Irish Music: It’s in the blood

My brother recently sent me a new Dropkick Murphy’s song called the Rose Tattoo. I have since played it on repeat 1 for days. It reminds me of this description I once wrote for a book that isn’t finished called Hope’s Journey. This is the beauty of Irish music:

Images of rocky highlands, gray sky and a cool wind tugging at my hair filled my mind. The music wasn’t body rubbing sexy music, it wasn’t techno music, it wasn’t sleepy or just hate-filled. This was life music. IT was drinking, fighting, loving, poverty, wealth, God and country. This was a green land with good strong people who found their pride in being the underdog. This was sacrilegious, spiritual and earthy. This was a woman who stuck by her man and worked just as hard as he did. This was people always looking for a better life and always read to tell a tale to make you think life was better. This was fathers, husbands and highwaymen, vagabonds and scoundrels. This was mothers, maids, crones, lovers, sisters, and whores. This was Irish in its body and blood.

In the middle of them all, more Irish, more green, more ready to walk the craggy hills, sat a man beating his drums in some primeval, tribal call.

The raucous, rebellious, resentful music swelled. Beneath the heart stomping beat rose anger. Anger throbbed and pounded in the’ drums. It beat and beat against the crowd with a deep seated hatred of those who betray trust, those who enslave, those who hurt and lie. It wept for those who suffer at the hands of stronger men and its tears turned to power. The anger, pain and power could rip nations apart, families and homes. It could travel across oceans, time, and flow even in the most deluded blood lines.

This is Irish Music

 

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