The War of the Wallopers

There is a conflict afoot in our house: Like thunder on a smothering day, I can feel it in the air.

For the last week or so, the domestic vibrations have been buzzing at a pre-war pitch.

I do not know if the others have noticed it yet, but if they haven’t they are mad: Volatile particles, charged with the dense, atomic energy of opposing opinions, have been swirling around the place.

Up to this point, our desire for peace has prevented a head-on collision from occurring.

Soon, however, things will change, and that which we have tried so hard to repress and avoid, will explode into our lives like lava from the lips of Mount Vesuvius.

There are no two ways about it: We could soon be a divided home. The cause of our impending family fragmentation?

Three hipster-looking traditional musicians from County Louth – and the rest of the band, too, but mainly the three frontmen.

I do not know if you will have heard of the Mary Wallopers yet, but they have been making a name for themselves.

They have sang from the summit of RTÉ talk shows, and brought their brand of trad to some of the biggest festivals in the world.

Three years ago, they performed a tune called ‘Cod Liver Oil and the Orange Juice’ on The Tommy Tiernan Show.

A couple of months ago, they resurfaced with a rendition of ‘Eileen Og’ on The Late Late Show. And, following a few performances at Glastonbury back in June, their ‘raucous reinterpretations of timeless tunes’ earned them acclaim in the culture columns of The Guardian.

Anyway, I was first told about them by a fella in work after their big Glasto-gig.

“They are good fun,” I was told. “I think you’ll like them.”

I went home, stuck them on, and turned them off before their first tune had reached its organic ending.

“This is pish,” I said.

Not only was I not fussed, but I felt offended on behalf of traditional music that these boys appeared to have taken staple songs, played them in a safe style, and, simply by adding some off-beat clothing and a few wile-looking haircuts, managed to fool the general public into thinking they had revolutionised the genre.

I told my brother about them, and he held the same view, but with even more gusto that I.

“Seen them, lad: They would nearly make ye sick.”

I agreed heartily, and we spent ten minutes tearing them to pieces.

However, about a week later, for reasons I cannot explain, I gave them another go, and this time, I saw past the mullets and moustaches, beyond the battered runners and ankle-swinging joggers, and, liberated from my initial revulsion to their appearance, I was fit to see them for what they are… A good aul’ band.

Excited by the truth I had discovered, I rushed to tell those who might care.

First I showed my da the tune ‘Cod Liver Oil and the Orange Juice’.

He liked it.

Next I showed by ma.

She liked it, too.

Then the brother was up. I knew he would be the hardest to swing.

“Jesus lad, not these tubes again,” he said, reluctantly allowing me to stick on three of what I reckoned were their songs most capable of converting him.

The first, he said, was okay but was not tarra.

The second, he said, was not tarra, but was okay.

And, through the third, he never said a peep, because, as it transpired, the Wallopers had bored him to sleep.

When he returned to consciousness the following day, he told me that my showcase had only served to galvanise his dislike of them.

Since then, the Wallopers have been brought up in our house several times, and, on each occassion, the tension generated by the mere mention of their name has been palpable.

My brother, feeling like I have betrayed him, seems more entrenched than ever in his belief that these boys sing songs of the working man, but have nothing in common with the characters they venerate.

This, he reckons, is partially- evidenced by their liking for ill-fitting charity shop-sourced clothes, and their general hipster-ish style, which he believes to be the secret uniform worn by the privileged who wish to present as paupers.

(Disclaimer: He has never said anything like that, but I am pretty sure that is what he really means, when he uses the word ‘rotten’.)

Meanwhile, the attempts of my aul’ pair and I to help him see past their conceited style and ridiculous ‘dos seem to be getting us nowhere, and, in actual fact, is only causing him to cling tighter to his original position.

“What’s the big deal?” you might be wondering? “What’s wrong with a having a difference of opinion?”

Nothing, provided everyone keeps their cool, of course.

However, if our attitudes stay as they are and we insist on continuing to discuss these three fellas and their backup band, I reckon there could be a few Wallopers thrown in the McElhatton house, and there will be nothing Mary about it.

Time will tell.