This is the first book of Irish session, if an event where words mean so little can have a book. To read this is to sit where I sit in my mind, at dining tables with friends after a long night's playing; in circles, head down, ear cocked to hear the lead instrument, striving to hear everything and your own instrument in relation to it; leaning against the phonograph speaker as a child, one hand on the needle, trying to interpret lyrics; the storytelling; the partaking of the wonderfully original potluck made like gifts; the carefully measured drinking. Nothing replaces it, the place where the musician's soul recharges, and no one has ever understood it like Ciaran Carson, nor will anyone, I guess.