Why don’t Irish musicians and dancers get along? It’s not always the case, of course, but, over the years, I’ve experienced a lot of contention dealing with musicians. I have a lot of great musician friends who appreciate what we do as dancers, but, at best, there is often at least some misunderstanding or need for translation. At worst, it can become a real power struggle because of the separation and hierarchization between musicians and dancers (and, specifically, *types* of dancers) that has developed over the past few decades.
On a basic level, Irish musicians and dancers think about the music differently. My favorite example of this is how step dancers think about slip jigs—technically, a slip jig is in 9/8 time, but because our basic slip jig steps follow the swing of the Irish interpretation of a 9/8 time signature, we dance and lilt our steps in fives, as in “ONE two three four five, and ONE two three four five.” (They sing this in “The Rocky Road to Dublin,” too, so it’s not just a dancer thing!) I’ve met many a musician who shudders to think about us counting a 9/8 tune in fives, but the truth is that there are legions of Irish dancers who count it this way.
Are we wrong? One might defer to the musicians to talk about the music, since they are presumably the experts, but we as dancers are also intimately connected to the music in our own way. Hearing 5s in 9/8 time is simply how we think about it, and it works. If we’re wrong, we’re wrong together. Plus, it’s not hurting anyone to think about it this way, as long as we understand the rhythm in a particular way that helps us dance better within the Irish traditional genre.
This is a minor issue that seems like it could just be left to each group to handle in its own way. But it doesn’t stop there, and this type of translation issue has led to many a difficult conversation with musicians about how dancers don’t understand music. This accusation, in turn, has led to comments that dancers lack theory, as though we’re just operating in a space of random expression, something that anyone with a body can do. Musicians can write out their tunes as sheet music (a strange flex for those working in a folk tradition that relies primarily on oral tradition), and they can describe the theory behind chords and harmony, rhythm and meter, scales and keys. It all feels so mathematical, while dancers are left with our highly idiosyncratic lilting and notation practices.* Even in a form as rigid as Irish step dance, there is a sense that music as sound can be controlled and analyzed, while any expression of the body spills out in messy, unpredictable ways. I could go on about this puritanical desire to control the body and the use of so-called “theory” and “science” as guardrails to limit free human expression, but I won’t go on that rant right now.
In practice, I’m more interested in the power dynamics at play between Irish musicians and dancers. There is a great new podcast, “In Tune With Tradition,” hosted by Tara Connaghan, about session etiquette that talks about what makes a good session, how to behave respectfully in a session, and how different instruments are received in a session. The bodhrán, for example, is often met with a bit of eye-rolling, and there are a few reasons for this reaction. First, the bodhrán is a relatively easy instrument to pick up if you want to get started in Irish music. Not at all to downplay the expertise of the master bodhrán players among us, but newbies who are drawn to Irish music and want to participate can fairly quickly pick up this simple frame drum and bang away a basic rhythm, without a need to learn the melodies. But, of course, it’s never that simple, and bad bodhrán playing, especially when played loudly and with outsized enthusiasm and confidence, can really derail a session.
Now think about the same effect, but it’s a step dancer, with shoes on, leaping around the room. I’m not one to ever discourage anyone from dancing if they feel inspired to move, but it can be hard to enjoy when it is loud and off-time. I empathize with the musicians who are just trying to enjoy a few tunes with their friends, but there is all this distraction—not only is the dancer adding a perhaps unwanted layer of sound, but who among the listeners is going to not notice someone dancing? The “bad” dancers can be even harder to look away from than the good dancers, and now the session has become about something other than a few good tunes. The biggest complaint I hear is that the dancing is often off-time and too overpowering, even from highly trained dancers.
But why is there so much off-time dancing? I’ve known since the day that I put on my first pair of hard shoes that the most important thing in Irish dancing is rhythm—posture, turnout, and crossing are all important in competitive step dance, but the thing that connects *all* forms of Irish dance, whether step dance or sean nós, is timing and rhythm. So, as trained dancers, we should all be good at it, or at least trying to be, right? It’s not that simple. Putting aside the fact that all of us, even the best dancers among us, go off-time sometimes, some of us actually hear the music differently, whether because of our training or just our own interpretation.
