THE PIPER IN THE WOODS
I just finished practicing and my stamina is getting better and better. I was able to play through the 7-minute "Company's Lament" and continue on to practice 2 of my 3 current jigs, "Rocking the Baby" and "Corkhill". I find as expected, that the more I apply myself and play with an eye toward extending my endurance, the more I can do. I guess it is the reverse of "Garbage In, Garbage out".
THE PIPER IN THE WOODS
My first really recollection of bagpipe music was in 1974 at the Arctic Winter Games in Anchorage, Alaska. The games took place in the heart of winter and consisted of skiing, dog sledding, hockey, and perhaps some Eskimo games. I remember it being very cold, mostly out doors; being bundled up from head to toe and seeing my breath hang in the air, also the smell of dog poop from the dog sleds. I will always have affection for the smell of chilly weather and dog poop. Mixed in with dozens of momentary memories of the Arctic Winter Games were the pipers who played at the opening and closing ceremonies. I remember being very impressed by the outfits and the drones extending above and behind each piper, the feeling of being filled with music, rather than just listening to it, and the chest raising, heart-pounding feelings that come with good pipes. I have a theory that people react to pipers because the loud vibrations actually cause ribs to vibrate, and it is this subtle vibration that people fold into their over-all appreciation (or lack thereof) for the pipes. The Arctic Winter Games is where I first "reacted to the pipes".
Several years later my mother bought my father a bagpipe cassette of traditional marching tunes. I didn't take much interest in it until I was in high school, then I commandeered it for my own uses. I played hockey in High School. We lived on a mountainside above Anchorage and I used to drive down to the hockey games at the Ben Boeke Arena near downtown. As the goalie, I had to get to the locker room extra early to get on my ample gear. I would make a practice of getting there extra, extra early to sit alone, the locker room all to myself. I brought a Walkman with that bagpipe tape in it and I would listen to Scotland the Brave and many other common tunes as I adjusted my attitude for the organized, mostly bloodless war that awaited me. As a teenager, I was completely full of myself, but those pipes and that cassette helped me face what was then, to me, a life or death struggle. How time has a way of making us look stupid despite our best efforts to the contrary.
During my college career, I went to Northern Arizona University for a year in Flagstaff, Arizona. Having grown up in Alaska, Arizona seemed like a logical, refreshing contrast. It was in many ways, but in very different ways than I thought. The town of Flagstaff sits at 7000 feet near The Grand Canyon and can be bitter cold in the winter. Very little stops the relentless wind from whipping crystallized snow across the alpine meadows and through campus. When spring finally hits, it is more than welcome. The snow melts and the meadows came out to bloom. One day, I was returning to my dorm room from the dining hall when I heard the sounds of a well-tuned set of pipes coming from the forest on the edge of the University grounds. I proceeded up to my dorm for a moment then thought, "what am I doing? Here a very interesting adventure has literally been thrown before me and I am going to ignore it completely?" I found a small trail into the woods and walked for about 1/4 mile, the pipes growing louder all the while. There in a small thicket, his music propped up on a tree stump was a guy piping away. He was my age, and I recognized him from the dorm. I immediately understood. The jocks in the dorm would surly have made good sport of this guy, had he dared play in the dorm area. We struck up a conversation. He wanted to learn guitar and the bagpipes intrigued me. We agreed to swap lessons. I would give him a 1/2 lesson on the guitar in exchange for a 1/2 lesson on the pipes. Unfortunately once I went back into the dorm, the magical moment had been broken. Once back in the dorm room, with the other jocks and hair bears, all those young adult insecurities took hold. Why was this person alone in the woods piping? Why didn't he have other better things to do? Why didn't I ever see him around campus? He's probably some kind of pervert or Nazi, or worse. Foolishly, I talked myself out of what could have been a life-altering opportunity. At 21, I didn't know better. Now I do. Had I taken him up on his offer, I would have had 19 years of piping behind me. Instead I am a newbie at 40. I hope that piper reads this blog and understands that even in our brief 30-minute encounter, he planted the seed for my piping today. He has my complete and total thanks and sincere apology for judgments grounded in vanity and my own insecurities. The fact is, I just wasn't "man" enough to try something new and different.
Last winter the McGregor Pipe Band came to our little town. It is a band made up mostly of young, beginning pipers. Most of the pipers and drummers were under 18. Most of them had less than 4 years of experience. They played beautifully. Each one puffing out their cheeks and concentrating like 15 brain surgeons. During the 1 1/2 concert I thought allot about the piper at the Arctic Winter Games, my pre-game hockey ritual, and especially about the piper in the woods. I am a firm believer that "When the student is ready, the master will appear". It occurred to me that my "master" had already appeared 3 times before when I was too busy or stupid to take note. Not this time. Within weeks of the concert I had begun lessons.
I may never get to be the greatest piper in the world. At 40, I wonder if I will even get to be listenable, but I now have one advantage I have never had before, I don't care. I don't care if I am ever listenable, or if I become great. I don't much care what the neighbors think when I wear my kilt. I try to have empathy for their sleeping hours, but that is it. I have found so far that all really good pipers possess this "hell-or-high-water" attitude. I am going to play badly until I don't, and if people whisper to each other "man that guy sucks" then good.....I can't hear them anyway.
