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Sung in Irish, the Music is Honey in the Mouth of the singer, her voice a pure soprano, layered over the dolorous notes of the cello, the slow rhythm plucked from the guitar, strings ringing. I understand not a word of the language, but trust the melody will speak to my Celtic heritage, to the harmonies of the heart, so I know this song is about loss, sorrow, the soft drumming of the seasons, the struggle to plow and plant in time for spring, the rains in some years too hard, too soon, in other years too little, the harvests always meager, never enough after the landlord takes his share. The singer works the brittle consonants against the creamy grain of the song, and I hear grief for the babe who died at birth, the daughter lost to the fever, the son crushed under horse. The music brightens and I am sure the eldest boy lives to inherit his father’s fiddle. It weaves a joyous measure for the other brother, gone to seek fortune in America. The cello returns, heavy, somber, as the mother who has borne so much can bear no more, and dies. The long, dark notes no doubt mean the father, soon to follow in death, weeps, remembering his young wife dancing to the fiddle, the music embracing the son crossing the sea, nothing in his pockets but his father’s dreams. The song ends. I find the English translation in the CD jacket: Boy meets girl, boy falls in love. Frustrated by language barrier, boy never gets to second base.
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