I will be picking and bottling peaches today. Anne-Sophie will be spinning wool. Peace.
Monday, 21 September 2015
Currently...
I will be picking and bottling peaches today. Anne-Sophie will be spinning wool. Peace.
Monday, 22 June 2015
I haven't finished...
Top: The quoins of the round house entrance, not quite in place, a couple of turns it'll be perfect.I'm not rushing . It's heavy work.
Centre: A pretty bit of walling hiding demurely behind the foxgloves.
Bottom: We are calling it "The hut". Early days yet.It's got to start somewhere.
What else...
Friday, 22 May 2015
Rock Wrestling...
If you can rock it,you can roll it. Two of us gave up on it a while ago,I realise it was really a one man job.Nearer to home now but not quite at it's final destination.A tactical retreat has left me in a state of gormless exhaustion.Twice as knackered happen than if we'd stuck to our guns and completed the job together. Reviving now with a cheese salad sandwich and a cup of tea. That done I will entertain myself with stones of a smaller calibre. I will post some photos soon.Maybe. If you are desperate to see,you could always stop by in person. We are awaiting another twenty tonnes of stone.See you there if you dare.
Sunday, 26 January 2014
Thursday, 23 January 2014
Bodhran songs... One hand clapping, one stick drumming.
"Just another bum with a drum.", "The band couldn't make it."
It can be a lonely business playing solo in the street. The drum reborn needs to be heard. I do my best hearing with my eyes closed,fat chance the passing crowd would ever dare to indulge itself in that small luxury. The bodhran has songs of its own,not merely there to keep time for the scrapers and the blowers. Certainly not there to cover up and take the blame for the slack timing of drunken squeezebox players. Glad I am for discovering the wonders of playing alone.It has been a long journey of learning and practice so far. It's time my bodhran songs came in from the cold. Home for the drum is in the occasion separating the living from the dead. In the presence of the Muse. Within the space,between the beats. I guess you would just have to be there. If I can't find compatible ensemble, I won't be deterred from whacking out more shape shifting music. The drum speaks for itself, you'd have to be at ease enough to bear to listen, chance to hear it.
I don't class what I practice with my bodhran,"Irish music", nor my tootling flutin'. There are enough genuine Irish musicians,as well as thousands of wannabe's world wide. I just play the music of my heart "sans drapeaux". I have read and heard a lot of stories about the origin of the drum. I may not wholly agree with all or any. The drum and the flute have been around longer than homo sapiens, examples of frame drums exist in indigenous cultures throughout the world.Easy enough to get a good sound with the hand in hot counties, for me the "Irish" innovation was the sticking combined with the vamping with the other hand. The humidity in Eire encourages the slack softer drumming styles, I have had to leave little session rooms because they said my bodhran was too tight and too loud. That caused me to wonder about crossroads gatherings, common until Cromwell scared the folk into hiding. There's many a pub session where I have left through being "too big " for the back room. I can play as big as I like outside, discovered that there's a mass of sober folk outside who like it too.
My recordings of bodhran are just experimental praxis. Out of context to all occasion,just an exploration of possible sounds.I am highly critical of the results, with a view to improve. Live performance is what the drumming is intended for. Here's hoping I am able to deliver a worthy product once the practice is done.
It can be a lonely business playing solo in the street. The drum reborn needs to be heard. I do my best hearing with my eyes closed,fat chance the passing crowd would ever dare to indulge itself in that small luxury. The bodhran has songs of its own,not merely there to keep time for the scrapers and the blowers. Certainly not there to cover up and take the blame for the slack timing of drunken squeezebox players. Glad I am for discovering the wonders of playing alone.It has been a long journey of learning and practice so far. It's time my bodhran songs came in from the cold. Home for the drum is in the occasion separating the living from the dead. In the presence of the Muse. Within the space,between the beats. I guess you would just have to be there. If I can't find compatible ensemble, I won't be deterred from whacking out more shape shifting music. The drum speaks for itself, you'd have to be at ease enough to bear to listen, chance to hear it.
