ORPHEUS AND HIS LUTE

_Du holde Kunst_...

‘The changes in this city——!’ said the old man, and then paused as
though overcome.

‘What changes?’ I enquired.

‘Ah, well,’ he concluded in a shocking anticlimax, ‘’tis God’s holy
will.’

‘But what are the changes,’ I persisted.

‘What are the changes? Isn’t it change enough for anyone that the two
things the people were fondest of under the sun, the two things they’d
give body and soul for, are after falling into disrespect?’

‘And what are they?’

‘What else but porter and music?—Sometimes it was the music got the
upper hand and sometimes the porter, but the one and the other were in
every bit of sport and mischief there was. Did I ever tell you the
story of the Irishtown band?’

‘You did not.’

‘Well, now ’tis a little story worth telling, just to show you the
sort of windfalls that pass for musicians nowadays. In those days—I’m
speaking of fifty years ago—every parish had a band, and some had two
bands and even three bands, but the Irishtown band was the best of the
lot. There wasn’t a man in it that wasn’t born and reared as you might
say between bar lines, and every one of them would drink Lough Erne
dry. That was a well-known fact: a man wouldn’t have a chance of being
taken in that band unless he could do something remarkable in the way
of drinking, and it used to be said of a certain notorious cadger—one,
Daaza—that after a band promenade or a procession, with respects to
you, he could get blind drunk on the emptying of the instruments.

‘They were grand musicians—’twas given up to them—but everyone was
beginning to get sick of their begging. ‘They were for ever collecting
at the chapel gates for new this and new that, and of a cold winter’s
night you’d hear a knock at the door, and when you went out you’d see
a couple of them outside with a collecting-box, and they not able to
stop it rattling with the shivering and the lust for drink, and one of
them would up and say “Sorry for troubling you, old flower, but ’tis
the way we’re collecting for new uniforms for the band.” Uniforms! No
one ever saw tale or tidings of anything new on them, and the old rags
they had, there wasn’t a vestige of a seat in them.

‘You wouldn’t remember it, but in those days it was the fashion for
bands to serenade supporters of their own—Aldermen or M.P.’s or big
butter merchants—more particularly when they were giving
dinner-parties, and when dinner was over the man of the house would
come out and slip the bandmaster ten shillings or a pound to get
drinks for the men. But in the latter end no one would open his doors
to the Irishtown band, for as sure as they got any sort of an innings,
they’d be up week after week and night after night, puffing and
blowing outside, and midnight wouldn’t see a sign of staggering or
giving out in them till they got the price of a wet. And that was the
rock they perished on, for one by one they lost their backers, and
towards the end even the dirtiest old ward politician wouldn’t have
the nerve to give them a show.

‘Well, one cold wet night in February they all gathered in for a
practice. Practice, my eye!  Damn the bit of practice they were fit
for, any of them! They sat down round the fire, the whole lot, in the
jim-jams, and ’twas two fellows called Butty Bowman and Ned Hegarty
that weren't as bad as the rest that were lighting the pipes for
them. That much they couldn’t do for the jigs in their hands, and
whenever the door opened or a cinder fell out of the fire, the whole
lot would give one loud shriek and rise three feet in the air, chairs
and all.

‘“Boys, boys,” says the bandmaster, trembling and rubbing his hands,
“what in the name of the sweet and suffering God are we going to do
this night?”

‘“Send out the conjuring-box quick!” says Shinkwin, the big drummer.

‘“But who will we send it to?”

‘“Send it to the pubs. Crowley’s at the bridge ought to be good for a
bob.”

‘“Here, Hegarty,” says the bandmaster, “take a turn at it you now,
yourself and Butty Bowman. And to make the one errand of it, ye might
as well take the jug as well.”

