Chapter 02
Reels, Jigs and Sessions: How Instrumental Music Moves
6 min
Tune type is a physical instruction
Reels and jigs are often introduced as time signatures: a reel in duple subdivision, a jig in compound metre. That is correct but insufficient. Players and dancers feel them as different kinds of forward motion. A reel can run with an even, propulsive stream while accents and bow pressure create lift inside it. A double jig groups its pulse in two broad beats, each divided into three, producing a rolling gait. Slip jigs stretch the phrase through groups of three in a way that can feel suspended and elegant. Hornpipes often carry a more marked or dotted swing, though performance practice varies. Polkas and slides, especially important in Sliabh Luachra, organise bodies differently again.
The tune is not only its written skeleton. Ornament, articulation and local habit determine whether it dances. A fiddler can place a roll around a note, cut it with a finger, lean into a down-bow or leave a tiny gap that makes the next beat arrive with force. A flute player shapes phrases through breath and tonguing. A concertina player uses bellows direction to give the line spring. The melody remains recognisable while the performance becomes personal.
This helps explain why collections of notation are invaluable but never complete. James Goodman's nineteenth-century manuscripts preserve more than a thousand melodies associated with Munster and the south-west. They offer repertory, variants and historical clues. They do not contain the entire sound of the players, singers and occasions from which material was gathered. The page provides a route back into practice, not a substitute for it.
A set creates its own argument
Instrumental tunes are commonly played in sets. Two or three reels may follow one another; jigs can be paired; a band may move from a slow air into dance rhythm. The order matters. Players choose transitions that preserve momentum, shift key or mode, alter register and surprise the ear without breaking the dancers' pulse.
Michael Coleman's influential recorded set of "The Tarbolton," "The Longford Collector" and "The Sailor's Bonnet" demonstrates how a sequence can become almost as memorable as the individual tunes. Musicians who learned from the record sometimes carried the grouping forward. That is one way commercial recording entered oral transmission: the disc did not end tradition but became another teacher.
The Bothy Band's debut album offers a different lesson. In "The Kesh Jig" and the linked reels and jigs around it, melody instruments interlock with Dónal Lunny's bouzouki, Mícheál Ó Domhnaill's guitar and Tríona Ní Dhomhnaill's keyboard and bodhrán. The arrangement increases harmonic and rhythmic pressure, yet the tune shapes remain clear. The excitement comes from disciplined coordination rather than indiscriminate speed.
Planxty makes another kind of ensemble room. Christy Moore's voice, Andy Irvine's mandolin and bouzouki, Dónal Lunny's arrangements and Liam O'Flynn's pipes allow narrative songs and instrumental pieces to breathe differently. Comparing Planxty with The Bothy Band is more useful than asking which group was more authentic. Each made audible decisions about texture, repertoire and stage presentation during the 1970s revival.
What actually happens at a session
A good session is neither a free-for-all nor a formal concert. One player starts a tune; others recognise it and join. The starter usually determines the initial setting and pace. Musicians watch hands, listen for transitions and decide whether they know enough of the material to contribute. A strong player may quietly steer a change. A singer may be given silence. Conversation resumes between sets.
Visitors often misunderstand the apparent informality. Skill and etiquette are operating even when nobody announces rules. Taking out an instrument does not guarantee an invitation. Playing loudly over a singer, forcing an unrelated style into every set or requesting "Danny Boy" from working musicians can flatten the evening. The generous first act is to listen.
Sessions differ by venue and town. Some welcome developing players at a stated weekly gathering. Others have a settled core and advanced repertory. Some are acoustic; amplification appears elsewhere. A pub listing can become outdated quickly, so current confirmation matters. The Cobblestone in Dublin, Matt Molloy's in Westport, De Barra's in Clonakilty, Madden's in Belfast and Peadar O'Donnell's in Derry are useful names to investigate, not promises that identical music will occur every night.
Regional style without caricature
Sligo became globally influential partly through emigrant fiddlers such as Michael Coleman, James Morrison and Paddy Killoran, whose 78 rpm recordings circulated back to Ireland. Their playing is often associated with flowing bowing, rich ornament and driving reels. But three famous men do not define every Sligo player, and later musicians absorbed their recordings far beyond the county.
Donegal fiddle traditions can feature strong bow attack, highland and Scottish connections, unusual tune types and a direct rhythmic edge. John Doherty remains a central name, while Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh and Altan provide an ensemble route into Donegal repertory and Irish-language song. Again, "Donegal style" is a selection, not a mould. Family, teacher and district make differences inside it.
Sliabh Luachra, spanning parts of Kerry and Cork, is especially associated with polkas, slides and musicians such as Denis Murphy, Julia Clifford, Paddy Cronin and Johnny O'Leary. The repertory's dance function is immediately audible. Clare offers deep piping, concertina and fiddle lineages, with Willie Clancy and Mrs Crotty among the indispensable names. Galway and Connemara lead toward distinctive accordion, flute, dance and song histories. Northern counties connect local fiddling, flute bands, harping and song to routes across Ulster and Scotland.
The point is not to memorise a county chart. It is to let regional knowledge sharpen the ear while leaving room for movement. Musicians travel, marry, record, teach and borrow. Style survives through people, not through administrative boundaries.
Fleadh, summer school and dance floor
The Fleadh Cheoil na hÉireann combines competitions, classes, street music, concerts and large-scale gathering. Its host changes, which means the event temporarily reorganises a town around music. The 2026 edition in Belfast makes the all-island nature of the institution especially visible. Competition can encourage technical discipline and repertory knowledge, though no result can measure every quality valued in a home, session or dance hall.
The Willie Clancy Summer School in Miltown Malbay offers another model. Classes, lectures, recitals and sessions fill a week, and the town becomes a dense listening environment. The best experience is not to chase famous faces continually. Hear a class, a formal concert, a small session and the way tunes travel between them.
For dance, look for a céilí with a named band or a set-dancing event rather than assuming any pub session will provide the same experience. The band holds tempo across long figures. Dancers listen with their feet and respond to phrasing that a seated audience may overlook. Once that relationship is heard, reels and jigs stop being categories on a playlist and become forms of social engineering at human scale.
