Under an Impression

I wrote Under an Impression on a Kerry hillside walk one winter. Knockreer was the hill. The song uses some of the aisling tropes of old, though there is no spéirbhean to wake you from your drowsy slumber.  Besides the foggy images, the song has a certain sparkle to it. The first line "I was under an impression that right was right and wrong was" (and maybe the song in general) is a melancholic musing with moral relativism. This is the second single from a new album to come entitled "Fire and Foam."

Fire and Foam, Young Men Grown Old!

I've been working recording this album called "Fire and Foam" like mad for the past year and a half. Some of the songs were formed twenty years ago, others are newly composed. I'm releasing the first single from the record into the wild today, the title track, Fire and Foam-a journey through loss and solitude, that includes the backing vocals of my niece Ava O'Malley and Roy Kelleher of the Irish Army No1 Brigade band on trumpet.

The album (and song) uses a-lot of elemental imagery-emerging in triumph from the destructive forces of nature.

"Come rolling thunder, let’s fall asunder,

in the blink of an eye, a long dream dies."

Macalla Chill Áirne, Soundtrack Release

 

"Macalla Chill Áirne" (The Killarney Echo) is the latest release of Trouble or Fortune films/records. A beast of a short film to make, it was tamed with the help of many hands. The soundtrack to "Macalla" was released into the wild a few weeks back, it is available to purchase at charlieobrien.net for five euro. I'm giving access to the film itself until Thursday the 26th of August, with every purchase of the soundtrack. 

On the surface, Macalla Chill Áirne is a recreation of the Victorian era tour of Killarney's lakes, focusing on the phenomenon of the Killarney Echo. In another way, it is a political allegory that delves into the chasms that appear when cultures collide. The soundtrack contains a new imagining of the classic Irish Gaelic song ¨Fáinne Geal an Lae.¨ ¨Ochón a Leanbh,¨ an ancient lament for a dead child, another track, is set here for trumpet and french horn. The other tracks serve as a bed on which to set the visuals flying.

¨Blow bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow bugle answer echoes dying, dying, dying.¨

En Inglaterra de los Tesoros (In England of the Treasures)

Note: When quoting the poem, a rough literal English translation is employed (from the book Na h-Aislingí by the Aubane Historical Society) as well as the newly translated Spanish text, leaving out the original Irish for the sake of brevity. The new Spanish translation is the reason for this post, you can find it in full at the end of this introduction. Also, here's a link to the poem in Irish, English and Spanish from a previous post, for reference.  

I Sacsaibh na Séad (In England of the Treasures) is an 18th century Irish poem in the aisling form, with some intriguing divergences from that style. The poem, like all aislingí, is intensely visual. Indeed, the word aisling itself might be best translated as ¨vision¨ or perhaps dream. In that sense it appeals to me, and I often dream of presenting the poem as a film. And now that we have translated it to Spanish I like to play it around in my mind how that imagined film might be presented in a Latin-American context. Perhaps it's not so far out! These ¨vision¨ poems are in a way like acid trips where Ireland appears and converses with poet. What if Ireland were another country? I Sacsaibh na Séad even seems to detail a kind of shimmering halo effect around this spéirbhean or ¨sky woman.¨

The Aisling, most always begins in a pastoral Irish scene, here's a well known example from the Múscraí area of Cork county. So it would be quite a hop placing it in Mexico, for instance. 

Aisling gheal do shlad trím néal mé

Is go rabhas-sa tréithlag seal im luí

Is go rabhas i ngleann cois abhann im aonar

A bright vision had me robbed and in a trace,

terribly tired from my slumber,

In a glen, by a river alone

In these poems the poet awakes drowsily from his dreaming to encounter a vision of a beautiful spéir bhean. This lady is a manifestation of Ireland. They proceed to converse, after the poet extols her virtues and praises her beauty at length!