This is where we have to differentiate between sean nós dancers and competitive step dancers. Sean nós dancers presumably learned in the informal context of the session where music and musicians lead, and often think of themselves as part of the music. Competitive step dancers, on the other hand, are trained in a studio to a highly specific metronomic recording of music that is played at painfully slow tempos. Dance is the focus, not music. Although the tune repertoire is largely shared with traditional Irish session music, this so-called feis music is an entirely different genre. Most of my Irish musician friends express a particular disdain for feis music, and I can offer a few of the reasons I’ve heard: the slow tempos destroy the natural swing of the tunes, they don’t want to play like metronomic robots, and there is too much repetition. An 8+ hour day playing at a feis is a special kind of hell, so I’ve heard. A feis musician is a particular type of Irish musician with a particular type of training—and we need you! But understand that it is not for everyone.
I wrote in a previous essay about the apparent hierarchy of Irish dance styles and how step dancers tend to see themselves on a higher rung because of the standards of training they go through, compared to sean nós dancers who tend to learn in informal, social spaces. But, in the context of this conversation about musicians and dancers, I would say that sean nós dancers are much preferred because they have a certain musical social awareness that step dancers tend to lack. Years ago in grad school, I wrote an essay about how Irish step dancers treat music like the floor they are stomping on—a metronomic grid to force oneself into, rather than a living, breathing entity to dialogue with. Music is disembodied in competitive Irish step dance, but, in the session, everyone is more human. That may sound funny to say, but I think few would disagree that Irish step dance has a robotic way to it, both in the way we move and the way we interact with music, whether played live or from a recording. It might as well all be recorded. In addition, the tempos have been slowed down so dramatically to make space for denser rhythms, so a hornpipe played at 76 beats per minute (excruciatingly slow compared to the 140+ played at sessions) allows for double-time steps, and even shifts the timing so much that the 4/4 time signature becomes interpreted with 6/8 rhythms laid over top of it. For dancers trained in this style, this is how we hear it, and it sounds on-time. But for musicians, it can be disorienting to say the least.
With all of this in mind, I totally get why a lot of Irish musicians don’t want anything to do with dancers. This is a separation that has emerged over decades, largely from the development of Irish dance as competition and sport. It feels like dancers don’t respect the music or the people that play it, and that is often true, sadly. So when I talk to my musician friends about playing for dancers, they talk about the relationship as though they are victims protecting themselves from the tyranny of the Irish step dancer. There is an assumption that a step dancer will roll up to a session or a gig, take up all the space, and just stomp all over the music. I’ve been there, I’ve seen this, and it’s all too commonly true.
There is also a smaller, but not insignificant, number of musicians who believe that dance is simplistic—a physical practice without intellectual or artistic engagement. This perspective relates to the comment referenced above about how musicians have theory but dancers don’t. Similarly, I have a few friends who are professional jazz musicians who proudly share when their students finally understand that “the best jazz music is the kind that can’t be danced to.” That is, when the music becomes so complex and intellectual that the body can’t dance to it, can’t catch the rhythm, and can’t anticipate what’s coming next. This attitude *enrages* me, and I could go on about all the reasons why I think this is wrong not only in jazz, but in a wide variety of genres. But, sticking to the topic—jazz and Irish traditional music are not the same thing, but, as much as I hear Irish musicians tout their music as dance music, I see this attitude creep in all the time. The sense is that the dancing lessens the value of the music, somehow.
Some of us are trying to bridge the gap between musicians and dancers. Some of my friends do it beautifully, and I look up to them, but most of these friends didn’t come up in competitive step dance. They came up in more organic social circles, and I think there’s a lot to be learned here. I want to be a respectful dancer, one who listens and responds appropriately. I find it hard to do this when I’m in my step-dancer mode and much easier when I put on my sean nós persona, but ideally I’m seeking a personal style that feels unique to me, combining these two styles that I love equally. I’m still working on it. I grew up training to metronomic recordings, but I was fortunate to dance regularly at céilís with live bands throughout my childhood and, as a young adult living out in northern California, I danced at a local session every week. I would find myself a little corner, put on my hard shoes, and dance my steps. At first I just danced my pre-choreographed steps, but over time, I started to get better at improvising and following the vibe of the session. I wasn’t really doing sean nós at that time, but sort of something in between. It was hard to know whether I wanted the attention I was getting (this was a lively pub in a college town filled with heavy drinkers, so you can imagine), or if I wanted to fade into the music and just become a sonic presence in the space. That was always a balance I was trying to strike, and it often depended on my energy levels on any particular day.