I don't class what I practice with my bodhran,"Irish music", nor my tootling flutin'. There are enough genuine Irish musicians,as well as thousands of wannabe's world wide. I just play the music of my heart "sans drapeaux". I have read and heard a lot of stories about the origin of the drum. I may not wholly agree with all or any. The drum and the flute have been around longer than homo sapiens, examples of frame drums exist in indigenous cultures throughout the world.Easy enough to get a good sound with the hand in hot counties, for me the "Irish" innovation was the sticking combined with the vamping with the other hand. The humidity in Eire encourages the slack softer drumming styles, I have had to leave little session rooms because they said my bodhran was too tight and too loud. That caused me to wonder about crossroads gatherings, common until Cromwell scared the folk into hiding. There's many a pub session where I have left through being "too big " for the back room. I can play as big as I like outside, discovered that there's a mass of sober folk outside who like it too.
Sunday, 10 November 2013
Bodhran, going forward with the past.
My interest in the bodhran began in the winter of 1994. It was probably the most miserable period of my life. The first drum was a Christmas present from my family, I gratefully hung on to that small token of happiness.Locked myself in a corrugated iron shed in a blacksmiths yard,a filthy, freezing, hole of a place all I could find on leaving my family home. Learning to play helped to keep me warm, practiced twelve hours a day, only lighting the fire before bedtime.
I had never heard of the bodhran. Little exposure to Irish music, I believe there was a boycott by the B.B.C. There's only one stick, I wrestled with the mysterious object till I got a sound that I could like.
Hovering around the sound space at a nursery rhyme level of drum music, I recalled memory of a music lesson at school, the teacher made what the class regarded in those none p.c.day's as an "Irish joke".
"A drum roll with one stick is only possible on an Irish drum." The beater that came with the drum was a shoddy clumsy piece of abused firewood to my mind. I made a selection of experimental designs, Shaped up some pretty bits of hardwood , "Form follows function." being my guiding maxim.
I had been impressed as a child by military bands, later by a school friend Michael Helliwell , who was studying orchestral percussion. Later still my interest in music exposed me to the drumming of Buddy Rich. Sad facts that nothing was ever taught to us of the ethnic roots of drum music. What clues I had combined with instinct and a longing to make sense of the alien gift, caused a right royal racket to be heard from my little temporary hovel.A wondrous strange and exotic pleasure it was in those dark times.
March came around soon enough the weather brightened up, I ventured forth with drum in tow to try and make some good of the gift in the streets of Hereford. I liked the noise I was making but had no notion of wether or not I could play. It was St. Patrick's Day. 17th of March. Pubs throughout the town were bedecked with Shamrocks, Leprechauns and Guinness promotions.
I diligently played my new found drum tunes from early morning till late afternoon. Flailing stuff for the most part. Exhausting work, with little return. 97pence for my whole day's effort. Three Irish guys stopped for a chat. We laughed about the small change at my feet. "You're in the wrong country",sez one, "On this kind of money I would have to walk across the water," sez I.
They were building workers visiting a friend in a blacksmiths course and attending an international rugby match.
They invited me for a pint. I rarely do but it was hard to refuse. Bodhran under my arm we entered a likely looking pub,all bedecked in green for the day. The four of us weren't a yard into the bar when the landlord screamed , "No...Out..." The place was empty apart from us, and that's the way the landlord appeared to like it. A couple of the guys were livid, all we could do to usher them out to avoid a fight..We gave up on the idea of a quiet pint.
"Meet us on Sunday" they said, "At the station. You can't stay here." I didn't wholly believe they would keep the appointment, I must confess. Sunday came around,and there was I with my backpack and bodhran. As good as their word the two men paid my ticket to Ireland,then put the remainder of their Sterling currency in my hand bade me go to Galway. Parting company I followed their advice.
A long bus ride to the west coast, I must have looked wretched, I felt it. Stepping off the bus I approached an old lady to ask directions to the town centre. The woman grabbed my wrist and stuffed a handful of coin into my hand, pushing my fingers closed around it. I was taken aback tried to explain that I merely wanted direction. A stern looking woman but not an unkindly face, still gripping my hand around the coins she had given, she said, "Relax son,you're in Ireland now..."