I Sacsaibh na Séad diverges in how it is set in an urban English scene-down by the docks of an English town. As well as this, the personal history of the poet Eoghan Rua resonates very strongly throughout the poem. This melding of poem and man adds a sad poignancy which is sometimes missing in the incredible, almost baroque like, wordplay that pervades much of Eoghan Rua's verse. For clarity, let’s give a little background on the poet himself…

After spending many years as a wandering laborer around Munster, Eoghan found himself working for the Nagle family in Cork. The story goes, a servant girl was searching to no avail for someone to write a letter for the master of the house. Eoghan (who had been employed by the Nagles for his brawn rather than brain), stepped up and offered his services. The girl was dubious, but provided Eoghan with pen and paper and dictated the contents of the letter. Within no time at all, Eoghan had the letter written in English, Greek, Latin and Irish. From then on the delighted Nagle's employed Eoghan as teacher to the family. Unfortunately, the delight didn’t last long, they hadn’t been told of Eoghan's rakish reputation. Eoghan was soon in bed with the wife of Mr. Nagle and within a few weeks he was turfed out on the road again in search of trouble or fortune. His next misadventure came in the seaside town of Youghal, where he was press-ganged (forced military service) into the British Navy. Not long after our rambling poet found himself as a seaman on the lower decks of HMS Formidable in the most decisive battle of the French and English for control of the Caribbean. 

Eoghan's aislingí long for the return of the old Gaelic order, and like many of those poems, put their hopes in the very real figure of Charles Stuart, ¨the young pretender.¨ Charles, the catholic claimant to the throne of Great Britain, was supported by both Irish and Scottish Gaels. For Eoghan, as darling of the disposed Gaelic people, to be in the services of the British army was quite an unusual situation. This is where I Sacsaibh na Séad comes in. It is the only aisling written set in England. Eoghan, after his time in the Caribbean, was transferred to the infantry in England. Reality and vision, history and hope collide beautifully in this poem. We can imagine Eoghan, perhaps in urban London, imagining this beautiful woman before him and having her speak. Ireland, speaking through him, in conversation with himself, in conversation with his people. This sky woman first derides the poet, thinking he is an English, protestant, miscreant soldier, on account of his dress.

I am none of those you tell of in your lying stories

And I shall not relate a story to a savage such as you,

A scion of the clan of Luther,

A savage in mien, in outlook and in treachery,

A rake and a coxcomb from London,

Who are in arms and armour arrayed, lacerating

The limbs and shelter of my prince.

no compartiré mis narraciones con un callejero como tú,

heredero del clan de Lutero,

con tu feroz aspecto, tu mirada traicionera,

tu aire salvaje, infame y embustero.

Vagabundo arrogante de Londres,

que vistes tu uniforme de guerra, cortas los miembros

de mi príncipe y destruyes su refugio.

Eoghan responds explaining to the ¨skylady¨ how she is mistaken and he is in fact a poet of the old Gaelic order, that was duped into helping those he did not wish to (those being the British Navy).

Te juro ante este libro que no soy de la misma estirpe.

Soy un viajero fatigado que navega eternamente en océanos furiosos.

Fui arrastrado de los pelos hacia estas tierras lejanas,

a prestar ayuda en contra de mi voluntad, en los barcos guerreros del océano espumoso.

Mi fuerza viene de la sangre gaélica que corre por mis venas,

desde Caiseal de los cinco reinos.

Do not insult me, O bright countenanced lady of fair hair,

By this book in my hand, I am not one their blood,

But I am a feeble traveller who goes over the raging ocean,

Who was torn far away by the hair of my head, 

Aiding the person I was not of a mind to,

In the gunships on the foaming ocean,

And my tribe is of the strain of the bloodstream of the Irish

In Caiseal of the provincial kingships.

This seems to please her and from here their conversation starts to flow...

Como eres de la estirpe de los reyes de Caiseal,

por un instante estrecharemos lazos.

As it is true that you are one of the Royal blood of Caiseal

Then for a while I will unite with you

Eoghan continues to detail his suffering….

Cómo escuchar cuando uno está tan oprimido,

en tierras de extranjeros despiadados!

Yo mismo estuve envuelto en cadenas,

que me dejaron sin esperanza

Cuenta mi historia a los poetas de mi patria

y ellos me enviarán versos que curarán mi amargura,

I must keep silent, perforce

In the land of the beast-like foreigners,

Since I happen to be a while in bondage, 

A circumstance that left me truly downcast;

Tell my story to the poets at home,

And they will send a verse to me,

That will scatter my grief, though full of streams

Of tears so that I am blinded senseless.

