"fill up your mind with all can know, don't forget that your body can let it all go"

I stayed in last night, away from the joyful noises and screams of the pub crowd. Which is a rowdy, fantastic crowd. I just needed time to reflect on the tragic death of my uncle. My parents and friends visited a local Irish pub after the funeral in Minneapolis, which I found out today, so in a way, I probably should have done the same. But now knowing so, I am ready for tonight. The last time I went to the pub, I heard penny whistles and fiddles and the timeless shaking of acoustic guitar string vibrations. All in tune and in sync and in a glorious rhythm that recalled saints and pagans, faeries and drunkards. An older man, either drunk or mildly cenile, stood in front of the reserved musicians set of tables. He began to sing.

The pub's late afternoon growl was mildly sober but enthusiastic, with its patrons warming up for a night on the town in any of this city's dozens of pubs. I was on my walk home from NUIG, the Irish university in Galway, and decided to stop in for an Irish coffee. They put a little bit of whiskey in, but it still tastes like coffee and the brown sugar and cream they put in the glass mug. I was alone, but I was ok with it. It was still early, an acceptable time and circumstance to be my own company at a pub. I was there for the music. The musicians were on the same sound wave progression, their fingers dancing a jig on their respective instruments. The fiddle guy jerked his shoulders smoothly along with the traditional song. As did the guy on the penny whistle. It was a good session, the first I've heard here on the emerald-colored isle. And it was true to the idea I came in with. It rolled like the green-as-spring hills, and it sang like a peasant with her mind not on money. I was jigging and jogging and dancing and flying among the mountains to my east and down through the Cliffs to my south. And no, it wasn't the coffee. They really aren't that strong. The tradition is, though. So is the musicianship and the session that reminded me of the very best of bluegrass, jam band, blues (for its roots in the natives of the land) and jazz. I'm sure this group was typical of a traditional pub- nothing extraordinary if you're the bartender who told me he gets tired of it night after night. Keeps him up, sweating at night with the catchy riffs and rhythms, he joked in a mild brogue and Converse Chuck Taylors. But for me, it was a first. An incredible first.

The old man was Willy. He was apparently a regular and his name was shouted every six seconds or so. He hushed the growing crowd, playing a song about a legend or missing home or the gorgeous greenery of his country with his deeply dense accented singing voice. He paused after each stanza, to search his brain or for reverance. Most voids in his song were filled with jovial remarks shouted by his pals. One next to me whispered along with old Willy. The song was done, the pub went wild. Willy smiled and shouted from out of his toothless mouth, "get me a drink you F-ing bastard" to the barkeep, and made sure he got quieter and stumbled over the last two words. The same bartender who sweats at night. No wonder.

He smiled wide and huge and yelled something back at his old friend. Willy started again before he got his pint. He did another two songs, both as harmonically solid and heart-wrenching as the first and as each other. His generation was not so visible at the bar. It was more of a trendy, modern crowd hoping to cath a glimpse of the passing generation and hold on tight. The musicians were close to middle age or younger. Willy was a star. Represented the tradition and his generation well right. I clapped as I set my half-finished coffee down, steam still rising. I left with a smile as big as Willy's.