Something in me melted, tears welled in my eyes, my throat was choking with emotion.
I found my way to Buttermilk Lane. Sat on my bag with water and some bread , just regaining my composure. A narrow lane with high walls, a good place to amuse my self with my drum whilst my meagre meal settled. It's a pedestrian shortcut connecting two busy roads, a steady stream of tourists and shoppers strolled by, all undisturbed by either my presence or my drumming. An hour into my practice had landed me a pile of coin at my feet. Enough to sponsor a couple of days in a cheap hostel and a good meal , with enough to buy breakfast the next day.
It would take a mile or two of interminable scroll to record my Irish adventures on this blog, I will save the most part for another time. I have a sneaking suspicion that the adventures may not yet be done.
Five years playing the streets with occasional indoor sessions, had brought me no closer to knowing whether or not I was a competent player, until I met a Mr. Hurley in Charlestown, Mayo. I asked if he would do me the honour of listening for a while. After going through everything I could remember, marching band, jigs, reels,wild Afro-Celt and jazz styles. The gentleman , a well respected musician in his own right, told me,"Just keep doing what you're doing." The pub crowd lit up with applause and cheers. I was chuffed. Confirmed for life.
My original drum I gave to a saddhu in India. He,a singer needed a rhythm section. Since then I have occupied myself in other ways.
Living in France now, chanced upon a festival ,La Bogue D'or. in Redon, celebrating the chestnut harvest. Came across a band playing outside a music shop, La Chant d'alouette is the name. It is probably the best music shop I have ever visited. Definitely the best shopping experience to my memory. The cave downstairs housed a stash of several styles of bodhran. I parked myself on a stool and proceeded to check out the drums of my fancy. I met Jaquez the founder of the shop, and original owner. his family had lived above it since the 15th century. The shop is now a collective, Jaquez was just visiting. He offered a glass of wine , tasty old stuff, just the one. We chatted as I ratatatted on several instruments. He went upstairs and brought down a whistle. I was settling into a Walton's bodhran we played "Girl from Belfast city". Parting with the cash was a painless incidental.
The craic was good.
Committing myself to practicing once more. It was painful at first. The muscles needed reminding.
I tried the drum out in the Place de la Republique in La Poste. A good resonant sound space a pedestrian area. It's first real outing. The buzz was enormous. I will be doing more of that.
I haven't found a way to present my oobly doobly fluting and my drumming together. I will work on it.
Recording drum and flute whilst accompanying alternately on live instrument seems the logical way forward. I am not unhappy with current progress.
Below are four photos taken this Autumn. There will be a heap more nearer year end. I'll be back, I.Wazir.
I had never heard of the bodhran. Little exposure to Irish music, I believe there was a boycott by the B.B.C. There's only one stick, I wrestled with the mysterious object till I got a sound that I could like.
Hovering around the sound space at a nursery rhyme level of drum music, I recalled memory of a music lesson at school, the teacher made what the class regarded in those none p.c.day's as an "Irish joke".
"A drum roll with one stick is only possible on an Irish drum." The beater that came with the drum was a shoddy clumsy piece of abused firewood to my mind. I made a selection of experimental designs, Shaped up some pretty bits of hardwood , "Form follows function." being my guiding maxim.
I had been impressed as a child by military bands, later by a school friend Michael Helliwell , who was studying orchestral percussion. Later still my interest in music exposed me to the drumming of Buddy Rich. Sad facts that nothing was ever taught to us of the ethnic roots of drum music. What clues I had combined with instinct and a longing to make sense of the alien gift, caused a right royal racket to be heard from my little temporary hovel.A wondrous strange and exotic pleasure it was in those dark times.
March came around soon enough the weather brightened up, I ventured forth with drum in tow to try and make some good of the gift in the streets of Hereford. I liked the noise I was making but had no notion of wether or not I could play. It was St. Patrick's Day. 17th of March. Pubs throughout the town were bedecked with Shamrocks, Leprechauns and Guinness promotions.
