The new singing king of Kildare…?

I cannot figure out what it is about Kildare that makes this modestly-sized county capable of mothering such an abundance of musical talent.

There has to be something in the prevailing conditions around the land of the lilywhites fit to explain this freaky phenomenon.

Maybe it is something that runs in the water or blows on the breeze.

Or, perhaps its something in their DNA…

If some divine scientist – based maybe in a lab in Newbridge or Naas – were able to isolate, extract and produce that which unites Christy Moore, Donal Lunney, Liam O’Flynn and Luka Bloom, I reckon the People’s Republic of Kildare could have the wealth of an oil-rich Arab nation by the year 2030.

Other notable Kildare musicians eligible for enrolment in the experiment would include Damien Rice, Jack Lukeman and Damien Leith, the Milltown man who won Australian Idol in 2006.

Anyway, on Sunday night past, I attended the concert of one of Kildare’s most recent musical offspring, Dan ‘The Bull’ McCabe – a nickname a compadre of mine has borrowed from the classic Irish film, ‘The Field’, and by which he now uses exclusively to refer to the Kildare man.

This same particular compadre was, by the way, the first person to introduce me to McCabe.

I remember it well…

A pile of us had been out, and we’d ended up back at my friend’s house.

All others had surrendered to the night, leaving us as the two lone survivors. It was in those indistinct hours that precede the chirping of the birds, as we sat on his sofa, that he looked at me, smiled and said, “Ye ever hear Dan ‘The Bull’ McCabe?”

“Stick him on,” I mumbled.

This young, unremarkable-looking buck came on the screen.

Holding his guitar, he sat in an austere looking room and began singing ‘The night visiting song’ – a beautiful ballad, the best version of which was sang by the god of Irish folk; Luke Kelly.

And, like Kelly’s, the voice that came from young McCabe that night was one that could have risen a rebellion, or settled a crying child.

“Jesus,” I said, “He’s more than just a bull.”

We must have listened to McCabe until one of us fell into the other’s arms, all our usual defences dissolved by the heart, soul and history in McCabe’s voice and song.

When my compadre’s concerned-looking girlfriend peeled us apart from one another the following morning, we resolved that, when first chance arose, we’d see him.

That chance came on Sunday night, at The Copper Tap’s ‘Summer Sessions’, and the fated vows made in those early hours duly came to pass.

We arrived in with a few other friends, all at various points along their McCabe journey; some still innocently unaware that this particular road leads to only one, inevitable, destination.

But, before McCabe’s voice would cut the quiet of the town in two, I had the unexpected pleasure of hearing Meadhbh Walsh – a singer and guitar player from the Rebel county, who cast a spell on stage that McCabe later stepped into.

Not unlike Dolores O’Riordan – who Meadhbh covered a few times – her voice was both haunting and angelic.

However, maybe, most of all, it was those Munster undertones that made the vocal resemblance with the late Cranberries frontwoman all the more salient.

Then, in what seemed like a moment of perfect but impossible synchronicity, silence fell and McCabe’s voice pierced it; sending ripples across the Strule River, and rising high into the Omagh sky. A spotlight lit the figure of McCabe.

A roar of love went up from the crowd, and swiftly fell again beneath the words of ‘Spancil Hill’.

“That’d put hairs on your chest,” came words from my right.

“And then it’d make them stand to attention,” I added.

However, some did not share in our love of McCabe’s hair-raising opener. I overheard a few express concerns that the whole concert might be ‘as boring as this’.

I buried clenched fists in my pockets.

But McCabe did not dissapoint them. He knew there were some present who would be less-enamoured by the slower stuff than the likes of ourselves, and, as far as I could tell, he obligingly tailored his set list accordingly.

‘The Bull’ made sure that nobody who parted with the price of admission went home without hearing a bit of what they wanted.

For the slightly more stuffy, ballad-loving ‘bore’ like myself and my compadre, we had ‘Back Home in Derry’, ‘The Parting Glass’, ‘Song for Ireland’, and a rake more fashion-defying, timeless tunes.

And for those prone to attempting to jive to invariably unjivable songs, there were renditions of ‘Wagon Wheel’ and several other songs we will generously call ‘modern Irish country staples’.