the crane.

I may not go out very often, and I may come in very early by normal standards, but I do have a favorite place in town that I have tried valiantly to make a frequent destination, with varied levels of success.  It's called The Crane, a modest-looking green and red building just past a popular, louder venue called The Róisín Dubh.  The walk isn't far, despite what it looks on Google Maps, and it's probably one of the most rewarding experiences to round a corner and hear just the faintest strains of a reel or a jig floating out from down the street, calling you ever so softly home from a long day.

2 Sea Road, Galway.

I wouldn't be lying if I said you can usually hear The Crane on a Tuesday night before you can spot it.  As a Trad enthusiast, it's difficult to keep myself from running up the stairs as soon as I get through the door.  It's a bit like a kid on Christmas morning in reverse.  The music comes in through my ears and, in no time at all, it infects every inch of my body to the point where I really start to have no say at all in where my feet decide to take me and how they'll take me there.  Whether it's a half-hidden treble-step or a more dramatic heel, slide, click, I can still get through a crowd pretty easily, even when I'm dancing, thanks to a year spent living and mobbing for my food in Keep Co-op.

 Yeah, I got my mob face on.

They say you're not supposed to pay attention to the musicians at a pub, that it's meant to be more like background music, but I really can't help myself.  First of all, it's pure magic to watch up to thirty people congregate with a plethora of instruments (violins, flutes, accordions, bodhrán, guitars...) and all mesh on the same tune.  It doesn't start right away either.  A lone instrument will begin, fighting its way through all the voices, and as more in the group begin to recognize the tune, the volume increases until everyone's swaying and head-bobbing together.  I don't think I've ever just sat down in a group, started with the dramatic opening of a symphony, had everyone recognize it, and then join in without hesitation until all the parts were represented.  It just doesn't happen.

 Talent.

Another reason I can't help but pay attention, even if it means being that creeper American in the corner, is that these tunes are so ingrained in my memory that they're like family.  If I could sing, I could sing them.  They have words and rhythms associated with dances that are so familiar to me I feel as if, should I pick up my viola, I could join in the session without breaking a sweat.  But, really, all I know about St. Anne's Reel is that it may (or may not) start on either an E, G, or B.  I can play a slip jig at an obnoxiously slow pace if I concentrate hard enough, and I know one hornpipe...maybe.  So the truth is, no matter how close I feel to these melodies, I still have to keep my distance, and this paradox fascinates me.  It's almost painful, but a good kind of pain, like when you're watching a really fantastic yet horrifying movie, that keeps me on the edge of my seat.  It's almost like all of these notes are trying to break out of my soul, but they have no idea what they'd do if they'd get down to my fingers and so they just sit inside screaming at me that I know them, or that I should know them...  It's very difficult to describe, but it just captivates me.

So, there you have it, folks.  The only place to be on a Tuesday night is The Crane.  It's totally worth it to lose an hour of sleep for the experience, and I only hope that it gets easier to convince people to join me on this crazy ride each week.