ramble on for another paragraph, he remembered the plot.

The bottle had nearly been drained, and Dundee's face had taken on the bright red of a stop light. The rest of the group of musicians were sweaty and out of breath from trying to keep up with him and play loud enough to be heard. Yet none had left the circle. In truth, they felt a bit like children who sat at a dinner table where a very intimidating Father glowered at them whenever one so much as stopped playing for even part of a song. They were also quite drunk, since Dundee ordered another round of drinks each time a song stopped and wouldn't begin the next until they had, to his expression "here's to yer old Granny's sudden death and Grampy's relentless whorin' what done her in", drained their drinks.
Suddenly, Dundee stood up, tossing the bodhran unexpectedly to York, took in a deep breath that stirred the curtains, and sang "The Lass of Glenshee." Great tears came from his eyes, he gazed at the ceiling as if the Lass her own self had been tacked up there, and truly all of the group became quite moved, because Dundee's singing, while not at all fine, was quite heartfelt.
As he finished, and before he could raise the bottle to drain the dregs, a buxom woman poked him in the ribs and leapt onto his back, saying "Dundee you rotten mick! I've been looking for you seven years to get the child support you owe on the wee bastard you left me carrying!" Briefly, the others saw what a Dundee in the grip of fear might look like, but then he grabbed the woman, swung her 'round, and gripped her like a Kodiak bear would have. Several distinct pops were heard as vertebrae in her back came under the tremendous pressure. Then he held her in front of him and shouted "a dance!" He spun to look at York. "You! Play the Irish Washerwoman!"
York trilled an intro and all dove into the song as the oak-planked floor boomed under the feet of Dundee and Josephine.