(Ryckman) Walked On Me and Danced a Jig

Inside Powerscourt Centre, at 59 South William Street, across from J. Grogan's Pub, in Dublin on the east coast of Ireland, within a mall that's half jewelry stores, half artsy home-goods, vintage clothing, handmade accessories, up the stairs which change direction enough times they're almost winding and leading to the second floor (third for Americans), looking down upon Pygmalion, a bar-slash-lounge-slash-restaurant filled with casually upscale cocktail and coffee drinkers, with large white feathered orbs that hang from the ceiling—three total, extending vertically from the ceiling, the spine—around the balcony and up three more half-stairs and into a cozy, dark, cubic theatre with a low stage and few attendants. The sound of percussive dance heard quite muffled from just outside the theatre now in full clarity, behold the magic of Irish dance and its history. Heralded as one of the "Top ten things to do in Dublin..." by an unnamed source, the feature program was made available, at no charge, to thirteen lucky wanderers, such as myself, by the cheerful and accommodating John. Or Sean. 


Officially titled "Jig, The Story of Irish Dance," the performance lasted about twenty minutes while I was there, although I walked in late and left after intermission. The entire thing lasted an hour if not longer, and turned serious when, during a break between dances, a video filled the wall and recounted in sparse but efficient detail the heritage of Irish dance. In vintage black and white footage, over which an elderly man's voice could be heard, visions of a fiddler and a controlled virtuosic rhythm-stepper moved in such fluidity that, coupled with the man's explanation that, 'People think Irish dancing is all about the high kicks and jumps that they end up focusing on that, and fail to hear the delicate rhythms entrenched within the steps of the dancers. Because of this focus by the audience, Irish step has gravitated toward that, so that's what you see these days. But in my day, it was all about the rhythm."

Invigorated and enlightened by this man's insight, I closed my eyes for the next dance, which featured all four dancers moving their feet in such passionate fury, and understood. It wasn't just rhythmic—it grooved. It seemed so obvious to me, like, of course! Why did I ever watch Irish step dancing, when the beats and grooves the dancers made were the true beauty behind the whole act. Evoking at once both a funk band nestled in a deep pocket and a jazz soloist getting 'out there,' I understood what the soft-spoken, confident man on the wall had pointed out.