The Dubliners
Carrickfergus

“But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over
And neither have I the wings to fly
I wish I had a handsome boatsman
To ferry me over my love and I”

I've never been particularly attracted to the charm of melancholy, let alone by “memento mori,” that kind of “self-pitying” introspection. These are sensations that I have generally always tried to avoid, or at least take in moderate doses, appropriately mixed with additives like irony, or theatricality, things like that; this applies both to life and to my musical choices. I've never taken myself too seriously and I'm perfectly fine with that, but when faced with a melody like this, with lyrics like this, it is inevitable to stop for a moment, think, reflect. And there's a side of me that is reflected in this “poetry,” that feels it profoundly.

The origins of the traditional air generally known as “Carrickfergus” are lost in the mists of time. One must go back to 18th-century Irish poets, if not earlier; there is, however, no doubt about who made it immortal and introduced it into the collective imagination. It was the Dubliners, the legendary Irish folk band, in 1975, album “Now”; after them, many others tried, but, at least for me, the only version that counts is theirs. Because a voice like that of the recently deceased Jim McCann is the best there could be to interpret such a piece, he performed it without any ambition of protagonism, with sobriety and lyrical flair. A perfect conduit for every single word, words that “pass through” the listener, metaphorically piercing right through them.

And the nostalgia, the memories of happier times, the place you belong to, love, all seem distant now, unreachable; in such moments, the only glimmer of light can come from within oneself, and it is the faint and melancholic light of this melody of absolute and timeless beauty.

“But I'll sing no more now til I get a drink
Cause I'm drunk today and I'm seldom sober
A handsome rover from town to town”