TONY McMAHON, IARLA O LIONAIRD & NOEL HILL: “Aislingí Ceoil” (Gael Linn)

WITH A brutal cover photo conjuring images of a minor with a bad case of hyperthyroidism – all bulging eyes and bared soul – and sleeve notes worthy of Tolstoy at his most verbose, Aislingí Ceoil looked like the kind of album that should hit the sound system accompanied by a stiff Black Bush – or three.

Aislingí Ceoil comes packed with old tunes borrowed from the past and dusted down, fit for transfusion to the next generation of musos anxious to become keepers of the flame. No foreign dilutants to be found lurking here.

By any standards it’s a spare offering, unadorned by ornamentation save the accordion and concertina of McMahon and Noel Hill and the singularly soulful larynx of Iarla O Lionaird with some adventurous backroom piano accompaniment from John Gibson.

Duets of squeeze box and concertina have never made for comfortable listening to these ears without the (admittedly alien) decor of a bass sound bringing the whole affair down a notch or two. Skipping as they do with consummate ease through old reliables like ‘The Lark In The Morning’ and ‘The Bucks Of Oranmore’, (here re-christened ‘The Hearty Bucks Of Oranmore’, in case we missed the spirit, perhaps) they pay homage to the tradition, doffing their caps to their forebears and lowering their gaze respectfully should any old foot soldiers pass by.

Iarla O Lionaird contributes three songs, every one afforded a pristine treatment. ‘A Stór Mo Chroí’ sets the mood for what he offers: a cool, sensitive reading of some very beautiful songs delivered with bare TLC that’d be the envy of many a budding Florence Nightingale. Every one a gem.

But the essential sound is that of stalwarts McMahon and Hill. It’s a sound that somehow shines effortlessly live yet lacks a certain lustre when translated to a digital existence. Hearing set dancers whoop and lep in time does little to embellish the proceedings when the effect is purely aural. The CD player is a clinically dead host for such hearty carry on.

Aislingí Ceoil is for the purist, perhaps for the emigrant even, with opportunities to see and hear the sound first hand few and far between. Me? I think I’ll stick to O’Shea’s on Talbot Street for my fixes.

• Siobhán Long