CUSHIONED IN the axter of the Dingle Peninsula, at the foot of Mount Brandon, Cuas is a healthy antidote to the smoke-filled caverns Seamus Begley and Steve Cooney increasingly find themselves ensconced in these days. One lungful of that air cancels a whole barful of Camels and Majors; one drop of saltwater rinses all the grime of a week’s set dancing from those mysterious Begley eyebrows that meet in the middle.

Whelan’s has played host to Steve and Seamus for the second time in little more than a few weeks and they’re pondering the scarifying heights to which the place sends them scuttling every time. For two seasoned road warriors they’re surprisingly wimpish when it comes to letting the East coast privy to their music.

“They’re the hardest gigs we’ll ever do,” Seamus reckons. “People pay money to come in and to be entertained; at least when people are dancing they forget about you – for a minute! But when they’re sitting down for two hours, no matter how good the thing is, they’re bound to get bored at some stage.

“We try to vary it as much as possible,” Steve continues, “and we feel we must put on a show. With set dancers you don’t put on a show, instead you try and connect with them, to give them what they require at that time so it’s a big co-operative effort. So playing for dancers creates this big circle of energy between the dancers and the musicians; we’re all at one, whereas at a concert there’s more of a division between the performance on stage and the receptive audience.

For two such garrulous personalities off-stage, Cooney and Begley are the epitome of Victorian reserve when the spotlight’s pointed at them. The most animated part of Begley’s anatomy are those incorrigible eyebrows that shimmy and smile in jig rhythm. Cooney counterpoints this visual idiosyncrasy with a swivelling skullfull of antipodean dreadlocks that sum up the spirit of the music far better than an entourage of personal stylists ever could.

It’s an irony that hasn’t escaped Cooney’s cool eye. “The two of us sit in our chairs and we don’t move for the whole gig,” he observes, “and most other bands you would see are moving about on stage, dancing, spinning around, interacting with each other on a physical level. We tend to sit there and tap our feet, which I know can be very boring visually, so that puts us under more pressure too. So don’t expect us to be leppin’ about – we leave that to the dancers!”

After a prolonged three year gestation period, their first album, Meitheal sprang into life last June, bursting at the gills with all manner of traditional tunes along with a tóisín of new material culled from the peann luaidhe of Cooney, (a glorious polka, ‘The Strathairn’), Sharon Shannon and Mike Scott (the aptly titled ‘Kings Of Kerry Slide’), and Kilcummin man John Brosnan’s sheaf of reels. Primarily a melding of accordion and guitar, Meitheal chances its arm with the odd didgeridoo and bass to enliven the proceedings. It’s already shifted a healthy 7,000 units off the shelves, though not without the help of Begley and Cooney’s incessant nation-wide touring in support.

Were they happy with Meitheal as it emerged in its finished state? Seamus nods readily. “Oh yeah, we were really; I was anyway; I don’t think Steve’d ever be happy with an album because he’s a perfectionist!”

Cooney is at pains to explain his insistence on getting the best value for money from both the performers’ and the listener’s perspective.

“I’m happy for what we spent on it,” he says. “To get it better I think we’d have had to spend a lot more money. I think it’s accepted that the major groups in the world like Dire Straits and U2 can spend a year or a year and a half in the studio. It’s seen as a sign of greatness: a band is so fantastic that they can spend a year and a half in the studio and produce this brilliant work, yet traditional music is having to go out to the same market place, and it’s accepted that with traditional music, something like three days is enough time for recording a record! We weren’t extravagant – we recorded the album in less than a month. For what we spent on it, I’m happy with the quality we got. To get better quality you have to go into the supergroup level.”

Seamus cut his teeth at home in Kennedy’s where he’s played since he was 12. Left to his own musical devices by a slew of siblings who had to leave home at a young age in search of such mundane things as books and jobs, he quickly learned that in the midst of a hall full of dancers, noise was infinitely more important than notes.

“That’s probably the reason why I play so hard,” he says, “to get as much volume as possible. If the amplification broke down in the middle of a tune you didn’t bat an eyelid. I often had to go half way down the hall, and sit on a high stool so that people would hear! That’s why I never put any emphasis on grace notes – it’s more disgrace notes I play! Dancers wouldn’t know the difference anyway!”

It was a brief respite from touring with Stockton’s Wing that finally brought the two together, with Cooney finding his way to “An Bóthar” in Cuas, to, as Seamus wryly observes, “check out the local aborigines” (of which there was no shortage).

From there it was but a skip and a jump to the Dublin Folk Festival where they found themselves sharing the stage with Gerry O’Connor, Manus Lunny and Vinnie Kilduff in ‘82. From then on Cooney was seduced by the West Kerry style.