‘So off went Hegarty with the collecting-box, and little Butty Bowman
behind with the jug; and there were the rest of them, some walking up
and down, clenching their fists and grind- ing their teeth; some, too
bad to move, stretched out on the benches, and the whole lot shivering
and moaning like men in their last agony, “Oh, Mother of God, have
pity on me! I’m dying, I’m dying! Oh, will this night ever be over
me?” And every few minutes, like Sister Anne in the story, the
bandmaster would hop to the window looking across the bridge, and all
the poor penitents would cry together “Joe, Joe, are they coming yet?”

‘After three-quarters of an hour back comes me two buckos. The
bandmaster made one wild dive for the jug, and when he looked into it
he gave a holy oath and covered his face with his hands. Butty Bowman
held out his palm and there were three coppers in it. All at once the
whole band began to shriek and shiver again.

‘“Boys!” says the bandmaster.

‘“What is it, Joe?” says a few of them.

‘“Ye know me a long time, boys,” says he, “don’t ye?”

‘“We do so, Joe,” says they.

‘“And ye’ll bear witness,” says he in the voice of a man that was
inviting them all to his funeral, “ye’ll bear witness before the world
that I’m a musician to the eyelets of me boots.”

“You are, Joe,” says they, “you are, of course, but how’s that going
to help us?”

‘“Well,” says he, standing to attention and thumping his chest, “I
don’t care who hears me say it but I was a man before I was a
musician.  ...Butty, run down to Coveney’s and tell them to send up
the donkey and butt.”

‘“Erra, what’s up with you, Joe?” says Butty, thinking, you know, the
bandmaster was after going dotty.

‘“Do what you’re told,” says Joe, with the teeth chattering in his
head, “do what you’re told and do it quick, for be the Lord above me,
I’m not responsible for me actions at this present instant.”

‘Well, Joe being twice his height, away with Butty, and no sooner was
he out of the room than the bandmaster broke down. They didn’t like
the look of him at all, and no one went near him till Butty Bowman
came back and tapped him on the shoulder. He got up without looking at
anyone, took the keys from his side pocket and opened the instrument
cupboard.

‘At the sight of this they all brightened up like one man, because
though only a few of them guessed what he was about, they knew there
was hope in sight.

‘“One minute,” says Ned Hegarty, “can we do this without a comity
meeting?”

‘“I’m the meeting,” says the bandmaster.

‘“But shouldn’t we have a resolution or something?” says Ned.

‘“I’m proposing it,” says Shinkwin.

‘“I’m seconding it,” says another.

‘“Any objections?” asks the bandmaster.

‘“Anyone that have,” says Shinkwin, “just leave him take off his coat
and I won’t be long dealing with them.”

‘“Passed unanimously,” says the bandmaster.  “Hurry up, boys, or ould
Moon’s will be shut.”

‘With that, out with them all in a scramble, every fellow carrying his
own instrument, and Shinkwin cursing, trying to get the big drum
downstairs. They put the instruments into the old donkey-butt and
covered them with bags and tarpaulins, and off with them, beside the
butt, in the pouring rain.

‘Old Moon, the pawnbroker, thought they were mad when they came in,
one by one, each of them with his own contraption. He didn’t want to
take the things at all, but they wouldn’t listen to objections.

‘“How much so?” says he.

‘“Ten quid,” says the bandmaster like a shot.

‘“Erra, what ten quid?” says old Moon.

‘“Ten bob a man?” bawls the bandmaster, doing the morse code on the
counter. “’Twill only quieten the drouth in us.”

‘“Five,” says the pawnbroker.

‘“What, five?” says the bandmaster. “The drum alone is worth more than
that.”

‘“And a lot of use a drum will be to me if ye don’t release it!” says
Moon.

‘“On the sacred work of a musician,” says the bandmaster, “we’ll
release the lot on Saturday night. ... Take pity on us, Mr Moon! For
the sake of your dead mother, Mr Moon, or your dead father, or whoever
is dearest to you of all that’s dead and gone, take pity on us this
night.”

