A Night in Galway with Mickey Finn

One of the first places that I visited after leaving the family in Mayo was Galway. County Galway sat just to the north of Mayo, and Galway Town was the center of it. I checked into the hostel outside of town and asked warden where a good place to go hear some real Irish music was. She said, "Well, you'll want to go the the cellar, and if you can get a seat and if Mickey Finn shows up and if he doesn't get too drunk you'll hear some of the best fiddle music in the world. Get there early though — it's hardly a secret". Intrigued by her answer I took the bus into town with a couple of folks I'd met at the hostel.

The Cellar was a noted bar in town and (strangely) it was located on the second floor of a block of shops. We arrived just after dinner, but the place was already quite full. We found a spot against the wall, got pints and waited. As the sun was going down outside the windows and around the time we were giving up on anything beyond another night at the pub there was an increase in the amount of murmuring in the room and someone near us pointed out that Mickey Finn had arrived. I looked over toward the entrance to see a very thin, very unhealthy looking old man shuffling into the room. He was dressed in filthy clothes that hung on his wiry frame, his hair was dirty, though neatly combed, and his face was obscured by a wildly long, dark beard that hung halfway down his chest. On closer inspection I realized that he was probably no more than 50, but was worn from years of hard living. He was accompanied by another man who looked like a younger version of himself and who carried a worn guitar case and a pitifully worn fiddle case.

Mickey was obviously known by a lot of people at the bar, and I could also tell they had great respect for him. He stood and talked with his admirers while sipping glasses of straight whiskey. As he started his sixth whiskey I figured this would be one of those nights he got too drunk to play, and I went back to talking with the group I arrived with. About half an hour later a hush suddenly fell over the room and I turned to see that Mickey now had placed his fiddle under his chin, nearly losing the lower half of it in his immense unkempt beard, and was apparently about to play. With no announcement the room had gone suddenly silent as a concert hall.

I don't know how long he played for, but it seemed like just a moment (though it must have been over an hour). He did not play the quick reels that I had been hearing up until that point, but rather, he played with a slow, melancholy tone such that each note seemed to shimmer and dance off of his fiddle as he played. I don't think I was ever so transported in listening to music as I was that night. It was not the Guinness, it was the old man and his fiddle. Someone in the crowd later commented that this must be the music they listened to in heaven.

Years later I was sitting at a table in my favorite bar in San Francisco (Spec's just off of Columbus and Broadway in North Beach) and I looked up and there was a poster of Ireland's best fiddlers and Mickey Finn was among them, looking hairy and scraggly as when I'd seen him in the flesh.