The poem ends with Eoghan telling ¨Ireland¨ she should return to Sliabh Luachra (a mountainous district outside Killarney, Ireland where Eoghan is from). He implores her to leave the tierra de extranjeros despiadados and go back to those who will care for her, protect her and tell her story. He specifically mentions ¨Séan¨ who must be a fellow poet of Sliabh Luachra.

Junto al río en el páramo está el ave fénix poderoso,

varonil, festivo, alegre, generoso.

Él te ayudará a comprender los textos,

con precisión, prudencia y sabiduría,

y redactará cada verso con profundidad.

No lo olvides, detente en su refugio,

él te cuidará, te hará compañía

y leerá verso a verso cada paso de tu aventura.

De la auténtica estirpe gaélica, él es heredero, el tesoro,

raudo guerrero, genuina perla de su patria,

sangre de poetas y héroes que no se amedrentaban

en arduos combates montados.

Solemne y libre, del linaje de Eocho,

Seán es quien te tomará en sus brazos,

y te servirá más que cualquier otro.

Mi musa, ¡regresa y protege tus joyas!

By the river of the moor is the worthy phoenix,

Manly, festive, feasting, generous, 

A support in clearly analysing texts,

And wise, learned, subtle,

Who would compose every verse without stupidity,

Do not forget to call in his house

And he will protect you kindly in his company while he reads

In verses every step of your adventures.

Of the true-stock of the Irish is the keen, pure scion,

A true pearl of his native land,

who is descended from the blood of the bards and knights who were not cowardly

In conflicts of hard-fought battles,

Noble, sturdy Séan of the root-stock of Eachaidh,

It is he who will take you in his affection

And grant you to himself, above any of my relatives,

My lady without protection for her treasures.

En Inglaterra de los tesoros, lejos de mi patria,
a la sombra de los mástiles, en los muelles de veleros,
pensando en los nobles y héroes ya desaparecidos,
muertos en la tierra de Céin,
por salvajes en un torbellino de conquista.
Indefenso, aunque valiente y aventurero,
lloro abundantes lágrimas de tristeza,
sin felicidad, sin poder, sin placer.
 
Vi una doncella griega, elegante,
deslumbrante, reluciente y muy bella,
femenina y de estirpe, de suaves labios, deliciosa.
Noble, sincera, respetable,
con preciosa figura, hermosa, de bello aspecto, majestuosa,
animada, madura, amistosa.
Rápidamente, a paso ligero,
descendió un momento a mi lado.
 
Su cabello abundante se ondulaba
formando remolinos que acariciando la hierba,
se deslizaban y se sacudían con fuerza.
Sus finas cejas, su mirada gacha, 
su aspecto y su rostro brillantes,
un ascua ardiente en el lirio fresco.
Sus mejillas de color rosa me tentaban.
Cada palabra suya era más dulce
que el rasgar de los dedos en la suave arpa.
 
Sus dientes, blancos cual cisne
en la espuma del mar bravo.
Sus pechos amplios nunca cayeron 
en los engaños arteros, depravados de Cupido.
Sus finas, dóciles manos
dibujaron osos, veleros,
combates de cientos, lobos feroces,
peces y bandadas de plumosos pájaros.
 
Mi dolor creció ante su bello cuerpo esbelto.
Sus finas formas de la coronilla a los pies
me dejaron sin habla, destruido;
quedaron frágiles mis miembros vigorosos.
Ciego quedé ante tanta maravilla,
mas le hablé tímidamente,
y le pregunté su nombre, su historia;
le rogué que me dijera su clan y su tribu.
 
Ardió mi corazón por sus palabras,
sentí humildad al escucharla.
Deseaba su belleza, su alma, su presencia,
sin que esto nos trajera deshonra.
Urgente, firme, cada miembro de mi cuerpo;
al instante quedé destrozado
al comprender que ella se oponía al pecado y la lujuria.
  
Respóndeme, ¿eres tú la dama radiante
que trajo furia y guerra a la Troya inocente?
¿O bien la que causó la miseria y destrucción de los gaélicos
en las tierras de Céin y Lughoine?
¿Eres tú quien heredó su nobleza y sus bardos de aquellos,
y luego huyó con angustia? 
¿O la ninfa que atravesó las aguas del mar,
desde Eamhain con sus héroes y barcos?
 
