Séamus Tansey
Words and Music: The Phantom Shadows
of a Connaught Firelight
Tanbar Recordings - no catalogue number; 3 CDs; 190 minutes; 2001
Love him or loathe him
(and it is possible to hold both these sentiments simultaneously), it is hard to
imagine anyone in Ireland, other than Séamus Tansey, who might have conceived
this sprawling, epic project. Undoubtedly bearing the most garish cover ever to
have featured on a traditional album, ominously featuring a Phoenix-like Tansey
arising from the flames, Phantom Shadows is more than three hours long
and spans three compact discs. 
Whereas the recent
Michael Gorman release, The Sligo Champion, aims to be ‘a musical
biography’, this blends a multitude of Tansey’s reminiscences and his staunchly
atavistic Nationalism to form an aural autobiography spanning his boyhood
years. Its origins lie in a concert tour from a few years back, featuring
accordionist Tony Mac Mahon, the singer Iarla Ó Lionáird and piper Seán
MacKeirnan, when, in Séamus’s own words:
From the word go, the tour showed all
the hallmarks of being doomed to failure because of personality clashes between
the three artists aforementioned. I being the only unaffected found myself
ironically, and hilariously enough, the peacemaker in the face of the real
possibility of the tour breaking up in disorder and all of us returning to our
homes, blacklisted and penalised for breach of contract.
As we drove from one concert venue to
another, often in tension-packed silence, I whiled away the hours by feeding
them large doses of anecdotes, funny stories and a general mixture of Gurteen
parochial bullshit that, for me, could be heard in any parish in Ireland.
These stories were sometimes sad, even
manic depressive, other times uproariously funny and hilarious - anything to
keep them laughing. Unwittingly, I was telling them my own life story,
unearthing events, people, a rural terrain, which for better or worse moulded
me into a child, a man, a musician and character.
Those unaware of
Tansey’s reputation, referred to ‘ironically’ above, might be best served by
the simple word ‘contrary’. One of the foremost and finest flute players in the
pure tradition of his native Sligo, Séamus, who was born in 1943, came to
prominence after winning the All-Ireland title in 1965 and Seán Ó Riada’s
special radio Fleadh Cheoil the same year. He recorded prolifically in the
1970s for a variety of labels, but then followed a lengthy hiatus before the
release of Easter Snow in 1997 and To Hell with the Begrudgers
(with the Antrim fiddler Jim McKillop) in 1998. Though spending the first
twenty or so years of his life in County Sligo, for many years Séamus has been
based in County Armagh. Never afraid to champion his beliefs in the core
principles of the tradition and those who fought to ensure the music’s survival
against the long odds of deprivation and emigration, Tansey has never feared
speaking his mind even though some of his political views might strike some as
off the wall.
Intriguingly, the
project finally emerged glaring into the light thanks to the support of two
other mavericks. The aforementioned Tony Mac Mahon offered encouragement which
Séamus paraphrases as “...stop vegetating in Craigavon, living off the queen,
and do something with your life before you kick the bucket, you lazy bastard.”
The other is a man Tansey has often championed, the dancer and flute-player,
Michael Flatley (whose familial roots lie in Sligo), while he also pays tribute
to the support of two well-known Dublin publicans (Tom Mulligan of The
Cobblestone) and Ned O’Shea (of The Merchant).
Reviewing such a
lengthy project can, of course, only provide a mere soupçon of its
contents. Tansey’s narration dominates the proceedings, his tales of growing up
in a musical environment delivered with all the warmth of the fireside he
effectively evokes (sometimes even the sound of the crackling fire itself can
be heard in the background). Unquestionably, a skilled raconteur, Séamus’s
stories range across the gamut of his childhood emotional experiences,
successfully suggesting a wide-eyed bemusement at some of the events taking
place around him while never allowing hindsight to impose its own perfections.
Some of his stories are hilarious, especially his description of the supposed
equine characteristics of a fellow musician or an account of his own assault by
a nun who objected to his playing. Indeed, at times, Tansey’s language shares
all the subtlety and intricate metaphors of a poetic genius. However, at other
times, he drifts somewhat too easily into mawkishness, calling upon images
hackneyed through over-familiarity, especially his account of the War of
Independence.
Certain narrative
motifs also reappear, not least the image of the Wren Boys as a conceptual
device to compare past and present Ireland nor young men sitting around the
fireside contemplating the grim future of emigration. Yet, surprisingly, the
overall impact fails to be undermined across the excellent first disc and the
slightly less coherent second, although it is true to say that this may not
apply to the third disc, entitled Memories of Boyhood, where following
Tansey’s narrative trail becomes rather arduous.
All this is punctuated
and, more often, illustrated by some marvellous music with Tansey demonstrating
his glorious, joyous musical abilities on both tin whistle and flute
(unusually, for these times, often unaccompanied). Many of the tunes originate
from his local Sligo repertoire and, although he sometimes provides his own
piano accompaniment, the most dominant other instrument is the bodhrán, played
in the old-fashioned hand-beaten style.
Whether Séamus’s
singing, a rather sonorous affair, is also likely to be to the listener’s taste
is questionable. Though well-used as a metaphor for hegemonic bad taste, sadly,
the music hall drollery of Barney Google with the Googley Googley Eyes
(with horrendous artificial percussion) is a monstrous aberration. Séamus makes
his point well enough without having to inflict the song on our ears.
Running through this
review is the implicit feeling that Phantom Shadows is an endeavour
whose impact would have been accentuated by editorial intervention.
Unfortunately, this also applies to the liner notes which are riddled with
typographical errors to the extent that one suspects proof-reading might have
been forgotten. Being Séamus, he cannot resist having a dig at the record
companies which rejected the project, though his sideswipe is undermined by
misspelling three of them. This casualness is also present in the track
listings which are sometimes impossible to follow, wavering between extreme
brevity, e.g., ‘Narration (1.34)’, to lengthy lists such as this (printed here
exactly as it appears):
12. Flute with bodhrán backing - reel
The Rainy Day flute 3/4 - bodhrán back-
ing reel The New Policeman
Tin Whistle Solo
Bodhrán backing
Jig:
A poem by Brendan Connalley
Bodhrán Backing
The Little Eagle-Conquering Wren
3/4 Flute solo backed by Bodhrán
Jigs: the Battering Ram
Tatter Jack Walsh (10.39)
Similarly some tune and
song titles verge on the bizarre. Charism The Ladies is, perhaps, easy
to guess (unless Séamus is making a point about domestic labour), but Fasten
the Wagging a Hip on the Mountain offers room for investigation. Unless
one’s familiar with the song, The Boys of Barr Na Stráide, Tansey’s
listing of The Boys of Bar and Straws offers no help at all. Perhaps,
however, all of this is simply a bit of mischief from Séamus.
Lastly, in these times
of soaring CD prices and despite misgivings expressed above, this has to be one
of the best value packages issued lately and worth every penny of its selling
price of twenty Irish quid. Indeed, it’s worth the lot just to hear the best
tale on the album which ranges across Tansey’s nascent whistling skills, the
prevalence of false teeth amongst the Irish nation, variations in personal
styles of potato eating and a certain character called ‘Tom the Weasel’, a man
‘who hated all sorts of music’.
This review by Geoff Wallis was originally written for Musical Traditions – www.mustrad.org.uk.
This CD was available directly from
Tanbar Recordings whose website has subsequently disappeared. Any information
would be very welcome.