How to Incur A Piper's Wrath

The bagpipes have a proud and noble heritage, one that hearkens back to the days of chivalry, when men were men and sheep were... well that's another story. Still, one cannot help but be moved when they hear the haunting refrain of the pipes. Why is it then that occasionally you find some who just don't get it? Allow me to illustrate with a short story.

It was a dark and stormy night... (Cliche I know, but true.) Anyway, the clouds were thick and unyielding with the rain lightly falling as I prepared for an evening's work. I was ready, I had my Inverness cape, my hoody, my fourteen hundred layers of garments and of course my trusty Glengarry Cap. I closed the tailgate to my loyal Bronco and set out to battle the elements.

It was 5:00 P.M. on a stormy Wednesday afternoon and my prospects looked dismal. Still, I was undaunted. After all, this was Scottish weather. My destination was the old Capitol theater in the business district of downtown. The opera was playing, it was always a hot spot for potential success. The feature for this evening was a work entitled "Falstaff", an opera adapted from a Shakespeare comedy about an old man's woes as he strove to find love.

After organizing my display, I set about tuning the pipes. Soon I was filling the air with slow airs, jigs and reels. It's interesting how the sound reacts with the moisture in the air. It gives the tone of the pipes a solid, full sound. It seems to carry much further as it bounces from building to building. Llieam was in full voice and tuned to perfection. Each note seemed to be poetry. The reaction I received from the people passing by confirmed my assessment, it was going to be a grand night, despite the falling precipitation. Things went well all night. I played until 7:30 and then went to a favorite spot by Squatters.

I set up next to a street lamp just to the left of the restaurant. The rain had subsided and it turned into a wonderful, cool evening. I met some interesting people and again the pipes did their thing. Wow, this was shaping up to be a wonderful night. Only one gig left, play for the folks coming out of the opera at 10:00 P.M. I decided to rest for an hour and let my pipes dry out before tackling the last objective of the night.

I love my Bronco, it is the perfect rolling office. It is large, warm, affording an excellent place to rest and take in a little classical music. Finally the appointed hour arrived and I again ventured forth into the dark night to ply my trade. All not for profit of course, I mean, I do this for fun not for money.

I arrived at my appointed spot on the corner of 2nd South and West Temple and began to play. Again the pipes gave me a wonderful tone and it was a joy to hear. Soon the folks from the Opera began to emerge and walk toward me. Here is where I will stop my story momentarily and interject a comment or two...

Ok, This is the educational portion of the post. For those interested in really pissing off a Bagpiper, here are a few suggestions.

1. Walk up to the piper and say, "Will you please stop that noise, it makes me sad."
2. Drive by and try to upstage him by honking your horn repeatedly as if to be louder than him/her.
3. Lean out of your car and make lude and suggestive comments to the Piper.
4. Continually refer to the Kilt as a dress or a skirt.
5. Tell him he has a very nice purse.
6. Tell the piper that you just love Irish Music.
And finally I will revisit my story to illustrate the 8th way to really piss off a Piper.

Anyway, as I mentioned, the folks began walking toward me. Soon, the orchestra members began filing past. Most were congenial and polite, some even complimented me on my performance. Then I noticed her. She was about thirty feet away and walking towards me.

She had her fingers in her ears with a pained look on her face as if to say, "Can't you find some other place to make that racket."

Seriously? She has to plug her ears from thirty feet away? At that distance, city buses are noisier than my pipes. No, she was making a statement. She obviously did not like the pipes and was letting me know. I felt a tiny spark ignite deep down in my soul. It was possibly the same one that ignited in the Scots when the English forbade us from playing the pipes so long ago. I watched her as she came, hoping it was just a mistake and she wasn't meaning the obnoxious gesture for me. But as she approached she looked at me and gave a slight shake of her head and proceeded on. On her back she had her Violin.