No soy ninguna de las que mencionas en tus falsas historias,
y no compartiré mis narraciones con un callejero como tú,
heredero del clan de Lutero,
con tu feroz aspecto, tu mirada traicionera,
tu aire salvaje, infame y embustero.
Vagabundo arrogante de Londres,
que vistes tu uniforme de guerra, cortas los miembros
de mi príncipe y destruyes su refugio.
 
No me insultes, resplandeciente dama de fulgurantes cabellos.
Te juro ante este libro que no soy de la misma estirpe.
Soy un viajero fatigado que navega eternamente en océanos furiosos.
Fui arrastrado de los pelos hacia estas tierras lejanas,
a prestar ayuda en contra de mi voluntad,
en los barcos guerreros del océano espumoso.
Mi fuerza viene de la sangre gaélica que corre por mis venas,
desde Caiseal de Los Cinco Reinos. 
 
Como eres de la estirpe de los reyes de Caiseal,
por un instante estrecharemos lazos.
Te contaré las hazañas de mis viajes
y pronunciaré mi verdadero nombre.
Los poetas me llaman Irlanda, la engañosa,
meretriz de arteras maniobras,
que insultó e hirió a su patria
entregándosela a los forasteros.
 
Desde las tierras de Céin y de la valiente Éibhear
por el muelle, amarrada, huí fácilmente,
portando noticias de los clanes irlandeses,
que pronto lograrán una conquista
arrancando de nuestra tierra al coloso enemigo,
mercenario de profundas raíces londinenses.
¡Brindo por la vida de los héroes, por que sea coronado rey
mi guerrero en Dún Luirc!
 
Los bardos profetizan con sus versos y su sabiduría
una llegada aguerrida y arrolladora.
Fuertes, heroicos, valientes,
irán castigando a los buitres intrusos.
La profecía no ofrece duda: les ha llegado la hora,
deberán rendirse,
someterse a la autoridad,
cambiar sus usos, ¡qué ardua tarea!
 
Temo, ¡oh, dama ilustre!
que esta historia que engendras sea falsa.
Los salvajes y sus naves son poderosos en demasía,
no les importa Carlos Estuardo, tu príncipe.
Toda ayuda está ausente.
El pueblo irlandés fue acallado y está sin tierras,
a diferencia de sus sacerdotes,
que vivían libres en la noble Irlanda.
 
¡Cómo escuchar cuando uno está tan oprimido,
en tierras de extranjeros despiadados!
Yo mismo estuve envuelto en cadenas,
que me dejaron sin esperanzas.
Cuenta mi historia a los poetas de mi patria
y ellos me enviarán versos que curarán mi amargura,
 y secarán las abundantes lágrimas,
que me han dejado ciego y en penas.

Junto al río en el páramo está el ave fénix poderoso,
varonil, festivo, alegre, generoso. 
Él te ayudará a comprender los textos,
con precisión, prudencia y sabiduría,
y redactará cada verso con profundidad.
No lo olvides, detente en su refugio,
él te cuidará, te hará compañía
y leerá verso a verso cada paso de tu aventura.
 
De la auténtica estirpe gaélica, él es heredero, el tesoro,
raudo guerrero, genuina perla de su patria,
sangre de poetas y héroes que no se amedrentaban
en arduos combates montados.
Solemne y libre, del linaje de Eocho,
Seán es quien te tomará en sus brazos,
y te servirá más que cualquier otro.
Mi musa, ¡regresa y protege tus joyas!
 

Mari Mochizuki, Ordinary Surface

'Ordinary Surface' by Mari Mochizuki is the latest release on Trouble or Fortune Records. Mari is an alt. folk singer from Tokyo. Our paths crossed a few summers ago in Kerry, this track was recorded back then. I got to mixing it just recently and we have resolved to make an album in the year to come. Mari is singing and playing the piano, I contributed synths. Dylan Ray of Gratitude Audio mastered the track.

"Ordinary Surface you're made of, you're made of that."