THE PIPER IN THE WOODS
My first really recollection of bagpipe music was in 1974 at the Arctic Winter Games in Anchorage, Alaska. The games took place in the heart of winter and consisted of skiing, dog sledding, hockey, and perhaps some Eskimo games. I remember it being very cold, mostly out doors; being bundled up from head to toe and seeing my breath hang in the air, also the smell of dog poop from the dog sleds. I will always have affection for the smell of chilly weather and dog poop. Mixed in with dozens of momentary memories of the Arctic Winter Games were the pipers who played at the opening and closing ceremonies. I remember being very impressed by the outfits and the drones extending above and behind each piper, the feeling of being filled with music, rather than just listening to it, and the chest raising, heart-pounding feelings that come with good pipes. I have a theory that people react to pipers because the loud vibrations actually cause ribs to vibrate, and it is this subtle vibration that people fold into their over-all appreciation (or lack thereof) for the pipes. The Arctic Winter Games is where I first "reacted to the pipes".
Several years later my mother bought my father a bagpipe cassette of traditional marching tunes. I didn't take much interest in it until I was in high school, then I commandeered it for my own uses. I played hockey in High School. We lived on a mountainside above Anchorage and I used to drive down to the hockey games at the Ben Boeke Arena near downtown. As the goalie, I had to get to the locker room extra early to get on my ample gear. I would make a practice of getting there extra, extra early to sit alone, the locker room all to myself. I brought a Walkman with that bagpipe tape in it and I would listen to Scotland the Brave and many other common tunes as I adjusted my attitude for the organized, mostly bloodless war that awaited me. As a teenager, I was completely full of myself, but those pipes and that cassette helped me face what was then, to me, a life or death struggle. How time has a way of making us look stupid despite our best efforts to the contrary.
During my college career, I went to Northern Arizona University for a year in Flagstaff, Arizona. Having grown up in Alaska, Arizona seemed like a logical, refreshing contrast. It was in many ways, but in very different ways than I thought. The town of Flagstaff sits at 7000 feet near The Grand Canyon and can be bitter cold in the winter. Very little stops the relentless wind from whipping crystallized snow across the alpine meadows and through campus. When spring finally hits, it is more than welcome. The snow melts and the meadows came out to bloom. One day, I was returning to my dorm room from the dining hall when I heard the sounds of a well-tuned set of pipes coming from the forest on the edge of the University grounds. I proceeded up to my dorm for a moment then thought, "what am I doing? Here a very interesting adventure has literally been thrown before me and I am going to ignore it completely?" I found a small trail into the woods and walked for about 1/4 mile, the pipes growing louder all the while. There in a small thicket, his music propped up on a tree stump was a guy piping away. He was my age, and I recognized him from the dorm. I immediately understood. The jocks in the dorm would surly have made good sport of this guy, had he dared play in the dorm area. We struck up a conversation. He wanted to learn guitar and the bagpipes intrigued me. We agreed to swap lessons. I would give him a 1/2 lesson on the guitar in exchange for a 1/2 lesson on the pipes. Unfortunately once I went back into the dorm, the magical moment had been broken. Once back in the dorm room, with the other jocks and hair bears, all those young adult insecurities took hold. Why was this person alone in the woods piping? Why didn't he have other better things to do? Why didn't I ever see him around campus? He's probably some kind of pervert or Nazi, or worse. Foolishly, I talked myself out of what could have been a life-altering opportunity. At 21, I didn't know better. Now I do. Had I taken him up on his offer, I would have had 19 years of piping behind me. Instead I am a newbie at 40. I hope that piper reads this blog and understands that even in our brief 30-minute encounter, he planted the seed for my piping today. He has my complete and total thanks and sincere apology for judgments grounded in vanity and my own insecurities. The fact is, I just wasn't "man" enough to try something new and different.
Last winter the McGregor Pipe Band came to our little town. It is a band made up mostly of young, beginning pipers. Most of the pipers and drummers were under 18. Most of them had less than 4 years of experience. They played beautifully. Each one puffing out their cheeks and concentrating like 15 brain surgeons. During the 1 1/2 concert I thought allot about the piper at the Arctic Winter Games, my pre-game hockey ritual, and especially about the piper in the woods. I am a firm believer that "When the student is ready, the master will appear". It occurred to me that my "master" had already appeared 3 times before when I was too busy or stupid to take note. Not this time. Within weeks of the concert I had begun lessons.
I may never get to be the greatest piper in the world. At 40, I wonder if I will even get to be listenable, but I now have one advantage I have never had before, I don't care. I don't care if I am ever listenable, or if I become great. I don't much care what the neighbors think when I wear my kilt. I try to have empathy for their sleeping hours, but that is it. I have found so far that all really good pipers possess this "hell-or-high-water" attitude. I am going to play badly until I don't, and if people whisper to each other "man that guy sucks" then good.....I can't hear them anyway.
posted by Viceroy De Los Osos at 2:37 PM
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