Éilís Ní Chriocháin
Musician • Author • Keeper of the East Galway Tradition
"You know, there's nothing wrong with those old simple tunes."
From Ireland to America, Through Decades of Searching, Back to What Was There All Along
In a small sitting room in Castlerea, beneath a crooked deer head that was never straightened, master fiddler Eddie Kelly taught me that I didn't have to work so hard to be loved.
His music sounded like honey—thick, golden, moving at its own unhurried pace. Not rushing. Not proving anything. Just being.
I spent decades searching across two continents for what I'd experienced in that quiet room. Through self-help seminars. Through Feldenkrais classes and Tony Robbins events. Through festival stages where the tempo was always faster than my heart wanted to beat.
What I was looking for had been there all along.
And then came the quiet.
Draíocht: And Then Came the Quiet
I was twelve years old when the adjudicator called my playing "ponderous."
That single word led me to Eddie Kelly's sitting room, where I'd sit on a woven stool beneath a crooked deer head that tilted permanently to the left, waiting to learn tunes from a man who would change my life without ever explaining what he was teaching.
One Tuesday evening, Eddie played O'Brien's Reel—a simple tune with one well-placed flourish. My father leaned back in his chair and smiled. He started nodding to the music.
"That's the one," he said.
And later, after I'd practiced it all week: "You know, there's nothing wrong with those old simple tunes."
I didn't understand it then. I thought music was about technical mastery—learning the complicated Ed Reavy tunes, the ones that made your fingers work. I didn't understand that there's a difference between impressing someone and moving them. Between performing and being present. Between working hard to be seen and simply being witnessed.
Draíocht is the Irish word for magic, for mystery, for the thing that can't quite be captured in words.
This memoir is about what I learned from Eddie Kelly and Paddy Fahey and the East Galway Irish Music Tradition—not as abstract lessons about presence or belonging, but as lived truth discovered in a tiny room with oversized furniture, beneath a deer that never got straightened.
It's about witnessing—what it is, why it matters, and what happens when we lose it.
It's about simplicity—not as limitation, but as intentional beauty. The flourish placed exactly where it deepens tranquility instead of disturbing it.
It's about what happens when action finally meets its match. When the doing stops working. When you dream of someone knocking on your door to take you away—but no one comes. And you find your way back to yourself instead.
It's about coming home to what was there all along. And then came the quiet.
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Draíocht: And Then Came the Quiet arrives in 2026. Be the first to know when it's ready.
What East Galway Music Sounds Like
At the Royal Casino Cinema in 1978, I heard Joe Burke play "Bonnie Kate" on the button accordion.
It sounded like honey.
His fingers danced across the buttons, and I couldn't help myself—I had to stretch forward, had to see those buttons, those fingers. What was he doing? How was he pulling something out of the air that made me feel so completely, unexpectedly alive?
The music was sweet, but it wasn't sugary. It was substantial. Complex underneath—all those intricate notes executed with precision, nothing glossed over with speed or noise. It was pure. Each note was given its full value before moving to the next. The melody flowed thick and golden, moving at its own unhurried pace.
Something was happening to my body that I had no words for. My nervous system was syncing with Joe's. My heartbeat was slowing to match the tempo. My breathing was deepening in rhythm with the phrases.
The East Galway Irish Music tradition is often called a "listening tradition"—music meant not for dancing but for deep attention. The tempo is slower. The phrases are long and flowing. The ornamentation is subtle and musical rather than technical.
There's space in the music—rests, pauses, moments where the silence matters as much as the notes.
Today, only four fiddle players in the world play exclusively in this tradition: Liam Lewis, Breda Keville, Conor Tully, and myself.
Four people carrying a sound that once filled every kitchen in a region.
Three Albums of the East Galway Tradition
Eddie Kelly taught me that music isn't about what you add—it's about what you have the courage to leave out. These albums transmit that tradition
The Lonesome Fiddler (2014)
My first recording, capturing the tunes and spirit Eddie Kelly transmitted in his living room. Traditional melodies played with restraint and reverence. This is the sound of the quiet room.
Searbh Siúcra (2017)
Bittersweet. This album features all twenty-one of Eddie Kelly's compositions—tunes he sent me in a brown envelope in 2009, with no note, no explanation. Just the music itself. Just trust
When I finally played the album for Eddie, his eyes filled with tears. "I never thought that could be done with those tunes," he whispered.
Draíocht: And Then Came the Quiet (2026)
The third album—mournful but hopeful. A deep exploration of Paddy Fahey's compositions, recorded with musicians who understood what it means to be present together, not just perform together.
When they asked what I wanted for arrangements, I said: "How do you feel when you hear the tunes? Whatever you feel, that's what I want." And instead of rushing to deliver, they sat with the tunes and played from the heart.
Each note given its full value before the next. And then came the quiet.
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An Evening in the Quiet Room
Eddie Kelly once walked into a session where I was playing. His first words:
"I came to hear you play."
That's what these evenings are. Not performance. Witnessing.