Pa' Los Del San Patricio (Spanish translation)

Pa' Los Del San Patricio, the song that took me to Mexico, was recently translated by Argentinian translator, Carla Marcela Acevedo, and myself. Below is the fruit of our labour, I'll post a recording of this new translation soon.

El ‘47 fue un año atroz, murieron en México y en Irlanda.
En los prados verdes de Éireann cayeron y los ahorcaron en las planicies de México.

Cuarenta hombres esperan la muerte, alineados en la horca, qué triste historia.
Al mediodía caluroso, se los llevó el Señor para cuidarlos.

El ‘47 fue un año feroz, encadenado, sin respiro
Desde Vera Cruz, su bandera en alto, unidos por la valentía.

San Patricio y su cruz, en el paño “Éireann go brách.”
De la mano vamos juntos, destruyendo todo obstáculo.

Más alto ya que las nubes, el General Lee y sus soldados.
Perdieron las tropas de Valencia, huímos a la ciudad de México.

En un maizal se ocultaron los Yankis, los aniquilamos con nuestros cañones.
De la mano vamos juntos, destruyendo todo obstáculo.

Izaron la bandera blanca tres veces, Riley la tiró al suelo
Morimos al final sin suerte, en un charco de nuestra sangre.

El Arpa, San Patricio y su cruz, en su bandera “Éirinn go brách.”

Mano a mano al sonar del cañón, destruyendo todo obstáculo.

Cuarenta hombres esperan la muerte, alineados en la horca, qué triste historia.
Al mediodía caluroso, se los llevó el Señor para cuidarlos.

traducido por Carla Marcela Acevedo y Charlie O'Brien

Fáinne Geal an Lae

This setting of "Fáinne Geal an Lae" is a collaboration between myself and performance poet Séamus Barra Ó Súilleabháin. Séamus is foregoing his slam poetry roots for a more traditional sound in this single. "Fáinne Geal an Lae" opens “Macalla Chill Áirne” - a short film we'll be releasing this summer. The film is a recreation of the Victorian era tour through Killarney's lakes, and Séamus is the main actor there-in. On film, Séamus sings while rowing on Lough Leane (the lake that inspired the song centuries ago). This version of the song was recorded at Trouble or Fortune Studios on High St. a couple of months ago. The post production of the film is being wrapped up as we speak. This single release is a teaser for the music and sound inspired film to come. "Fáinne Geal an Lae" was first published in a book of Irish folk song by Edward Walsh in the 1830's. A previous song with the same name appears in the repertoire of the brothers Connellan in the 17th century. I'm playing harmonium and synths on this track, Séamus is on vocals.

Hy Brasil, The Land of The Blest (live)

 

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,

A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;

Some thought it a region of sunshine and rest,

And they called it Hy-Brasil, the land of the blest;

From year unto year, on the ocean’s blue rim,

This beautiful spectre shone lovely and dim;

Golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,

And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!

A peasant who heard of this wonderful tale,

On a breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;

From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,

For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasil was blest.

He heard not the voices that called from the shore,

He heard not the rising wind’s menacing roar;

Home, kindred, and safety he left on that day,

And he sped to Hy-Brasil, away, far away!

Morn’ rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle

Though the faint rim of distance reflected its smile;

Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore,

Seemed lovelier and distant, and faint as before;

Lone evening came down on the wanderer’s track,

To Ara again he looked timidly back;

Far on the verge of the ocean it lay,

And the land of the blest was away, far away!

Rash dreamer, return! on ye winds of the main,

Bear him back to Ara again.

Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,

To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.

The warning of reason was spoken in vain;

He never came back to Ara again!

Morn’ rose on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,

And he died on the ocean, away, far away!

This song was written by Gerald Griffin in 1830, where he titled it O'Brazil. Gerald is most famously known for a novel he wrote called "The Collegians," which in turn inspired a play, "The Colleen Bawn," and in turn inspired the opera, "The Lily of Killarney." "The Land of the Blest" is dedicated to the people of Milltown. I came across that dedication (and a couple of verses I haven't seen anywhere else) in a beautiful biography of Gerald's written by his brother. Heres those omitted verses, it seems they were rejigged majorly for the version that went on to be sung popularly since. The verses below are a bit preachy, I wonder did Gerald make those changes to come? Or maybe he changed his original verses and these new ones never took off. The video above is the first instalment of live versions of the songs from "Hy Brasil, Songs of the Irish in Latin America."

