Playing a piece of history.

Everybody who plays the little curvy box with four strings will, without fail, have someone open a conversation with "I've got my granddaddy's old fiddle . . ." The only thing that elicits a mental eyeroll faster is something from the pantheon of worn-out machine gun jokes. Usually what follows is something like "it's a Stradivarius" or "can you tell me how old it is?" So I was skeptical when the gentleman said to me, "I've got my grandfather's fiddle. It was built in 1918. Would you mind playing it? It's probably a little out of tune."

He told me his grandfather worked out of Rochester, NY, and did quite a bit of work for the New York Philharmonic, including maintaining a Stradivarius for one particular violinist. I peeked inside at the tag, which read "Bert Goodwin - Rochester, NY - 1918."

"So would you play it some? I don't really play and just want to hear what it sounds like." Well, all right, I don't see why not. Reckon I'll give it a try.

The violin had been restored and restrung, and yes, it was plenty out of tune, but once I got it leveled out, it stayed in tune pretty well. It had a lovely ringing tone with a nice full bottom end. (Stop snickering. You know what I mean.) The action was quite a bit lower than mine, and the bridge was curved a little differently, so I had to dodder around a little to get the feel of it. After a few minutes, it felt like an old friend. When it started to rain, I put it back in its case, even though we were under cover. I wasn't going to subject anyone's family heirloom to unnecessary elements. I sincerely thanked the gentleman for allowing me to play his antique. I mean, you don't get a chance like that every day.

Naturally, when I got home, I had to look up Bert Goodwin on the Google. I was surprised and delighted to find that his violins had sold at major auction houses, including Christie's. I wasn't able to find out much about Goodwin himself, aside from this little snippet. But hey, y'all, I held a piece of American violin history in my own hands. There aren't too many bigger thrills than that.

I doubt Mr. Goodwin ever imagined that one of his instruments would be played outdoors 96 years later at a re-creation of a 19th century baseball game. I hope he doesn't mind. Most of all, I hope I did him justice.

Till next time ---- relish those unexpected opportunities.

Why I love traditional music.

Traditional music has pretty much been my life for the last 20 years or so. It's as much a surprise to me as anyone, since I had grand plans to be a rock star (hahahaha). And while I still love plenty of contemporary music, it's these old songs & tunes from before electronics that really have my heart.

Traditional music is honest. It's usually built around one voice or one instrument to tell the story or convey the melody. It's naked. It's not hiding anything. It's the product of several generations sharing music and passing it down so it won't drown mercilessly in a sea of autotuned, overproduced drivel.

When you get a group of musicians together, it's spontaneous. Anything can happen, and it often does. I've seen it. I've been part of it. And let me tell you, there is absolutely nothing in the world I would trade for that experience. All the full orchestration and five-part harmony in the world can't capture what happens at a pub session or around a campfire or in someone's living room. It doesn't need elaborate stage sets or fussy costumes. It doesn't need pyrotechnics. It doesn't need anything but people who love to play, and people who love to listen.

A friend once described traditional music as an unbroken thread reaching back to the musicians of the past. I hope to keep spinning that thread until I can't spin anymore, and I hope that along the way, I might inspire someone else to take up spinning as well. I believe in the importance of keeping the music of our ancestors alive, because you can't know where you're going unless you know where you've been. 

Till next time --- honor your traditions.

The drudgery of convenience.

This morning on Facebook, I found myself in a discussion on a neighborhood page. "What new business would you most like to see in our neighborhood?" one member asked. The answers were numerous, with Trader Joe's, Panera, and Starbucks being among the most popular.

Starbucks? Really? I said, "Y'all do realize there are at least two Starbucks in the next neighborhood over, right?" Well, yes, of course, but they're just not "convenient." Seriously? There are people in this country who don't have heat or running water and you can't be arsed to go five miles down the road for a gourmet coffee? When did we start believing that we were entitled to convenience?

Now, believe me when I say I'm just as big on convenience as the next person. I like to conduct my business with a minimum of hassle, as most people do. I hate traffic and I hate crowds. But if I absolutely positively have to get something done, I will find a way to do it, even if it's bloody inconvenient. Them's the breaks, kid. Convenience is a luxury most of us have some access to, at least to some degree, although convenience levels may vary. But that's what it is - a luxury.

Once upon a time, back in the dark ages, before inventions like The Automobile, people were pretty much restricted to the services available in their respective locales. Taking a trip across town with a horse & buggy might take you all day. Not convenient for most applications, but let's say you needed to see the doctor. You'd find the time to make that trip, because it was important. Then Henry Ford came along with his contraption, and people had access to services beyond a five-mile radius.

And now? Now we can go anydamnwhere we want in a minimum amount of time, and somehow, we expect everydamnthing to be in our backyards for the sake of convenience. We in the developed world are accustomed to having goods & services nearby, and now it's just a foregone conclusion that every neighborhood will have at least two major grocery stores, five or six fast-food joints, a couple of sit-down restaurants, and yes, one or two Starbucks.