‘“Seven-ten,” says the pawnbroker, and not a ha’penny more would he
give them if they lay down on the floor and breathed their last on
him. Well, when they got the money out with them in one mad rush like
a lot of demented creatures, seeing who'd be first to reach the pub,
when all at once Butty Bowman gives a yell.  They stopped, and the
eyes hopping out of their heads.

‘“Jasus,” says he in a disgusted voice, “are ye going to spoil it all,
are ye? Are ye going into that pub with our sorrowful seven pound ten
to blow it on the shawlies and cadgers of Irishtown?  How long will it
last ye? Be said by me, and in God’s holy name, have grace about ye
and leave the bandmaster order the porter, and we'll bring it back in
the donkey-butt.”

‘They saw the sense in that, and, holding up their stomachs the way
they wouldn’t drop out of them with the drouth, they went round to a
quiet little pub, and by the back way they brought out four
half-tierces. Then back with them the way they came, and when they got
inside the bandroom, Butty Bowman turned the key in the door and went
upstairs to the window.

‘“What are you up to?” says Shinkwin.

‘Butty said nothing but threw the key clean over the bridge into the
river. They all applauded him for this, and well they might, because
it wasn’t long before one woman and two women and three women began to
hammer on the door below.

‘“Leave them hammer away to hell now!”  says Butty.

‘Then they set to it and they didn’t leave much of the liquor
behind. What made it worse was the mob that was after gathering
outside.  The women were dancing and shouting and screaming for drink,
and when they wouldn’t get it they drove in the window with stones,
and when that didn’t serve them they took a ladder to it. Butty Bowman
and the bandmaster had rare fun knocking them off it again.


‘The following night there wasn’t a shilling left of the seven-ten.

‘“Boys,” says the bandmaster, “we’ll have to steady up now and try to
realise the old instruments. And as we’re about it, I’ll start taking
the subscriptions from ye.” And what he collected was the sum of
fourpence ha’penny.

‘“This won’t do, boys,” says he, “this won’t do at all at all. Seven
and six a man is what I want from ye, and I want it in a hurry.”

‘He might as well have been asking a slice of the sky as asking seven
and six from that crowd.  Weeks passed and a month passed, and three
days before Patrick’s Day they had five and ninepence collected
between them.

‘“Oh, boys, boys,” says the bandmaster, “this is shocking. On Sunday
morning I want every man jack of ye at the chapel gates and if that
money isn’t collected there’ll be bad work.”  And to make it more
solemn he got special labels for the old collecting-boxes printed
“Great National Appeal.”

‘That was the sorrowful national appeal for them. The people went in
and out without as much as good-morrow to the boxes or the men that
were rattling them. One gentleman they stopped put the whole thing in
a couple of words.  “After yeer last escapade,” says he, “no decent
man will ever put his hand in his pocket for ye again.” At the end of
that day they had twenty-seven and six. The bandmaster was crazy.

‘“Tis the end of the band, boys,” says he.

‘“Erra,” says Shinkwin, “we won’t go down as easy as that. We'll make
a house-to-house.”

‘“Take an oath first then,” says the bandmaster.  ... “Not a drop of
drink till the instruments are back. ... Right hand up, everyone!
...So help me, God!”

‘“So help me, God!” says they all.

‘“That I might be killed stone dead!”

‘“That I might be killed stone dead!”

‘“Well, for Christ’s sake will ye remember it?” says Joe.


‘And they did. They stuck to that as they never stuck to a pledge
before. And much use it was to them. They made another pound out of
the house-to-house. “My God,”’ says the bandmaster, beating his head,
“we’ll be the laughing- stock of Ireland if we don’t turn out o’
Patrick’s Day.” They all had the scour on them now. Every hour or two
one of them would be racing round to the bandmaster with a shilling or
sixpence or even a couple of coppers he was after collecting
somewhere. The bandmaster’s hair was turning grey with anxiety.

‘On Patrick’s Eve up with him to the pawn.

