Tuned up and ready

I didn’t know what I was getting into, pulling up to this bar I’d never been to. My violin sat on the back seat, and I’d grabbed a music stand, too, in case there was a chance to use it.

Through the plate-glass windows, I could see only one person I knew, the main organizer of this Irish music session. I’d met him just once, when he and his wife were dressed as serial killers on Halloween. Tonight, he was wearing normal clothes, looking not scary at all. But still - nerves.

I inherited zero musical talent, which I'm reminded of every year when my beloved parents try to sing “Happy Birthday” to me over the phone. I have dear friends from gifted musical families, friends who can sing or play multiple instruments, who are so kind to let me saw along on my violin in their backyard or my living room – private settings, for a reason.

I tried to branch out, joining an orchestra of friendly adult students. But even with my very encouraging instructor, I dreaded performing, and the perfectionism of classical music led to more anxiety than joy. I wanted to play in rooms where everyone else was playing. Not on a stage – in a circle.

And the musicians in this bar were in a circle. An oval, really, because of the space, but still round, like community. The smattering of customers paid just enough attention to automatically clap between tunes. Not an audience, just people. 

The former serial killer – a music teacher in real life – greeted me as I found a seat. No music stands in sight. You either faked it, knew it, or just listened. I jumped in for a few lines on jigs I recognized – Blarney Pilgrim, Kesh, Swallowtail – but I wasn’t used to playing without sheet music, and these folks zipped along at full freeway speed. Mostly, I listened, and was awed.

I was the least-talented person there – the couple of high-schoolers were playing circles around me. But the music was so cool, so invigorating, so damn catchy, and the people were warm. I’d be back as soon as I could.

*   *   *   *

That first session visit, with my two-hour evolution from trepidation to joy, was in 2023. Since then, my fiddle and I have been to dozens of sessions at bars, outdoor festivals, a coffeeshop, an Irish music school, even a gazebo in a suburban park. I’m still often the least-talented musician, if that word even applies to me. But my playing has improved, and fiddling has become an essential spiritual practice in these times. 

And, whew, these times. 

Since that first session visit, the worlds of politics and democracy have shifted dramatically – toward fear, authoritarianism, and violence, particularly in the past year. And I’ve kept fiddling – increasing it, even – and I’m not alone. Sessions are booming right now with people seeking uplift in music and community. 

And traditional Irish tunes, rooted in a land that has seen so much struggle, conflict, and oppression, are one of the genres that speaks to all that's going on. 

Despite the famous idiom, the despised emperor Nero didn’t actually fiddle while Rome burned, but he still managed to give fiddling a bad name. If something’s burning, yes, you should put down your instrument, put out the fire, and help those affected. But at some point, returning to music-making or other soul-bolstering practices is good and even life-saving.

And that’s the kind of thing this project of mine is setting out to explore.

There’ll be some mentions of actual fiddling here and there, but there’ll be more about the burning, the challenges and stories of life, and the ways we might frame them, respond, and get through it together. It’s going to be a bit of a grab bag of my varied interests such as politics and place, ethics and religion, and there's likely to be a range of tones – not a blogging best practice, I know, but welcome to my brain. Here's hoping that some of it might be your cup of tea (the name of a reel, by the way), and that you'll stop by again.

(Not sure how frequently I'll post, but you can subscribe here.)