We're spoiled. We really are. But life is not "convenient." Commuting to work is not "convenient," but I do it, because I like to eat, and I like to buy a pair of cute shoes once in awhile. Practicing the fiddle and going to lessons isn't "convenient" either, but I do that because I love music and I'm devoted to learning everything I can.

My point is, if you really need or want something, you'll forgo the inconvenience of getting it. If you really want it, quit kvetching about it and just go get it. You can figure out a way if it's that important to you. Convenience is not a guarantee. Don't give up on your dreams because they're not "convenient." The good stuff rarely is.

Till next time --- what's worth the inconvenience to you?

Failure.

One of my friends posted this excellent comic on Facebook. It's about making friends with failure. Make sure you read till the very end.

http://doodlealley.com/2012/10/10/be-friends-with-failure/

I'm pretty sure I've talked about this before, but I think it's something that bears repeating, especially since I have so many artistic & musical friends. And apparently, we are all really hard on ourselves when it comes to our craft, whatever that may be: rarely happy with our efforts and always pushing harder. As you can imagine, this often leads to incredible frustration and discouragement, but somehow, we keep going.

This strip reminded me of the time a few years ago when Mister and I went to a medieval calligraphy exhibit at the local art museum. (Yes, we have a real live art museum in Nashville, and it's a pretty darn good one.) As I marveled at the manuscripts, I thought about how these long-ago artists had to mix their own paints and make their own inks, as well as make their own brushes and cut their own quills. They didn't have the luxury of going down to the art supply store for a few nibs and a couple bottles of ink. Nope. All those things had to be manufactured by hand. The more I thought about it, the more awed I became.

And then I thought, I totally suck at calligraphy. I'm such a slacker. Why do I even bother?

The same goes for music. I've been fortunate to be able to hang out and play with some stellar musicians, and even be taught by a few. I listen to music all the time, and when I'm not listening, there's still a soundtrack going on in my head. I can wake up in the middle of the night and oh hey, there it is. I practice pretty much every single day. It does pay off (did you hear that, kids? practice actually works!). And yet, I still get this knot in my stomach every time I go down to the pub for session night, because, well, I suck. I don't know ALL THE TUNES yet, and I'm still working on mastering the finer points that still slightly elude me. Just because I can pull if off at home by myself doesn't mean I'll pull it off at full tempo with a group of people.

But you know what? Everytime I sit down to play, there's something that eludes me just a little less than the time before. Every once in awhile, a miracle will occur, and I will nail something I've been working on - after I've already failed eleventy million times. Failing at something means I'm trying, and the more I try, the less I fail. Such a simple concept, and yet, so difficult to grasp.

Till next time ---- go forth and fail.

It's not always what you think.

Humor me. I feel like doing a little experiment here. Let me tell you about some people I know.

Person #1 lives in a farmhouse on 5 acres. She owns 3 cars and wears a big sparkly diamond ring. She nearly always has a neat manicure/pedicure and might be seen wearing Prada sandals in the summer. Now. Think about this description and see if you can picture this person in your mind. What about the house? The cars? The salon where she gets her nails done?

Okay. Person #2 dyes her hair. She likes whiskey and has been known to watch NASCAR. She owns a .22 Winchester her daddy gave her. Her parents come from the country. She's not shy about using colorful language among friends. Got an image in your mind for her? Let's proceed.

Person #3 has two college degrees. She is deadly serious about music, history, and literature and will talk forever about one or all three to anyone who will listen. She likes to do research for fun. She wears glasses. What do you think of her?

Person #4 often goes out in public with no makeup. She recycles paper, plastic, & metal household goods. She likes to cook and prefers to use healthy natural foods. Sometimes she whips up vegan meals. She takes care not to buy products tested on animals. She has an herb garden. She does a variety of handcrafts and makes some of her own clothes. Do you have an idea about her?

Person #5 also dyes her hair. She often wears black or gray and takes delight in adorning herself with anything that has a skull on it. She takes a particular interest in songs about dead people and sometimes paints crazy designs on her fingernails. How about this one?

Do you have an image in your mind for each of these examples? How does #1 differ from, say, #5? What about #2?

What would you say if I told you they were all the same person? Yep. Me.

Yes, I live in an old house on 5 acres - it's rented. I own 3 cars, all of which are on their last legs. Two of them run (usually) and the third is there for an emergency backup. The newest one is a 1997 model. The sparkly diamond ring? Inherited. The Prada sandals? Given to me gently used by a friend. The salon where I get my nails done is my own living room, unless I decide to go visit my friend Jill for something special.

The point of this exercise is that you can't know everything about a person from one description, just like you can't know everything about that stranger at the grocery paying for her food with an EBT card. Don't assume things are what they appear to be, because chances are, they're not. You. Don't. Know.

Till next time - take off the Judgy McJudgerson glasses.

Oh, the inhumanity.

The story of Puppy Doe has been on my mind all week, and is probably contributing to my overall crankiness. September is always our busiest month with events, and I'm overtired and a little bit prickly. But the story of Puppy Doe is one that would turn even a great day to shit.