I diligently played my new found drum tunes from early morning till late afternoon. Flailing stuff for the most part. Exhausting work, with little return. 97pence for my whole day's effort. Three Irish guys stopped for a chat. We laughed about the small change at my feet. "You're in the wrong country",sez one, "On this kind of money I would have to walk across the water," sez I.
They were building workers visiting a friend in a blacksmiths course and attending an international rugby match.
They invited me for a pint. I rarely do but it was hard to refuse. Bodhran under my arm we entered a likely looking pub,all bedecked in green for the day. The four of us weren't a yard into the bar when the landlord screamed , "No...Out..." The place was empty apart from us, and that's the way the landlord appeared to like it. A couple of the guys were livid, all we could do to usher them out to avoid a fight..We gave up on the idea of a quiet pint.
"Meet us on Sunday" they said, "At the station. You can't stay here." I didn't wholly believe they would keep the appointment, I must confess. Sunday came around,and there was I with my backpack and bodhran. As good as their word the two men paid my ticket to Ireland,then put the remainder of their Sterling currency in my hand bade me go to Galway. Parting company I followed their advice.
A long bus ride to the west coast, I must have looked wretched, I felt it. Stepping off the bus I approached an old lady to ask directions to the town centre. The woman grabbed my wrist and stuffed a handful of coin into my hand, pushing my fingers closed around it. I was taken aback tried to explain that I merely wanted direction. A stern looking woman but not an unkindly face, still gripping my hand around the coins she had given, she said, "Relax son,you're in Ireland now..."
Something in me melted, tears welled in my eyes, my throat was choking with emotion.
I found my way to Buttermilk Lane. Sat on my bag with water and some bread , just regaining my composure. A narrow lane with high walls, a good place to amuse my self with my drum whilst my meagre meal settled. It's a pedestrian shortcut connecting two busy roads, a steady stream of tourists and shoppers strolled by, all undisturbed by either my presence or my drumming. An hour into my practice had landed me a pile of coin at my feet. Enough to sponsor a couple of days in a cheap hostel and a good meal , with enough to buy breakfast the next day.
It would take a mile or two of interminable scroll to record my Irish adventures on this blog, I will save the most part for another time. I have a sneaking suspicion that the adventures may not yet be done.
Five years playing the streets with occasional indoor sessions, had brought me no closer to knowing whether or not I was a competent player, until I met a Mr. Hurley in Charlestown, Mayo. I asked if he would do me the honour of listening for a while. After going through everything I could remember, marching band, jigs, reels,wild Afro-Celt and jazz styles. The gentleman , a well respected musician in his own right, told me,"Just keep doing what you're doing." The pub crowd lit up with applause and cheers. I was chuffed. Confirmed for life.
My original drum I gave to a saddhu in India. He,a singer needed a rhythm section. Since then I have occupied myself in other ways.
Living in France now, chanced upon a festival ,La Bogue D'or. in Redon, celebrating the chestnut harvest. Came across a band playing outside a music shop, La Chant d'alouette is the name. It is probably the best music shop I have ever visited. Definitely the best shopping experience to my memory. The cave downstairs housed a stash of several styles of bodhran. I parked myself on a stool and proceeded to check out the drums of my fancy. I met Jaquez the founder of the shop, and original owner. his family had lived above it since the 15th century. The shop is now a collective, Jaquez was just visiting. He offered a glass of wine , tasty old stuff, just the one. We chatted as I ratatatted on several instruments. He went upstairs and brought down a whistle. I was settling into a Walton's bodhran we played "Girl from Belfast city". Parting with the cash was a painless incidental.
The craic was good.
Committing myself to practicing once more. It was painful at first. The muscles needed reminding.
I tried the drum out in the Place de la Republique in La Poste. A good resonant sound space a pedestrian area. It's first real outing. The buzz was enormous. I will be doing more of that.
I haven't found a way to present my oobly doobly fluting and my drumming together. I will work on it.
Recording drum and flute whilst accompanying alternately on live instrument seems the logical way forward. I am not unhappy with current progress.
Below are four photos taken this Autumn. There will be a heap more nearer year end. I'll be back, I.Wazir.
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