The Heart of the Music

Last Saturday was overcast, the perfect kind of day for a drive, and so I left in the early evening to explore the small village of Mabou on the Western shore, where the heart of the music lies, and where the Rankin family opened the doors years ago to their now legendary "Red Shoe Pub." The drive over took about two hours, in one hour, I had crossed over the seal island bridge and left the industrial huddle of Sydney behind. The houses became more spread out until they vanished altogether, replaced by sea-lakes and pastures. I passed through miles of pine forest before the farms began to appear, silos silhouetted the darkening horizon when I crossed Skye Glen, and by the time I came to the sign to Mabou, I couldn't have read its famous greeting, "Home to the Rankin Family" without the aid of my headlights.

The Red Shoe Pub sits in the small town center, adjacent to a quiet ocean stream. The pub itself was slow that evening, amidst the stares of curious locals I wrote a few postcards and eagerly awaited the arrival of the musicians scheduled to play at ten. When they did arrive, complete with amplifiers and drums, I started to grow suspicious. At a quarter to a friendly waitress confirmed my greatest fear:" Yep, they play mostly country music. What a shame, we had traditional music last night, but check out the West Mabou dance, they'll have good music there." After writing down some cryptic directions, I left the pub and followed a narrow dirt road out into the middle of nowhere, out into the heart of the music.

The West Mabou dance hall sits at the base of a valley, craggy mountains rise up on all sides, the landscape itself seems to be shaped for amplification, a perfectly suited for the music played in its foothills. I could hear the tunes pouring out of the gold rectangle of the doors from my distance parking spot, and when I finally stumbled my way inside, I couldn't believe that this sound was coming from one player. After two weeks here I've learned that Cape Breton fiddlers possess a drive and aggression unparalleled in any other tradition I've encountered, and that evening the conduit was a skinny eighteen year old by the name of Robbie Fraser. Halfway through the dance, as is common on the island, Robbie switched over to piano, and his pianist switched over to fiddle, each proving to be equally masterful on both.


Unfortunately, there would be few opportunities to listen. I was there to make friends and amidst even more curious stares, elderly farmer after elderly fisherman led me out into the set, until by the end of the evening, my newly acquired step dancing skills could have put Natalie MacMaster to shame. Luckily the people of West Mabou repeat the same set again and again, it didn't take long for me to catch on, and and to adequately respond to the relentless, "so where are you from's?" and "I drove through New Hampshire once, I liked Vermont more."

By the end of the dance, I'd managed to charm my way into a local family's spare bedroom, and over tea and cake, with half the dance in attendance, I got to know a little bit about the culture of West Mabou. Although there were multiple fiddlers squeezed into the couple's small living room, the only fiddle in residence was Ashely MacIsaac's first quarter-sized violin in the basement, and a so a music-free kitchen party ensued.

The people of West Mabou are keenly aware of their Gaelic heritage, they embrace all the qualities that are equated with the Celtic people. They love conversation and music, they're thrilled by the supernatural. In the morning over breakfast we swapped ghost stories, while the man of the house, Jimmy, a fisherman who organizes the Saturday dances, confessed he had never seen a ghost per se, but had experienced Cape Breton's own spin on the Irish banshee, "Oh I've never seen a ghost, but I have hear forerunners, that's the sign that someone's going to die. I remember my mother putting me to bed once when I was little, we heard a racket of people in the kitchen, but when we went down, no one was there. My grandfather died the next day."

Like the people of West Kerry, many of the older population of Mabou are devoutly religious, including my host family...
"So Kyle...are you Catholic?"
"Um...no...I guess I'm...nothing?"
Worried looks exchanged.
"Well...do you pray?"
"I guess...not?"
"Well what do you do when you have a big exam?"
"I...study?"
More worried looks.
"Do you want to come to church with us in the morning?"

The following morning in church, I reflected on the incomparable hospitality of Cape Bretoners while Jimmy, who showed up halfway through the service, went to join the other mildly hungover men of the upper balcony, "I don't care if you don't pray," he told me afterwards, "your welcome in our home anytime." A few hours later there was an afternoon dance to attend in Judique, a French fiddler graced the stage, then a Prince Edward Island fiddler. While a spoon player used every inch of his body for percussion, a dancer showed off the island's close-to-the-floor, casual version of step dancing. When Jimmy led me out into the final set, the sun was low in the sky, and I still had a two hour drive home. Regardless, I had to smile at his parting comment, "The fiddler you know, he's from Chetticamp, one of the French players...I don't care what he is though...he can still play the Scottish stuff pretty damn well."