention exciting, and as it came from over there, it carried with it an extra thrill, danger even. He’d taken to loitering when she was around, finding a stranger to speak to, slowing his pace, stopping to buy a book of matches from a hawker, only to looking up and find her gone. She’d seen him on the street from when they were very young, kept an eye out for him. On a Sunday, after mass, when all the other Christian kids were being corralled home by their mothers before they scattered down the narrow lanes of Angel Meadow, he was always alone. Now that he had grown tall and strong, and she was no longer a child, it wasn't concern that kept her watching. By now she’d made certain that he knew that she was there, and he was hanging around. “My name is Oisín”, he said shyly one day, she knew this already, “I’m Talia”, she said. He shuffled his feet, looked away ... “I know”. With a steady eye, and a stern face, Talia fixed his gaze for their first time. “Well, Oisín”, she said, “What do you need all those matches for?”
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5. |
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7. |
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Why don't we quadrille together?
Do you hear that? D’you hear that? That’s the sound of an Irish .... what’s that tune, what’ s that tune? And who plays it? Is it Leary or Connell? But on a HORN??? No, no, no, you need a fiddle and a whistle at a wedding, a whistle soars, catches the air, penetrates the chatter, the celebratory hubbub, the tap, tap, tapping of steel shod clogs itching for things to kick off! Hey, come over here, Clancy reckons he’s the best dancer ever to have passed through Albert Dock, but you need a few to dance this, this isn’t a jig or a reel, this is a ... this is a Quadrille! O! But on a HORN!? Hey you puffing away in the corner there, yes you ... what’s your name? Abrahams? (pause) now is that the Donegal or the Clare Abrahams? Russia? Well the Irish family has travelled far! Where d’you get that tune from Abrahams? Your Zayda? ?? Grandfather from Russia (of course). Well you need a fiddle and a whistle Abrahams. Why don’t we come over there and sit with you, and we can Quadrille together, what do you say? What do you say?
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8. |
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9. |
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10. |
Dennis Doody's Bulgarish
04:42
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11. |
Outlet
02:32
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And what if musicians from Angel Meadow had indeed ventured across to Red Bank? And what if melodies and rhythms from Red Bank had permeated the mirk to Angel Meadow? Would the yearnings for one lost world speak to those who’d lost another? Would the waifs and strays of ancient modes accompany the dance steps of a new world? Khosidls and hornpipes, freylekhs and polkas, bulgars and reels, the plaintive doina and laments for the green fields of home. Musical threads interweaving the very fabric of Cottonopolis.
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12. |
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Water is water. In ocean, sea, lake, pool, river and stream, spring, rill, trickle, puddle … drop … Water is water.
O, yes, it carries, the colour, taste, and flavour of its environs, Carving its way over millennia, through rock and soil, Striving to reach that lowest point, Picking up those salts and minerals which merge and combine, To give each sip a distinct flavour and character. But the water remains the same.
The spring within the landscape it helped create dances a light tempo-ed jig, tarantella or polka. As it grows, it waltzes, tango-es, circles into a hora, And then, taking its time, the river slows, a largo, or taking
a slow suggestive dance, Opening its banks, drawing other streams, danced out, Welcoming, embracing, swilling around each other, Melding, until as one, it swells, a raging powerful symphony, A cacophony of all that it carries from mountain to ocean. Water is water.
Here, Irk, not a symphony, but carrying drawing, dancing nonetheless a slightly different tune to other rivers and streams echoing in the distance
Dare we say ‘alien’? Hmmm.
Though somewhat insignificant, the irk has drawn to its banks from afar,
Carries an unusual flavour, a discord on first hearing.
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Richard Fay Manchester, UK
Manchester-based Richard Fay is a composer, ethno-musicologist, arranger, performer, and a producer (of shows including Amid the Mirk Over the Irk: When Klezmer Meets Irish). His works have been described as ‘ethno-classical’, a label capturing his melding of classical and traditional musical elements. He plays a variety of brass instruments and button accordion. ... more
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