My Teacher

I learned yesterday that my bagpipe teacher of many years, Winter Taylor, suddenly passed away in Atlanta.  I was heart broken and saddened beyond words at the news.  Winter (I refused to call her Winnie) had spent countless hours with me in her basement studio working on fixing my great lack of musical talent.  She was kind, supportive and most of all truly patient.  A better teacher I could not have had.

I picked up my practice chanter yesterday evening and ran through some of the tunes that Winter had helped me with.  Her words echoed in my mind as if she were sitting right next to me, admonishing me to make every note clean, crisp, and clear.  She was a great proponent of simple music played well instead of flashy tunes played sloppily.  

As I played, working through our favorite piobaireachd- MacDonald of Kinlochmoidart's Lament, I came to understand the special relationship between a student and his teacher, and that her words and spirit continue to live within me and my sometimes sloppy fingering.  I can't help but smile.

Back To The Basics

I've got a virus and it's beginning to upset me. No, it's nothing contagious or deadly, it's just a glitch in my bagpiping technique. A simple and basic movement that I've done a million times has suddenly gone astray and now I have to work to get it back under control. My piping instructor, who is normally pretty understated, even commented, "Wow, that sounds like shit".

These things come and go with any physical skill; they're nothing new to golfers, place kickers, pitchers, or anyone that requires a finely tuned repetitive motion. I've often experienced viruses on the range when my shooting skills just headed south for no good reason. I've gotten them in the pool when my stroke fell apart. They arise out of nowhere and I have to struggle with the basics again to get things back under control. It's hard on the ego to go back to square one and break things down all over again, practicing slowly, repetitively, over and over and over. I want to just charge ahead, but that's how these things develop in the first place, by not paying close enough attention to the basic skills.

Back From PEI

I’ve been up at Prince Edward Island, Canada for the past ten days attending a piobaireachd course at the College of Piping and Celtic Performing Arts. The bed and breakfast that I stayed in did not have an Internet connection so hence my prolonged absence from this blog.

Attending a course in classical music for the Highland bagpipe is one of those things that you can do when you’re “retired”. It was great fun and I’m a much better piper for the experience although our Atlanta neighbors might not see it that way.

Prince Edward Island is paradise on Earth, at least for three months out of the year. Cool ocean breezes, swaying pine trees, and picturesque pastoral scenes crisscross the island. Everything about the island is relaxing and low-key. I’m not sure why I was even surprised that my accommodations didn’t have an Internet connection. It’s just in keeping with the “time stood still” atmosphere that permeates the collection of small towns and ancient seaside farm pastures.

Nonetheless I’m back in Atlanta and at it again. More to follow.

Rip Your Heart Out

A 10-year old boy pipes at his mother's grave. The tune he's playing is a piobaireachd known as Glengarry's Lament.

Flowers Of The Forest

Wilted flowers sit in a plastic water bottle at the grave of a young soldier killed in the first Gulf War

I’m traveling this weekend, up in rainy Connecticut. I brought my pipes with me in hopes of finding some out of the way place where I could practice and not bother too many people. As I arrived at the hotel I noticed that the building sat right next to a cemetery… perfect!

I play piobaireachd on the highland bagpipes; sort of very old, “lamenty”, stuff meant to be played by a solo piper on a misty moor or an ancient castle abutment. The tune I’m currently working on is MacDonald of Kinlochmoidart’s Lament, which is an emotional piece that I often struggle to find the right depth of feeling.

Walking through the cemetery I discovered the emotion that the tune required. Stones marked with veterans of all of the 20th century’s wars, others stood over generations of entire families, stone angels kept vigil over the graves of lost children. The music flowed from the pipes, singing out over the garden of stone as people watched and listened from a distance. It was a good moment.

New Pipes!

I just received my new set of highland bagpipes today. They're a set of David Naills and are truly breath-taking, made of deep rich African Blackwood, imitation aged ivory, and engraved silver. Now begins the unending process of tuning and tinkering, which is either the joy or the bane any piper. It's said that the bagpipes were the result of an unhappy marriage between a plumber and a watch maker.

My old set of pipes, also Naills, that I've had for over twenty years will go back to Scotland for some re-fitting. I hope to give them to my son, Connor for Christmas, as he's just started to pipe on his own.

MacDonald of Kinlochmoidart's Lament

One of the things that I do with my free time is play the Great Highland Bagpipe. I’m currently working on a classical tune, piobaireachd in bagpipe parlance, called MacDonald of Kinlochmoidart's Lament (No. 1). It’s a wonderfully haunting piece and infinitely complex. Like all piobaireachds, it starts off with a basic theme known as a 'ground' or urlar, and then progresses through several variations of the ground, with each becoming more complex than the last. The piper speeds up and slows down at will adding expression to the tune. In the end, the tune returns to the ground, completing the circle.

Ed Neigh plays the tune in the player below.

The Art Of Youth

Aside from youth being wasted on the young, so is a lot of art. When I was young I endeavored to understand and appreciate art, literature, music but it wasn’t until I had learned a lot of life’s lessons that some of art’s emotions began to settle in.

Highland bagpipe music for example; the young are fascinated with rapid-fire jigs and hornpipes requiring lightning fast fingers. As I’ve gotten older I find myself emotionally drawn to Piobaireachd, the ancient, classical music of the bagpipes; a lone piper fingering a wailing lament to some fallen chief or loved one. I contend that this type of musical expression, like other similar arts, requires a certain amount of emotional scarring before it can be expressed or enjoyed fully. Maybe it's just that my fingers aren't as "lightening fast" as they used to be.