When I was about 18, I began to feel a deep pull toward the traditional music of my home. For years, I’d been consumed by bluegrass and the banjo (I still am!), but after a transformative trip to Ireland, I came back with my arms full of CDs by artists like The Pogues, Andy Irvine, and Paul Brady, Planxty, and the Bothy Band. Noticing my growing passion for Irish music, my brother-in-law, the exceptional guitarist Duane Andrews, kindly said something along the lines of “That’s great, wicked, but you know we have our own stuff too, right?” That simple, yet profound comment shifted something in me. It sent me on a journey that led down the road to O’Brien’s Music, where I first laid hands on Kelly Russell’s collections.

Those collections weren’t just books of notated tunes—they were a gateway to an entire world of tradition, history, and connection. Each tune carried the spirit of the people who played it. I discovered the legacies of fiddlers whose names I knew, like Rufus Guinchard and Émile Benoit, and those whose names I didn’t, like Little Joe Pallister and Kevin Broderick. Suddenly, the traditional music of Newfoundland and Labrador became so much more than a song played on a Sunday morning radio show or on the CBC (!)—it was a living tradition, full of vitality and meaning.

When our band, The Dardanelles, started out in a practice room at Memorial University, we knew we were drawn to traditional music, but we were just scratching the surface of its depth. For weeks, we’d stand there with Kelly’s collections open in front of us, sight-reading tunes and fumbling to put together sets. Even today, whether we’re making records or working on new music, Kelly’s collections are always within reach—tucked in a fiddle case, an accordion case, or laid out in the studio, there to guide us back to ourselves.

When The Dardanelles started touring we often found ourselves heading to festivals on the mainland, and every now and then, a band from Quebec or Ontario would strike up ‘Parsons Pond’ or ‘Sam Sinnick’s.’ After a few tunes together and a few pints, we’d end up asking, “Where did you learn those tunes?” And almost every time, the answer was the same: “We ordered Kelly’s books.”

As the years have passed, my appreciation for the access I had as a young traditional musician has only deepened. But I’ve started to wonder —what would happen to this music as more and more musicians turn to online databases to find traditional tunes? Of course, I’m delighted that you don’t need to order 12 CDs (or tapes!) to, best case scenario, discover three tunes, but I’ve often worried that something vital is lost in the process—the context, the history, the spirit of the music and those it came from. And I’ve worried, too, that our Newfoundland and Labrador traditional music might get overshadowed, get left behind.

That’s why seeing Kelly’s collections become available online, fully indexable and searchable, is something worth celebrating. Finally, Newfoundlanders and Labradorians everywhere will have access to a crucial part of their musical heritage and a piece of their cultural identity. They’ll learn more about the musicians who gave us these small, melodic fragments that, in their own way, tell rich and complex stories of who we were, who we are, and where we’re going. And…I do not doubt that a few players will be playing them up along too.

I am deeply grateful to Kelly for his early work in preserving, documenting, and recording this invaluable gift. And now, I’m even more thankful that it will be shared more widely than ever, so that future nerdy 18-year-olds without a clue might discover the true joy of this music. 

Tom Power
Q – CBC Radio
The Dardanelles