‘“This and that, Mr Moon,” says he, “we'd be eternally obliged to you
if you’d give us the loan of the instruments for the one day.”

‘“What a fool I’d be!” says old Moon, laughing in his face.

‘“For the love of God and the souls of the faithful departed!”

“No,” says old Moon, being a Lutheran by persuasion.

‘“Then,” says the bandmaster, “hire ’em out to us.”

‘“No,” says old Moon again.

‘“For a quid.”

‘“No.”

‘“For two quid.”

‘“No.”

‘“For three quid then, and that’s every ha’ penny we have and more,
and may the shining angels make a bed in glory for your soul this
night.”

‘“No, I tell you,” bawled old Moon.

‘“You dirty little Protestant scut!” says the bandmaster. “Hell is too
good for the likes of you.”

‘After that Shinkwin went in and by main persuasion got the pawnbroker
to agree to put the instruments on separate tickets. The first thing
he released was his own big drum, and that walked away with one pound
ten; then he took out a trombone, a cornet, a euphonium and two B flat
clarinets. That left them without a penny in the world, and there was
Shinkwin with tears in his eyes begging old Moon for the sake of the
souls in Purgatory to throw in one of the side-drums, and he wouldn’t,
he was that black.

“They put what they had on the donkey and butt, and, ’twould break
your heart to see them, one by one, running in distracted, crying out,
“Mr Moon, Mr Moon, throw in the old piccolo and I’ll pay you o’
Sathurday!” or “Mr Moon, Mr Moon, take pity on us and give us the
little drum!” They were bad for drink but they were worse for music,
and after the pawn shut they were still there, decorating the wall
outside, and every now and then one of them would give a tap on the
window and if old Moon looked out they’d be all winking and crying and
pointing with their thumbs, and saying, “Mr Moon, Mr Moon, for the
love of God and his Blessed Mother!”

“In the latter end they got desperate entirely and up with a couple of
them to Father Dennehy at the presbytery, begging him to intercede for
them, but all the satisfaction he gave them was to say he’d be glad if
the instruments were at the bottom of the sea, for all the scandal
they were after causing in the parish.

‘That finished them. Next morning, down with them to the bandroom and
in the cold light of day there wasn’t one that could face the thought
of a turn-out with their couple of mangy instruments, and Melancholy
Lane band appearing for the first time in their new uniforms. So off
with them behind the bandmaster to get what little satisfaction they
could out of jeering the other bands. They took up their stance at the
end of a lane where there was a flight of steps, and no one that saw
them but was sorry for them.

‘Well, you know the sort of turn-outs there used to be in the old
times: bands and banners and floats and drays with living pictures of
Brian Boru and St. Patrick and Mother Erin playing her harp and
National Foresters with their horses and big feathers out of their
hats, and the devil knows what else. A procession like that would take
two hours to pass, and there were the bandmaster, Shinkwin, Butty
Bowman, Ned Hegarty and the others, with their tongues hanging out,
and anyone that wouldn’t jeer them, be God, they’d jeer him, but you
could see the music was after going to their heads, by the way they
were hopping and screaming.

‘However, that was nothing till the Melancholy Lane Brass and Reed
came by in their new uniforms playing—of all the tunes they could find
—“Defiance,” a march the Irishtown fellows were very fond of. Now,
some to this day maintain that Melancholy Lane were to blame, and some
say Irishtown; some say the bandmaster of the Melancholy Lane gave the
order “Eyes Right” and some say ’twas pure curiosity made his buckos
turn their instruments on the Irishtown contingent. But, whatever it
was, there was a roar, and the next minute the two bands were at one
another’s throats, and the new uniforms that Melancholy Lane took such
pride in were wiping the mud from the streets so clean you could
nearly eat your dinner off it after.

