New Musical Express 18 November 1989

Trad Aarrghh!!!

Now in full flight from the trappings of hoary old rock ‘n’ roll, head Waterboy and born-again folkie Mike Scott could recently be found on the west coast of Ireland producing an album of traditional Gaelic music recorded in its natural environment - the back room of a pub. In search of the ‘crack’, Stuart Bailie heroically forced down the Guinness and joined in a chorus or two of “Allelu na gowna, praise be to the cows”.

Something’s positively cooking in he kitchen. Wedged back in a corner between the gas oven and a hired-out mixing desk, a guy with a leather fishing cap shakes off fatigue and tries to fix a bunch of pertinent hassles.

Your man with the distinctive hat is Waterboy Mike Scott - publicity-shy tunesmith, smart lyricist, visionary (perhaps) and, more often than you’d give him credit for, comedian. On this occasion, Scotty is hunched over in the back room of a public house on the Dingle Peninsula (in the remote southwest of Ireland) and is digging into his role as a stern, demanding record producer.

Few scullerys have been so decently stacked out with technology. Around the side of the DAT machine, fat power cables lead off past the desk into the lounge bar, directing our attention towards more activity. A rowdy, unrelenting stretch of traditional music. A session in progress.

A session. That mainstay of Irish music - a freestyle interchange of people and instruments, a competitive and (ideally) enthralling business - where strangers and friends trade their abilities and knowledge of long-favoured and obscure tunes. Rock ‘n’ rollers call this jamming, only the sessions have been going on for centuries, and they’re usually miles better than some dog-eared, ego-riddled try at ‘Smoke On The Water’.

For the most part, sessions are held for the pure thrill of it, benefiting only the musicians and whatever drinkers are around. This event, however, thanks to Scott and co, is being recorded for posterity. Even if the crazy flux of players is causing major problems back in the kitchen...

“The guy with banjo! What’ll we do if he starts playin’ the banjo!”

“Jesus, whaddya reckon?”

“Stick him on Cooney’s extra channel?”

“Do that?”

“Yeah, surely.”

John Dunford the engineer is another figure from the cover of The Waterboys’ ‘Fisherman’s Blues’ album. In response to the pressing banjo crisis, John hastily pushes a control, and plucking sounds filter through.

The label below this particular channel has a simple title - ‘HOLE’. Over in the lounge, is the reason for this weird name. The hole in question is a feature of Cooney’s Spanish guitar. Not the normal sound aperture, but a wild, ragged shape, like someone’s poured acid all the way down the front.

This burnt-out form is no accident though. It’s been caused by the violent abrasive action of human fingers - the slamming and scoopings that have reduced this scratchplate to nothing - the ferocious digits of Steve Cooney.

He plays Irish music with a flamenco edge, banging out percussive dance rhythms, pausing to make a few delicate motifs, then catching up speed for another grinding mission. This guy destroys guitars in the space of months. But he makes them do awesome, eloquent things before they expire.

Steve is a native of Melbourne, Australia (complete with digeridoo in the corner), though he speaks Gaelic with a convincing slur. On his arms there are scars which date back to an Aboriginal blood-brother ritual. This man’s ancestors are from Tipperary and he plays the guitar like he spent his nights roasting by Romany campfires.

In Dingle Bay - genuine Ryan’s Daughter territory - all this is possible. And welcome.

Nylon strings judder through a series of slip jigs, slides and demented Kerry polkas. Besides Steve is the formidable shape of Seamus Begley, his partner and a local beef farmer. He pushes the buttons on his accordion and looks entirely calm with it. Seamus has been playing the box since he was five - following a family tradition - and the appearance of recording equipment isn’t likely to faze him much.

One of the final pieces they commit to tape is a tune called ‘Allelu Na Gowna’. The previous evening they’d been fretting over the lack of a good, lilting air - one that would compliment the more insistent, dancey tracks. Ruefully they thought about the local song-collector, Diarmuid, who would doubtless have been able to produce something of use. Bang on cue, the old man put his head round the door, and a song was cheerfully hauled from his memory.

The arrangement is swiftly determined, the vocal lines delegated. Seamus takes his turn with an exceptionally lusty, celebratory force that goes beyond the modest boundaries of the tune. “Allelu na gowna”, the big farmer croons proudly, “praise be to the cows...”

Just a little strangely perhaps, this venture has been sponsored by an Englishman. Pete Lawrence is the prime mover behind Cooking Vinyl records, the man who taped Michelle Shocked singing out with the crickets in a Texas field before anybody figured that Ladies With Guitars would be such a massive thing. In the case of Cooney and Begley, it would seem that his instincts have again been sharp.

He saw the pair supporting The Waterboys during this year’s Glastonbury Festival. The Waterboys set on the Pyramid Stage was impressive and a crowd-pleaser, but the clincher for him was Cooney and Begley's looser, more adventurous play that went on before the main set.

On the second evening, somebody built a bonfire in the centre of the backstage area that became a focal point for the artist and the venue for an all-star session that featured Mike Scott, Steve and Seamus, Maria McKee, The Hot House Flowers and some distinguished extras.

By two in the morning, Cooking Vinyl’s press officer was dancing wiggy reels with Fergal Sharkey’s missus, and Pete Lawrence was convinced he’d again found something exceptional.

After getting Cooney and Begley interested in the idea, Pete wrote off to Mike Scott, asking if he’d care to help. Mike was keen, and soon he’d drafted in John Dunford and Waterboys’ technician Jimmy Hickey, while his girlfriend Irene took to working out the business arrangements in her role as executive producer.

Taping the pair in the An Bothar pub’s lounge - as opposed to some Dublin studio - was a logical move for these people. The art of catching the vibrant, erratic edge of a session is reflected in the second side of ‘Fisherman’s Blues’, a series of raw shapes made at Spiddal House, an antique Galway residence around the corner from the famous musicians’ hang-out, Hughes' Bar.

Listen to the closing seconds of that record - the raggle-taggle burst of Woody Guthrie’s ‘This Land Is Your Land’, with its laughing, roaring and ongoing crack. Here is the special milieu of Western Irish musicians, and a lively marker for the course The Waterboys have been embracing for the last three years or so.

Towards midnight things are slowing down when we’re joined by Steve Wickham and Colin Blakey, two Waterboys who’ve been off watching Davey Spillane in concert. Naturally, they bring a fiddle and a mandolin in from the car. Wickham, a real virtuoso, must know thousands of folk tunes, and performs every request tonight. And so we’re off once more...

At six in the morning, the session is just about done. Pete Lawrence has blistered his fingers playing the spoons Thrash Metal-style. Steve Cooney strums away at the most difficult things ever, while having a detailed conversation with a friend. The barman, who’s told everyone just to serve themselves from now on, is punching out a rhythm on the ceiling. Mike Scott has improvised a bodhran out of a carving board and a chunk of wood. It’s all becoming quite strange.

We’ve been everywhere; ‘Mairi’s Wedding’, a squiffy try at ‘The Soldier’s Song’, and fragments written by folk who faded into obscurity many centuries ago. There are songs made famous by Christy Moore and Hank Williams. A regular ticket to hog heaven, no less.

In Dingle Bay, after stumbling out of the session of your life, anything is possible. And supremely welcome.