What? A fellow musician? The nerve! What gall! Something just snapped inside me. I was playing a rendition of "Scotland the Brave". As she neared me, I snaked my way through the crowd and got right next to her. I played as I walked backward, keeping my pipes in her face the whole time. I stayed that way for a good ten or so steps before retreating back to my post.

I know what the reader must be thinking. You brute, how could you? Actually, I felt really bad afterward, I just couldn't help myself. There's a lesson in all of this.

MORAL: When you encounter a piper playing, whether it be in a mall, on the street, or in a park, think before you act. If you don't care for the sound, simply walk another direction. I mean, The piper was there first. By all means, do not feel some noble need to display your distaste in a way that disgraces the piper. It may be your undoing.

Is This a Real Job?

With hesitation I glance at the clock, It's 3:45 P.M. My pulse quickens and I begin to feel that sense of anticipation build. "It's go time!", I mutter to myself, as I drag my old sorry carcass up the long flight of stairs. I start dressing and find myself pondering the age old question, Is this really a job? I have wrestled with this dilemma for months. Well do I remember the first days of my street performing career.

There I was standing on the street, timid and fearful, afraid to breath life into the waiting pipes for fear of incurring the wrath of some outraged passer by. Then the first tell-tell sounds of the drones as the instrument of antiquity slowly came to life, watching as I played, for any signs of police action. The siren that would signal my doom. It never came. Still, I played on. One by one, the rabble passed, some smiling, others merely trying to ignore me. Then it happened, a fan of Celtic music came by, and the first offerings found their way into my waiting case.

It seems like ages since those first intrepid attempts at Busking. So much time has gone by, now it feels natural to play on the street. I no longer worry, or even care about what others may think of the Celtic strains. How is it that such change has come upon me? Simple, I have learned the truth; people welcome the addition of music to the otherwise drab atmosphere of the city.

For months I have been frequenting various locations, playing my simple tunes. I have found fulfillment in sharing my heritage with those I meet. I have thrilled to the opportunities to play as young highland dancers consent to show their skills as well. Recently, while playing for the Quilting Convention (Rough crowd you say?), I met a young girl walking with her mother. They were from Canada and she was a budding Highland Dance star.

"Would you like to dance while I play?" I asked.

I expected the same response I usually get when I pose this question, but I was pleasantly surprised. The young girl merely smiled and said,

"Sure."

I played a Strathspey, to which she danced the "Sword dance". I struck in the pipes and began, watching out of the corner of my eye as she assumed a stately pose, then slowly gave a grand bow. She sprang into a beautiful rendition of the old Scottish folk dance. She bounced and bobbed with excellent style and grace. Her arms precisely mimicked the stately horns of the great stag. It was all I could do to concentrate on the tune. I didn't want to be the one who screwed up. I played a simple Strathspey called, "The Orange and Blue". Quickly, a crowd formed and watched as the spry youth danced and smiled brightly. I began the refrain a second time, then remembered how exhausting it was to dance the dance. I glanced at the young lady. She was smiling, but showed signs of fatigue. I skipped to the last bar and concluded the tune, to which she gave another bow amidst the cheers of the crowd.

Again I queried to myself, Is this a Job? Nae, I answered. This is a passion. I reflected on how blessed I am to have such an opportunity. Who would have dreamed that loosing my employment would eventually lead to such a wonderful pursuit. Whether street performing is a job or no' is a moot point. What is important is that I continue to pursue the dream, and to bring joy to others. Therein is my true satisfaction. Someday I may return to the workforce and earn money in the traditional way, but for now, I am content to share and offer my skills to others. Hopefully, they will be enriched by my efforts and I may yet be able to say, "I have done some good here."

So, when you are driving in downtown Salt Lake, and you see an old man playing the pipes, won't you give a wee honk of the horn and a wave? It will do me a world of good. Better yet, why not pull over and spend a moment or two listening to the timeless strains of the great Ceol Mor!

(Special thanks to Connor Barry for taking these photos of me. He is an awesome up and coming Photographer.)