‘Well, as God done it, Butty Bowman happened to have a bit of a heavy
stick with him and with one lucky swipe he opened the head of a flute
player and grabbed his flute. Then he made a run after the procession,
and, falling into step as if nothing had happened, he struck up “Brian
Boru’s March” on his own. And whether ’twas the warlike sound of that
or the way they were after being starved for music for a month past
till they were more like hungry lions and tigers than men, the
Irishtown fellows whipped off their belts and laid out all round them,
and one by one they were racing after Bowman with cornets, clarinets,
piccolos and trombones; and, if they were, their supporters were
springing up from every quarter and falling in two deep at each
side. And still the band kept running up with bleeding noses and
broken heads and faces that were after being painted and decorated
with mud. The last out were the bandmaster and Shinkwin, fighting a
rearguard action with the big drum.

‘Within five minutes of the first blow being struck Shinkwin gave the
three taps, and if that band didn’t play “Brian Boru’s March” it'll
never be played in this world. Every time they had to drop the
instruments and shout they shouted in a way that would deafen you, and
the people cheered them to the echo.

‘But every good thing comes to an end, and so did the procession. The
band returned by the Stream Road, and by that time they had a force
three hundred strong behind them ready to shed blood or tear
iron. Just at the bottle-neck bend they saw a cordon of police
stretched across the road. The inspector stepped out and signalled
them to stop. The crowd began to wave their sticks, and the bandmaster
paid no heed to the signal. The police drew their batons but still Joe
marched on. Then, about six yards from the cordon, he suddenly swung
round, marking time. And as if they had it all planned, the band began
to fall into concert formation in front of him. Before the march they
were playing stopped, he snapped out “Auld Lang Syne, boys!”

‘A dead silence fell in the road as they struck up “Auld Lang Syne.”
They played it so that no one who heard them ever forgot it, they
played it as if they were too full of music and couldn’t get it out of
their systems. On the last bar the bandmaster snapped out “Piano!” The
people knew then they were in for a treat. The Irishtown fellows were
famous for their piano; they could make those instruments sing like
choir boys and never blur a note. The tears began to come to the
people’s eyes, and just when they thought they couldn’t stand any more
the bandmaster yelled so that he could be heard at the farthest corner
of the crowd “Pianissimo!”

‘At that word everyone held his breath. They knew now the band was out
to beat itself. For about six bars Shinkwin tapped out the time softly
on the big drum. All the other instruments except the clarinets and
flutes came in on a whisper, playing staccato, but the six clarinets
took up the tune, and I never heard fiddles to compare with the
Irishtown clarinets for sweetness.  Then Hegarty, the champion piccolo
player of Ireland, began to improvise a very melancholy ornamental
passage above the clarinets—a thing he never did in his life before
and that might have spoiled it all, but that day not a man in the
Irishtown band could have made a mistake if you paid him for it. They
were inspired, and Hegarty was inspired, and that one voice, playing
trills and shakes over the clarinets, gave the last touch to it. After
the first bar the inspector of the police took off his little round
cap and every man there followed him.

‘When the tune was over there was silence as if everyone was coming
back to earth by a slow train, and then the inspector laid his hand on
the bandmaster’s shoulder.

‘“I have to arrest you and your men, Mr Dorgan,” says he, “and I
assure you no arrest I ever made caused me more regret, because in my
opinion you’re a genius.”

‘“You needn’t arrest us, inspector,” says the bandmaster, and some say
there were tears in his eyes. “We’ll go to the Bridewell ourselves.
The holy spirits are round us, and we must treat them gently.”

‘And there and then they walked back to the Bridewell and surrendered
without striking a blow.’

‘And did they get back their instruments?’ I asked.

‘They did not,’ said the old man. ‘They never played again. The Saint
Patrick’s Temperance Sodality bought the tickets for a couple of
pounds, and the band had one terrible night before they broke up for
good.

‘But sure The Temperance Sodality couldn’t play for toffee. Temperance
and music don’t seem to go together somehow.’



Source: _Bones of Contention_, Cora Collections Books Inc., New York,
1972, pp. 28-44