A Draíocht evening weaves story and music together—not concert with commentary, but a continuous transmission. The way Eddie taught me, tune by tune, silence by silence.
I'll tell you about Daddy wrapping my bronze medal in tin foil to make it sparkle. About the baby hedgehog crossing Mammy's garden while I played fiddle at the window. About Eddie switching mid-tune at the fleadh to play along with a passing marching band—choosing joy over winning, presence over performance.
And between the stories, the tunes: Paddy Fahey's hornpipes, Eddie Kelly's compositions, the old simple tunes that don't need anything added or taken away.
Story: The crooked deer that was never straightened, and what it taught me about leaving things as they are.
Music: O'Brien's Reel—the tune that changed my life.
Story: Paddy Fahey taking tunes "out of the air" and refusing to name them.
Music: Paddy Fahey's Hornpipe No. 2—the tune that made Daddy go into a trance.
Story: The rambling house tradition, and what we've lost.
Music: The Meelick Team—Eddie's tribute to the hurlers who won the All-Ireland.
Story: Finding my way home after decades of searching.
Music: The Lonesome Fiddler—played correctly at last, with that B natural Eddie insisted on
This isn't entertainment. It's what happens when someone sits with you, unhurried, and asks: How are you? Really, how are you?
Talks & Workshops
From Doing to Being: What the quiet room taught me about presence
The Honey Sound: East Galway music and the neuroscience of co-regulation
Simplicity as Intentional Beauty: O'Brien's Reel and the art of leaving things out
Transmission vs. Transaction: What traditional music teaches us about real connection
Finding Your Way Home: A memoir reading with music
And Then Came the Quiet
I dreamed once of someone pulling up to my house, knocking on my door, saying: "Come on, pack a small weekend bag. I'm taking you away."
No one came.
But something better happened. I stopped waiting. I found my way to a gravel driveway and a farm where broken things come to heal. Rescue dogs who'd learned that trust is possible again. Horses who carry themselves with a certainty that comes not from proving anything, but from knowing exactly who they are.
Seven is a stallion. He walks beside me along the fence line each morning as I drive slowly down the gravel driveway. Dark chestnut with a jet-black mane—the kind of coloring that holds light and shadow at once. Like the old Irish seasons. Like the music itself. Like grief and joy existing in the same breath.
I still cry. Deeply. The grief hasn't disappeared—that's not how grief works. Some losses leave a hollow that never quite fills. But you learn to carry it differently. You learn that the hollow can coexist with joy, with laughter, with small moments of unexpected grace.
The crooked deer never got straightened. Neither did I.
But now I know where to look. Not outward. Not at the next seminar or the next stage or the next accomplishment. Inward. Back to the woven stool. Back to the music that sounds like honey. Back to the simple truth that Daddy knew all along:
"You know, there's nothing wrong with those old simple tunes."
There's nothing wrong with a simple life. A quiet room. A presence that asks nothing and gives everything.
This is what I came home to. This is what was there all along.
And then came the quiet.
About Éilís
I was born in Ireland and learned traditional music from master musician Eddie Kelly in his sitting room in Castlerea. What I didn't understand as a child was that Eddie wasn't just teaching music—he was transmitting a way of being.
After emigrating to England and then America, I spent many years as a Radiographer before transitioning into healthcare IT. I've implemented complex clinical systems across major healthcare organizations. I've run consulting practices and led technical teams.
But all those years, I was searching. Crossing continents and stages, looking for what I thought I'd lost.
It took decades of moving—countries, careers, stages, systems—before I finally sat still long enough to listen. The quiet room had held everything all along.
I've released two albums of traditional Irish music: The Lonesome Fiddler (2014) and Searbh Siúcra (2017), with a third album, Draíocht: And Then Came the Quiet, coming in 2026. I created eddiekellymusic.com as a living tribute to Eddie, and authored This Is Your Life: A Tribute to Eddie Kelly.
My memoir Draíocht: And Then Came the Quiet is the story of learning to be in a world addicted to doing.
I live in the USA, where I continue to transmit the East Galway Irish Music Tradition through music, writing, and the simple act of sitting with people, unhurried, and asking how they really are.
— Éilís Ní Chriocháin
The Quiet Room
Daddy used to say: "Listen to the other person, not yourself."
This wasn't just advice about playing in unison. It was a philosophy. A way of being in the world.
When you sit in a room with people who are attuned to each other, something changes in your body. Your heart rate slows. Your shoulders drop. You exhale in a way you didn't know you'd been holding your breath.
The rambling house knew this. The door was always open—not metaphorically, but literally. You didn't need an invitation. You didn't need an excuse. You simply showed up.
I send occasional letters about:
• The journey from doing to being
• Stories from the tradition
• Music, memoir, and the quiet room
• What it means to be witnessed
You don't need another tool. You don't need another course.
You need what Eddie offered in that small sitting room beneath the crooked deer: someone paying attention.
Someone saying through their presence: You matter. I see you. You belong.