Macalla Chill Áirne

"Macalla Chill Áirne" is a recreation of the Victorian tour of Killarney's lakes using the phenomenon of "The Killarney Echo" as a spine to hang the rest of the meat of the film on. In March of last year I applied for a grant for this short film from the Kerry County Council. I had no luck with the grant but resolved to get the project off the ground by hook or by crook. The summer was spent preparing the crew of twenty two for two days filming in early autumn on the lakes of Killarney.

The premise of "Macalla Chill Áirne" goes like this-there are six people aboard a boat, two boatmen speak Irish, two women English, two more or less mute musicians are also aboard. One of the boatmen's brothers is on the run from the police, one of the ladies has lost her wedding ring. On the surface, the film is a recreation of the Victorian visitor's trip through Killarney's lakes. Digging deeper, the film concerns the clash of Irish and English cultures. In a way, its like two galaxies colliding, they swirl around each other, don't even communicate until they become one (its thought that star systems are largely unaffected by Galactic collisions!). The film echoes some of the colonial experience, how the colonised are forced to live in two worlds, many times forsaking their own culture for the supplanted one, how the coloniser is seldom wont to engage with the native culture.

Looking at Ireland in the present, Irish people are infinitely more aware of British culture and happenings that British people are of Irish culture. When it comes to anything Gaelic, for most English it may as well be (to take that galactic references a step further) Klingon or Martian culture-a dim fairyland of fantasy.  On film the two cultures don't interact-the two boat men have their language and preoccupations, the two ladies theirs, and never the twain should meet. The musicians are like a conduit between the cultures, they herald out the old and in the new, they ape the customs of the colonial cohorts while sounding an Irish lament. The lament doesn't last long 'til it is (as the poet Eoghan Rua said) "blasted by the bloom of England's Rose." The roar of a cannon signals the end of music. The cataclysm of the great famine is echoed at throughout the short film. Though it isn't immediately obviously, our foresight as the audience of this future calamity hangs heavy on the proceedings. The film is set in 1837, a few short years before Ireland will be changed utterly.

Seán Ó Garbhí played the part of the older boatman Diarmuid, Séamus Barra Ó Súilleabháin played the lead role of Partlán. Seán is a powerful sean nós singer, Séamus is rap-poet that is as much at home in the tradition of 18th century Gaelic poets like Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin as modern slam and rap poetry. In the image above we see Partlán converses with Diarmuid as "The Eagle's Nest" mountain looms in the distance.

The music used for the echo was an arrangement I wrote (for French horn and trumpet) of this beautiful caoineadh (Irish lament).  I went into a-lot of the historical detail of the echo in this previous blogpost. These descriptions of the echo at the cliffs of the Eagle's Nest use large dollops of hyperbole.  A cannon was fired in times pasts, it was set off after the final echoes of music subsided to rupture the silence with heart pumping sound. The following extract detailing that cannon fire is from an 1834 "Guide to Killarney and Glengariff" by George Newenham Wright.

"It is from this sublime and stupendous rock the sound is returned in so miraculous a manner, that it is considered one of the most singular phenomena in existence. A small hillock on the opposite side of the river, usually called the "Station for Audience," is used as the resting place of a paterara, which is carried in the boat from Killarney: the gunner is placed on one side of the hillock and the auditor on the other, and upon the discharge of the piece, a roaring is heard in the bosom of the opposite mountain, like a peal of thunder, or the discharge of a train of artillery, and this echo is multiplied a number of times, after which it gradually fades away like the rolling of distant thunder. The exact residence of the eagle may be distinguished by a black mark near the vertex of the rock, and the noble inhabitant is frequently seen soaring above the heads of passengers on the river, and directing their admiring gaze towards his inaccessible retreat. The sound of a musical instrument produces reverberations of quite a different character from that of the musket or small cannon. The only instrument that can be procured at Killarney is a bugle, which is peculiarly appropriate for the production of echoes."

The image above is of Sean Looney (co-producer) on one of our many expeditions to the Eagle's Nest in search of its echos. Macalla Chill Áirne will be released in the summer of 2021.