“I found that it put more demands on my playing,” he explains, “and as a result my playing improved. I’d get back to Dublin and I’d notice a good 40% improvement. And that’s what made me finally decide to move down to Kerry.

“Also Seamus plays a great bass with the left hand of the accordion, with really syncopated chords, like what you might have on a keyboard. So I found that if I could synchronise my little chords with Seamus’ left hand, keeping the bass line separate, then that’s a big part of our sound. That’s probably the sound that creates a link between us, but because we’re from such different backgrounds I guess we bring a different combination of sounds together.”

With a background as both a music teacher and a session musician at home in Australia, Cooney first heard the sound of Irish music courtesy of one of his students. The seduction was sharp and swift.

Cooney recalls the impact of this alien sound. “I just remember thinking it was the most challenging thing musically, and there was a very wholesome feeling about it. At that time I was very disillusioned with the ideological content, the message of what rock bands were on about. You could take someone like Bob Marley who said fantastic things about the state of the world, his spiritual beliefs etc. – his message was very clear and has withstood the test of time but a lot of rock’n’roll music was a male mating ritual if you like, like a cock crowing. What is great about the instrumental music is that there are no words at all, so you can imagine whatever thoughts you like. You’re not tied down to a particular lyrical line and so everyone can dream their own dream.

“I just think Irish music is so rhythmic and so wholesome and it’s something you can commit your whole heart to. There’s no individual ego because the music is greater than any one individual. A lot of the strutting in contemporary music is about a statement like: ‘I am such a great individual’. In traditional music the great individuals are the great players down the years. The ego thing is taken right out of it – you just have to do your best for the music. You just play the tune as best you can and then you get this fantastic communication with everybody. Sin é mo scéal.”

Despite the unexpected blas that creeps from his mouth, Cooney is happy that he hasn’t left any of the richness of his native culture behind. In fact, he feels that Begley’s Dingle Aborigines share many of the same thought processes as the ones he left behind in the Simpson Desert.

“The Aboriginal people are fantastic, so pure and gentle and truthful, and no one individual is more important than their law. The culture is more important than any one individual. And it’s the same thing I feel here. The music is greater than any one individual. I think the Gaeltacht people really hold that ancient tradition in an unbroken line and once you’re with the Gaeltacht people you can contact that ancient spirit.”

Seamus Begley is a keeper of the tradition, though his instrument has been much maligned in the past. To what does he attribute the miraculous rehabilitation of the accordion in the eyes and ears of the public? Once christened the harbinger of music from hell, it’s now been elevated to dizzy heights where it (seemingly) can do no wrong.

“I think that Sharon Shannon is the person who has brought the accordion to where it is today,” he insists. “You can blame the accordion makers for much of that reputation anyway because in the old days you bought an accordion and it was completely out of tune, and nobody knew how to tune them! The first accordion I bought in the mid-60s was totally out of tune and I didn’t even know it!

“Joe Cooley would have been one of the first players I’d have heard on record and his accordion was totally out of tune. When I heard it for the first time in the early ‘70s I didn’t notice this – nobody took any notice. Pianos were out of tune in Irish music sessions too! Now the instruments are so well tuned that you can hear every reed inside.”

Is it that audiences are simply fickle beings who’ve just been seduced by the sound of the moment? Are they just as likely to switch allegiances if a more media-friendly musician pops up tomorrow or next week?

“Yeah, it’s in fashion at the moment anyway,” Begley agrees. “The fact that Sharon started off with a rock band (The Waterboys) would’ve been a big help too of course. I remember someone asked Seamus Ennis what the best way to play a bodhrán was, and his reply was: ‘With a penknife!’ Then somebody asked Christy Moore in the old Planxty days about the best way to play the accordion, and his answer was : ‘With a penknife!’ I wouldn’t blame him because they were horrific instruments!”

How does playing together as a duo compare with playing with an ensemble as they did on this year’s Bringing It All Back Home?

“It’s great to play with a band,” says Seamus, eyes flashing at the recollection. “I would love to be playing with a band, sitting behind a curtain, just playing the box! Hiding behind somebody and playing – that’s me!”

Steve is less equivocal on the matter. “There’s advantages and disadvantages in both. But the days of the big bands are gone. ‘Bringing It All Back Home’ could only have happened through the intervention of Guinness’ sponsorship. Because we work as a duo the costs are down and so we can make a living. So economically I think musicians have to work in small groups. Better to be working often for little, than occasionally for a lot. A duo is . . . viable!” •