The Fix

Maxie MacNeil, Joe Peter MacLean (holding mic), Allan MacLeod

see it BIGGER
(Peter MacLean, right foreground, at the Johnstown Milling Frolic 2007)

While living on Cape Breton Island I would visit Peter, a Gaelic singer, a couple of times per week. He is a font of information on songs and stories, language and local history, but mainly he’s a wonderful person and great company. Outwardly the community is quite conservative, but in private Peter is opinionated and outspoken. You know something good is coming when he leans in, fixes an intense glare on you, and says, “Between you and me, dear…” Peter is 90 years old, strong and striking, impeccably dressed for every visit in a crisp white dress shirt. He lives in a tall white house at the end of a long driveway, the house where he was born. A collection of faded red sheds is scattered around the yard, like a motionless herd of cattle. He still maintains the land with a little help from neighbours — and the moral support of his two dogs. Now and then he complains of a stiff knee, but dismisses it lightly as strain from driving the tractor.

It is my last visit before moving back to Toronto. By now I have not only learned quite a bit more about the place of songs within this community, but also honed my skills at nursing a few stiff drinks over day-long conversations. When I arrive, Peter throws more wood into the stove, even though the house is already stifling hot. “There’s plenty of wood, dear. I just split up an old barn door yesterday.” Today, Peter wants to play his violin for me. He hauls out the case from under his chesterfield. “Real lizard-skin leather,” he says, stroking the case. “A man gave it to me in Boston in 1951. But I haven’t played it in a long time…”

He takes out the fiddle, puts it to his chest and starts to play. Despite the shaking of his hands and the scratchy sound of the bow, his fingers are true on the fingerboard, and there is a swing in his strokes, making it easy to imagine him, playing for a party 70 years ago. I compliment his style. “Thank you, dear,” he says quietly. “I could play all right, in my day.” Next, Peter plays a Gaelic song. I recognize the air and begin to sing along: “Och mar a tha mi, ‘s mi nam aonar…” To my dismay, this prompts him to hand me the fiddle. “Here, you know the air. You play it.” I protest that I cannot, I have never played the violin, but he is insistent. “You’ll pick it up soon enough.” Somehow, willed by this forceful 90-year-old, I manage to scratch out some semblance of the melody. It is hideous, but Peter nods silently, approvingly. “You’ll pick it up soon enough. You should keep at it. You might be having a down day, maybe you’re a little bit depressed, maybe things aren’t going your way. So you go to the violin, or the piano or a songbook. Go through it – just for yourself, doesn’t matter how it sounds. And you’ll find your whole attitude is changed. Music can have a powerful effect.”We sit and contemplate this truth for a moment, but then Peter stands up abruptly to put away the fiddle. He makes tea as usual – tarry Cape Breton tea that stews for fifteen minutes or more. For the first time he pours mine into the china cup and saucer that belonged to his late wife, “since it’s your last visit for a while.”

Hours later when it is time to leave, he hugs me with a force that nearly knocks me off-balance. In the doorway, over the din of barking dogs, we talk about our plans to meet again in the summer. As I make my way down the long drive I fumble for a notepad and recorder, having been hesitant to break the mood of our visit to act as a scholar. But then I stop the car short and wave to him as he stands in the doorway. I’ll remember the facts somehow, or I’ll call him for a reminder. I drive out through the woods, singing a Gaelic song.

reproduced from the Newsletter of the Society for Ethnomusicology Fall 2008

Hey, those of you who missed me singing at an Irish session earlier this year can now hear it anytime on CBC’s Concerts on demand. Here’s what they say:

For the past ten years, Dora Keogh’s Irish Pub, on the Danforth in Toronto, has hosted arguably the premier traditional Irish music session in the city, if not the country. Both the proprietors and the musicians strive to replicate the authentic experience of music sessions as they would occur in Ireland.

The core group of regular local musicians are regarded as some of the finest players around, and their numbers are frequently augmented by guests of national and international stature.

Hear just my song here

Today I’m thinking about issues of perfectionism and idealism, and that place where the two intersect and clash. Is it better to just get on with something than to put it off because you’re afraid it won’t be a good as it could be? Perhaps, but what are the effects of that effort? Today with a jolt I realized I had almost missed a Grant application deadline. I tore back to my desk, whipped it up and served it in under an hour. As I struggled through a blizzard on my way home from the post office, I thought of my poor little envelope, whisked away to Ottawa with its, frankly, imperfect contents. Maybe it’s better not to make any impression at all, than to make a bad one?

In other news… Today it was announced that a new Gaelic Academy will be launched to help teach Gaelic throughout Canada. It’s a noble idea, and some great people are involved, like Angus MacLeod. Angus is a living example of someone who learned Gaelic as an adult, and is now a completely fluent and inspiring teacher. But there’ s only one Angus, and scattered across the country are a web of others who’ll be the contacts in each region. It’ll be interesting to see how it all pans out — just how they’re going to go about starting a new grass-roots system for teaching Gaelic.

Oh, about the title of htis post – it came to mind apropos of a few things that have been going on. A wise friend reminded me today that in the great Irish tales the the best heroes were reserved the best cut of meat at the feasts, “The Champion’s Portion or Cut.”  The heroes would gather and boast, and he who had the best story, regardless of truth, would win the The Champions Portion. It’s something you see now almost day, with the parade of talentless celebrities who grace our stages and screens.  Brittney Spears, I’m looking at you. Anyone who heard/saw Christina Aguiliera at the Grammys knows this duel is over.

Here are a few clips discussing gaelic singing style