Right. So my nephew Ciarán got a guitar for his birthday off his mam — a half-decent yoke, not a toy — and the first thing he did was come round to mine and ask me to teach him "something Irish." And I said, lad, do you know any chords at all? And he held up three fingers. G, C and D. That was the lot.
And do you know what I told him?
That's PLENTY.
I mean it. People think you need to be yer man Davy Spillane reincarnated on a fretboard before you can sit down at a session and be useful. You don't. Half the songs that have kept Irish pubs roaring for two hundred years run on three chords and a bit of nerve. The other half run on four, and one of those four you only need for the dramatic bit. So if you've got G, C and D under your fingers — even if they buzz, even if you have to stop and re-grip every line — you can play more of the canon than you'd believe.
I'm going to give you the actual songs. Not vibes. Songs.
Start with Mursheen Durkin. I cannot recommend this one enough for a beginner and I'll tell you exactly why: it gallops along on G, C and D, the chorus is the same shape every single time, and it's so bouncy that nobody minds if you fluff a change because the whole thing is built to be played a bit ragged. It's an emigration song dressed up as a jaunt — fella heading off to California to dig for gold, "goodbye Mursheen Durkin, I'm sick and tired of working" — and that contradiction is half the charm. You can hear the full thing and the chords sit lovely on Mursheen Durkin. Learn this one first. I'd nearly stake the cat on it.
Then I'll Tell Me Ma. Now this one's a gift because everyone in the room already knows it. EVERYONE. You will not have to carry the singing, which when you're new and your hands are shaking is a mercy you'll be grateful for. It's a children's street rhyme really — "she is handsome, she is pretty, she is the belle of Belfast city" — and it canters along so quick that nobody's listening to your right hand. They're all singing about Albert Mooney loving the girl. Three chords again, mostly. Strum down-down-down and let the room do the rest.
A wee word about strumming before I lose the run of myself. Don't get clever. Beginners always want to learn some fancy syncopated pattern off a YouTube fella with a ring light, and then they freeze up at an actual session because their brain's doing sums. For trad, an honest steady down-strum, maybe a bit of down-up once you're comfortable, will carry nearly anything. The SONG carries the room. You're just the engine underneath it. Keep the engine turning over and don't stall.
Now. Once you've those two under you and you're not white-knuckling the neck, reach for The Wild Rover. I know, I know — it's the one everybody slags as the "tourist anthem," the one that gets four claps banged out in the gap. But here's the thing nobody admits: it's a near-perfect teaching song. The chord changes land exactly where you'd guess they'd land. The "and it's NO, nay, never" bit is so famous that your three chords get to be a hero for about eight seconds, because the whole pub stops and joins in and stamps and you, ya beauty, are the one holding it together. There's no better confidence-builder. None.
After that the world opens up. The Holy Ground, The Black Velvet Band, half of Whiskey in the Jar if you don't mind it being a little fuller — they're all within reach of a beginner who can change between G, C and D without looking down too much. Some need a fourth chord, an Em usually, and Em is the easiest shape on the whole instrument, so don't let that put you off.
What I'd genuinely beg you NOT to start with is the slow ballads. The Carrickfergus and the Parting Glass of this world. They are gorgeous — the Parting Glass might be the most beautiful song ever written for closing a night — but a slow air with nowhere to hide will expose every wobble in your hands and every uncertain note in your voice, and it'll knock the heart out of you before you've had a chance to fall in love with playing. Build your callouses and your nerve on the rowdy stuff. Come to the heartbreakers when your hands have stopped lying to you. (That's a real thing, by the way. Your hands lie at the start. They settle.)
I put a whole separate rundown together a while back of the easiest Irish songs to learn first if you want the wider list — there's overlap with this, but it's more about singing than the guitar specifically. And of course the songbook has the lyrics and a bit of history for every one I've mentioned, so you're not hunting round the internet for words with a verse missing.
Ciarán, by the way, can now play four songs and one of them is the Rattlin' Bog itself, which is just G and D mainly and absolutely WRECKS people at parties when they realise there's twelve verses coming. He looked very pleased with himself last Sunday. As he should.
Three chords, lads. Three chords and the gall to start before you're ready. That's the whole secret and there isn't a second one.
Slán go fóill, BogLord2002
P.S. — Rattlin' the cat has very strong opinions about the guitar. He sits ON it. In the soundhole, near enough, the big lump of him. Ciarán thinks it's hilarious. I think the cat believes he's helping. Either way, mind your tuning pegs round him, he's been known to "adjust" them.