In case you've missed it on the Interwebs, a young pitbull mix female was found dumped in a park in Boston at the end of August. The person who found her thought she'd been hit by a car and took her to the vet. If only it had been that simple.

After a thorough checkup, the vet determined that the dog had not only been repeatedly beaten and burned, she had also had her legs pulled in a medieval-style "draw." And this didn't just happen once - the vet's investigation showed a consistent history of severe torture and abuse. The dog only weighed 18 pounds when she should have weighed closer to 40. Because her injuries were so severe, she had to be euthanized, but not before she had the chance to have a real meal and be petted on and fussed over by people who cared.

Now, to give a little backstory, a woman claiming to be the dog's original owner came forward and said she had to give up her pet thanks to breed restrictions in her area, even though the dog never presented a danger to anyone. She rehomed the dog via Craigslist and got periodic updates from the new owner until sometime in July. When contacted, the new owner said she had given the dog away. (These details are still coming out, so who knows if they're 100% accurate or not.)

Y'all, I cannot for the life of me wrap my head around this. Not even one iota. Just like I can't wrap my head around people who beat and torture children and elderly folk. I don't get it. To say that it makes me sad is a grave understatement; to say it fills me with abject sorrow is closer, but it's still something more than that. I don't know that there's even a word for it in English.

What I do know is that law enforcement needs to take cases like these with all the seriousness they can muster, because there is a clear link between crimes against animals and crimes against humans. So far, the Boston police seem to be taking it seriously, understanding that the perpetrator is likely to continue this abuse on other animals or people. (Y'all remember a guy named Jeffrey Dahmer, right?) The person who perpetrated this abuse did it on purpose. ON PURPOSE. Repeatedly. Deliberately. Methodically. What kind of a sick excuse for a human being do you have to be to do this sort of thing?

I don't know. I just don't know. We can insist that the abusers be punished, but the more pressing question is, how do we prevent these things from happening in the first place? What makes a person think it's okay to torture a living being?

I can't comprehend.

Till next time - hug your pets. And your people.

The futility of preserving the ephemeral.

You know how we knowledge geeks are. When we're learning about something, we have to compile every little scrip & scrap pertaining to our passion, no matter how insignificant it may seem to anyone else. This includes a multitude of random sticky notes, scrawlings on old gas receipts, scribblings on cocktail napkins, and especially for us musicians, sound recordings of all kinds. We hoard these things like they're rare gold (my preciousssss!), and in a sense, I suppose they are.

In addition to my sticky notes and old receipts, I have music everywhere: Kindle, iPod, two recorders/mp3 players, various thumb drives, and other computer files. I got myself the iPod Shuffle as a graduation present when I finished grad school a few years ago, and it was GREAT! Between what I got from iTunes and what I uploaded from my own CDs, I had a pretty big library. Then one day I opened up iTunes and . .  EMPTY. Nothing there. Zero. Zilch. Zip. Gone. I also had to reset the device because it was glitching, so the iPod was empty too. SWELL. I had to rebuild the library from scratch. Now the computer won't recognize the iPod, but that's a whole nother story, as we say in the South.

When I started going to Irish session night at the pub a few months ago, a friend suggested I record everything in case there was something I wanted to learn later. I dug out my first little voice recorder, which still works great after 8 years, but it doesn't hold a lot. I discovered that for what I paid for it back then, I could get a recorder/mp3 player with 4 gigs of storage. Shut up and take my money!

Well. I had a great recording of the most recent session, including some mind-blowing uillean piping. I mean, really ultra-spectacular. I sat there doing the Simple Dog Head Tilt, and when I looked over at the flute player, he had this look of disbelief and amazement on his face. I can't even describe it to you. It was that amazing. And I had it all on my digital recorder. . . that is, until I accidentally erased it yesterday.

Yes. I was trying to upload some no-longer-commercially-available archival recordings and in the process, pushed the wrong tiny button. If that weren't cringe-worthy enough, I outdid myself a little later by erasing ALL my live recordings. Every. Single. One. I thought they were stored in a different file, and I was wrong. Poof. Gone. Not recoverable. The archival recordings are safe, but all my live stuff is off in the ether.

In the 17th century, when memento mori paintings were a thing, musical instruments were often included as symbols of impermanence. Before recorded music came along, all music was live. Let that sink in for a minute. If you're reading this, you've always lived in a world where recorded music was available in some medium: vinyl, cassette, 8-track, whatever. In the grand scheme of history, recorded music is a fairly new invention. Once upon a time, not too awfully long ago, if you wanted music, you had to either make it yourself or go someplace where someone else was making it. Once it was over, it was over. You couldn't go back and listen to it again.

But maybe, just maybe, you could remember how you felt.

I don't know the name of the tune the piper played, and couldn't even tell you how it goes, but I sure as hell remember how I felt. Amazed. Awestruck, even. Grateful and humble that I had the opportunity to be there at that moment with that particular group of people. And those are things you can't capture on a recording, anyway.

Till next time --- capture what's worth saving and don't worry about the rest.