Danny Boy by Malachy McCourt Page A

peroration about a particular song he or she is about to sing. The peroration usually follows the same literary path as romantic fiction, and typically, the singer will emerge as hero and preserver of some ancient culture. Surely you’ve seen it before. The spotlight dims and the folksinger pauses to introduce the next song with all the ham-handed subtlety of a Las Vegas magician. It might go something like this:
    T HIS NEXT SONG HAS A LITTLE STORY TO IT . (P AUSE, LONG SIP FROM PINT GLASS ). I HAPPENED TO BE DRIVING ONE STORMY NIGHT IN THE WILDEST PART OF THE MOUNTAINS OF D ONEGAL, THE OUTER H EBRIDES, OR IN THE MOST RURAL PART OF A PPALACHIA, WHEN MY CAR ENGINE SUDDENLY, WITHOUT ANY REASON, STALLED ON THIS DARK, DESERTED, COUNTRY ROAD . I CHECKED THE GAS AND THERE WAS PLENTY AND I TRIED TO START IT AGAIN, BUT HAD NO SUCCESS . S ITTING THERE IN THE SILENT DARKNESS WAS QUITE SCARY AND SO I DECIDED TO WALK TO THE NEAREST HOUSE . I T BEGAN TO RAIN HEAVILY AND THE WIND MADE IT DIFFICULT TO WALK, BUT I TUCKED MY HEAD DOWN AND MOVED ON . A FTER ABOUT AN HOUR , I SPIED A LIGHT WHICH SEEMED TO BE HANGING IN THE SKY, AS IT WAS ON THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN, AND I DECIDED TO HEAD IN THAT DIRECTION . T HE GOING WAS TREACHEROUS, MUDDY, AND SLIPPERY, BUT I STRUGGLED ON, SURE TO MAINTAIN A VIEW OF THE LIGHT . J UST WHEN I THOUGHT I COULDN’T WALK ANY FURTHER , I HEARD THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SOUND, A HUMAN VOICE RAISED INSONG AND ACCOMPANIED BY THE UNDERTONES OF A VIOLIN . I T WAS A MAN’S VOICE AND THE WORDS WERE CLEAR, AND I COULD UNDERSTAND THEM EVEN WITH THE SOUNDS OF WIND AND RAIN WHIPPING AROUND ME . H E SANG OF THE LOSS OF HIS LOVE AND OF THE BREAKING OF HIS HEART BECAUSE SHE HAD CHOSEN ANOTHER . T HERE WAS A GREAT SOB IN HIS THROAT AND WHEN THE PAIN BECAME TOO GREAT, THE WAIL OF THE VIOLIN PLED FOR HER RETURN AND THEN THERE WAS SILENCE . G ATHERING MY WITS , I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR AND A VOICE BADE ME “COME IN.” I T WAS A SHABBY PLACE WITH HAND-CRAFTED WOOD FURNITURE, A TABLE AND A COUPLE OF BENCHES, BUT IT WAS WARM . A VOICE SAID , “Y OU ARE WELCOME IN MY HOUSE .” I T WAS THE VOICE OF AN OLD MAN SEATED IN A ROCKING CHAIR BESIDE A COMFORTABLE FIRE . H E HAD A VERY SUSPICIOUS DOG, WITH HEAD ALERT, SEATED BESIDE HIM . I REALIZED THAT THE MAN WAS TOTALLY BLIND . I EXPLAINED THAT I WAS A TRAVELING MUSICIAN STRANDED ON THE ROAD AND NEEDED SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT . T HAT PRESENTED NO PROBLEM TO HIM, AS HE SAID HE HAD PLENTY OF ROOM . H E OFFERED ME FOOD ANDDRINK AND TALK OF MUSIC AND OF SONG . H E TOLD ME THE SONG THAT I HAD HEARD OUTSIDE HAD BEEN THE STORY OF HIS ANCESTOR TWO HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE AND HAD BEEN HANDED DOWN FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION . I ASKED HIM FOR THE WORDS AND I MANAGED TO ANNOTATE THE MUSIC AND (WIPING A TEAR) THIS IS THE SONG YOU ARE ABOUT TO HEAR .
    The common feature that all of these collectors of song stories share is the presence of a warm-hearted blind fiddler. The implication, of course, is that blindness confers a special power on a human, an extraordinary insight (yes, insight) into the soul or, at the very least, a sharp ear for bad music. Whatever the reason, the world has no shortage of collector/folk singers who have experienced some kind of spiritual adventure with blind fiddlers who live in remote areas of the world, unspoiled by technology. Just once I’d like to hear the story end with the folk singer returning to the fiddler’s cabin with a royalty check.
    The poet Yeats was fascinated by the spiritual force of blindness, as he wrote of Blind Raftery’s (also a poet and a fiddler) hold over the imaginations of men:
    I am Raftery the poet
    Full of hope and love
    My eyes without sight
    My mind without torment
    Going west on my journey
    By the light of my heart
    Tired and weary
    To the end of the road
    Behold me now
    With my back to the wall
    Playing music
    To empty pockets
    â€“From 1000 Years of Irish Poetry from Welcome Rain Press
    I don’t know how many