I later learned that I was a bit spoiled at this California session because the musicians leading it loved dancers. They always encouraged me to get up and make noise. It was a great time, and I felt right at home. But it turns out that in many sessions, dancers have to be very cognizant of the fact that they, like the poor bodhrán, are not always welcome. Sometimes you can feel right away that the vibe isn’t right, but other times, it takes at least a few sets of tunes to determine whether you are in a space where dancers can join in. This goes for anyone wanting to participate in a session—you have to “read the room,” as the session etiquette podcast guests continually point out. But it can be especially tricky for dancers who are going to take up a lot of space, literally and figuratively, the moment they start hopping around.
A session is a social space, so the dynamics are a bit less formal and the stakes are lower. But the disconnect between musicians and dancers also plays out in professional settings at concerts and stage performances. My least favorite gigs are the ones where I am hired to “pop out for a few steps” at the end of a set of tunes. I’ll be hiding backstage or sitting awkwardly off to the side, and then I’m supposed to come out and wow audiences with my footwork. This takes attention away from the musicians, and it also makes me feel a bit like a circus sideshow. I was once told that dancers are just meant to be a bit of flair, to keep audiences awake in between the real artistry of the music. We aren’t artists, it seems, but gimmicks. In addition, more often than not, no one tells me what the tunes are going to be; I might have to dance having never heard them, and I am flying blindly, only knowing that I’m dancing reels or jigs. I’d love to know ahead of time, maybe learn the quirks of the melody, try to dance the tune a little bit. But this would require time and preparation, both of which seem extremely limited at these kinds of gigs. And this is why I didn’t perform much for a few years; it was discouraging and just not fun.
I can tell when a musician enjoys playing for dancers, and I can *really* tell when they don’t. An example—one time, I was on such a gig, and I volunteered to dance on most of the sets the band would be playing, a mix of reels, jigs, and hornpipes. But I kept being discouraged: “Don’t you think that’s too much dancing?” I thought the musicians were concerned about my endurance, which I assured them would be fine, but they kept insisting until I realized that it wasn’t me they were worried about—they simply didn’t want me dancing. I was “assigned” to them and not really a part of their group. I was meant to be the sideshow. Then, I was shocked later on when, during the sound check (during which they skipped over checking my foot mic, of course), the sound tech said, in front of all of us, “So, I’m assuming you all don’t want any of her feet in your monitor, right?” The response? “No, she’s loud enough already; we don’t want to hear her!” I get it; my feet are distracting. But it made me feel like I was tainting the purity of this music, and it put me in such a bad headspace that I could barely perform. Every time I felt myself go off-time, I felt this wave of crushing self-judgment, which only spiraled into worse timing and worse dancing. I felt the need to apologize at the end of it, and could only think about how much better it would have gone if I’d only felt welcome.
Everyone agrees that traditional Irish music is dance music. But we’ve gotten to a place where many musicians don’t want dancers dancing to it, or at least not in the same spaces where they are playing it. This is a really unfortunate development. Speaking for dancers, we have a lot to gain from dancing to live music played by real humans also moving in the space, and I hope that musicians also feel they have something to gain by playing for dancers. I know why musicians are wary of disrespectful dancers, but I have also experienced the disrespect of musicians who made assumptions about me because I am “just a dancer.” I can see how we got here, and I only have a partial vision of how we get out of it. We need to put in serious effort to try to understand each other and bring these forms back into conversation with each other, even when the translations aren’t straightforward.
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* Looking more broadly, I even see this dynamic play out between the fields of ethnomusicology and ethnochoreology, both of which aim for a rigorous, almost scientific description of music or dance as it relates to culture. The extent to which “science” is emphasized in these fields depends on where you studied and who you trained under, with European methodologies tending more toward the scientific than American methodologies, for better or worse. But, in general, I have found that ethnochoreology is more lax in terms of the expectation that a researcher have a working knowledge of some sort of theoretical base. That is, ethnomusicologists need to know standard Western musical notation and theory, along with any other culturally specific theory relevant to their area of study. But with dance, Laban or Benesh notation systems might be preferred, but they are so much less universal than standard music notation. I usually describe this as the beautiful messiness of dance research, which I love, but I get that a lot of scholars don’t want their research to be perceived as messy. The result is a presumption that ethnochoreologists are doing fluffy, unscientific research vis à vis other scholars in the social sciences. There is more to say about this, but I’ll leave it here for now.
