Listening to a Lost Europe — A Journey of the Heart through Celtic Music — English translation of #53 for Non Japanese Readers

Long ago, during a casual conversation about music, a friend of mine said something that stayed with me.

“Songwriters today are kind of like the troubadours of the past, aren’t they?”

Looking back now, I suppose he wasn’t entirely wrong. There are differences, of course—but nothing worth raising one’s voice over.

And yet, in a moment of youthful folly, I did exactly that. I argued him down, head-on.

In shogi, there is a phrase for a move that is technically strong, yet so merciless that it makes people wonder, “Did you really have to go that far?” They call it “the move that loses you friends.”
That was precisely the move I made. Classical music fans already have a reputation for sounding a bit pretentious, after all. The effect was devastating. (Well… not in a good way.)

We did make up eventually and returned to being normal friends, but for a while he refused to speak to me—a punishment as harsh as it was deserved. Even now, I think back on it from time to time as a perfect example of my own foolishness. As the saying goes—no, not “words bring a chill like autumn wind,” but rather, “the tongue is the source of trouble.”

Recently, however, I’ve found myself unable to stop recalling that moment.

The thought that keeps returning is this:
What if Celtic music is, in fact, music shaped by those wandering poets—those troubadours?

From a historical perspective, this is not an unreasonable idea. At the very least, there is little doubt that Celtic music and the tradition of itinerant musicians are deeply connected. And behind that connection lies a long and intricate history—one filled with the lives and movements of countless people.

There is something uniquely captivating about Celtic music. I’ve grown quite fond of it myself—to the point of even creating dedicated playlists on Suno.

And yet, when I first heard it, I was genuinely startled.
“What is this…? That can’t be right.”

Or rather, I should say, I couldn’t believe my ears.

Because it sounded strikingly similar to a certain kind of classical music.

That “certain kind” is none other than medieval music—specifically, not the music of rulers or the Church, but the secular music performed and sung by ordinary people.

The resemblance is astonishing. In some cases, it becomes difficult to tell which is which, and eventually one finds oneself thinking, “Well, I’m not quite sure anymore—but it’s enjoyable, so perhaps that’s enough.”

This similarity goes far beyond surface style. The underlying musical structures, the instruments used, the playing techniques—even the use of ornamentation—show remarkable parallels. This is not something that can be explained by mere imitation, nor by the influence of a handful of musicians. After all, we are dealing with a tradition that spans well over five centuries.

To trace this connection is to embark on a fascinating journey—a journey across much of Europe, in search of the origins of music itself.

So, let us begin.

The European Middle Ages spanned roughly a thousand years and are often contrasted with the Renaissance that followed, sometimes even described as a “dark age.” Power was fragmented across regions, and for ordinary people, social roles and places of life were largely fixed.

Music in the centers of power was closely tied to Christianity. In churches, various forms of vocal music were performed—almost all of it religious.

At the same time, there were musicians who traveled from place to place, singing and playing instruments. These were the figures known as troubadours, trouvères, jongleurs, minstrels, Minnesingers, and bards—collectively, what we might call wandering poets.

There were also Jewish communities expelled from Spain during the same period, known as the Sephardim, who spread across Europe. Among them were many musicians, and their legacy continues to influence music to this day.

Now we arrive at the heart of the matter.

As these traveling musicians spread across Europe, some settled in the northern regions of England, bringing their music with them. This would become one of the foundations of what we now call Celtic music.

What they transmitted was not merely style.
It encompassed modes, instruments, and performance practices.

As a result, these elements played a crucial role in shaping the character of Celtic music as we know it today.

Modal usage, such as the Dorian mode, remains central to its sound.

Traditional instruments—including bagpipes, recorders, and the fiddle—were adopted directly.

Performance techniques, including ornamentation, were likewise carried over. Ensemble playing combined with song, a sense of tonal freedom not strictly bound by harmonic gravity, and a floating, almost weightless musical quality—all of these emerged from this transmission.

Even specific ornamentations—such as tap, cut, and roll—likely originated from bagpipe techniques. Interestingly, these were not originally intended as decoration, but rather as practical solutions for articulating notes. Over time, they evolved into expressive musical elements. These techniques would later influence ornamentation in French Baroque instruments such as the musette, flute, oboe, and recorder.

There is more.

Consider the Irish flute, still played today. Structurally, it closely resembles a type of wooden concert flute once developed in Europe—known as the Meyer system. The similarities are so precise that it is difficult to explain them without assuming some form of cultural transmission from the European mainland. In many such cases, instruments that faded from use in central Europe continued to survive in these peripheral regions.

Tracing each instrument’s lineage would take us too far afield. But when we consider the depth of these connections, one question naturally arises:

What, then, is Celtic music?

The answer is simple.

It is the living form of medieval secular music, preserved at the edges of Europe—
a lingering resonance of the Middle Ages, etched into its peripheries.

Indeed, Celtic music is not alone. Similar musical traditions can be found in places such as Normandy, the Basque region, Scotland, Ireland, and parts of Norway—regions distant from the cultural centers of the continent, where traces of forgotten musical heritage often remain.

But how are we to describe the beauty of these surviving fragments?

Here lives a form of beauty that modern society has long since lost—perhaps irretrievably.

Emotion that is not excessive, yet deeply moving.
A quiet strength.
A sense of communion with nature.
A simple, sincere reverence.

In these sounds, one may hear something of the human spirit as it once was.

Modern society has advanced greatly under the influence of European civilization. Yet in that progress, something essential may have been left behind.

And when we listen to Celtic music—when we feel it stir something within us—
perhaps we are, in that moment, rediscovering a lost Europe.

Perhaps it is, in a sense,
a journey of the heart.

⸻

Thank you for reading.