#fiddle player

[wouldyourecognizethisperson-poll]

[higherentity]

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday one Scotlands finest musicians' fiddle player Aly Bain, born in Lerwick, Shetland May 15th, 1946.

Bain began playing the fiddle at the age of 11 and studied under influential Shetland fiddler Tom Anderson. In the late '70s, he played on two of Anderson's albums -- The Silver Bow and Shetland Folk Fiddling, Vol. 2. Honing his craft in a series of local bands, Bain attracted international attention after joining Irish/Scottish band, the Boys of the Lough, whom he met at the Falkirk Folk Festival in 1969.

Aly released his debut solo outing, First Album, in 1985. Three years later, he traveled to Louisiana to record the album, Aly Meets the Cajuns. The same year, he met Phil Cunningham at a pub near Edinburgh and they agreed to tour together. Their first duo album, The Pearl, released in 1994, was followed by The Ruby in 1997.

Bain has hosted several musical series for BBC Television. Down Home explored the spread of the Celtic fiddle tradition from Ireland and Scotland to North America. Push the Boat Out, shown in 1991, was taped during the Mayfest celebrations in Glasgow. The Shetland Set, shown the same year, was taped at the Shetland Folk Festival. Bain's autobiography, Fiddler on the Loose, co-written by Alistair Clark, was published by Mainstream Publishing in 1993.

Aly had a wee health scare in 2019 and had to undrgo a triple heart bypass, but was soon on his feet again and is keeping himself busy.

Today, Aly continues to be an ambassador for Scotland abroad and a powerful advocate for traditional music.

Aly Bain & Phil Cunningham are currently touring, you can catch them next at Backstage at The Green in Kinross, on May 23rd The two will be at Sidmouth Folk Festival in August and will return to Scotland for gigs in Forres and Lanark, two concets in Glasgow's Òran Mór in September, quite fitting as the rough translation for the Gaelic name of the venue is 'great melody of life' or 'big song',

[seadem-on]

Activity 1 for the @dollarstrilogyevent - the fiddle player.

He had dreamed so long of being part of an orchestra.

Back in his hometown, there was not much to do in the long evenings for a young man like him - nothing that did not involve getting drunk and being involved in bar fights or meetings with the women who used to entertain soldiers and bounty hunters. He had never been strong enough to fight another man with the chance of winning. As for women, he’d known all of them by their names as they had raised him since he was a little infant - one of them was his mother, he was not sure which one as they all took care of him in the same way and called him sweet, affectionate names.

Since he’d been a little boy he had to find himself something to be occupied with. He’d started knocking together old rusty iron pot lids, and his mothers would sing along obscene tunes which sounded tender and nostalgic to him. Eventually a passing stranger, a paying companion of his mothers who’d end up develop a little affection for him, left him an old scanted fiddle. He’d learned to play by himself, and soon he came to know the instrument like himself, like it had always been part of himself.

In the dimly lit saloons where the boy spent his evenings he would start to play tunes on his fiddle - often merry and entertaining, to light up the spirits of the owner, the workers and the customers alike, to see his mothers dance with their colorful skirts and hear their crackling laughter. Seldom he would play slower, more nostalgic tunes, to keep company to heavy-hearted loners or just for young lovers who wouldn’t not hear music with their ears - being focused only on their partner’s soft whispers - but who would feel it in their hearts.

He would play for the homeless, for the hungry miners, for the children and their mothers, for seamstresses and for the aimless wanderers and fortune seekers. Then the streets and saloons started to welcome more and more the dirty uniforms and boots of the Union troops, whose officers did not like music very much.

He would play for himself, and for his mothers, wandering from village to village ignoring that the thunder of the war was coming tumbling nearer and nearer.

Until one day he was woken up by a boot lightly poking his side - his eyes trailed over the uniform of a Union officer in a black hat, with a cold smile, telling him to get up and follow him. He knew by the sound of the man’s voice it was not an invitation.

He knew would not see his mothers ever again.

They’d brought him to the fort.

His companions were now war prisoners. Old haggard men, wrinkled faces and thin bodies wrapped in their big coats, youngsters slouching in dusty corners with empty eyes, strong men who would soon lose the spring in their step and the glint in their eyes along with their belongings - watches and hats and scarves which a few hours later would appear on the heads and wrists and around the necks of the officers and their friends.

When one of the men who still had the sparkle of life in their eyes protested a little too heatedly, he was escorted by Corporal Wallace to the officer’s log cabin. At the beginning he would not understand what was that for - strangely there was only a still silence coming from the cabin. That was until Corporal Carley gathered him and a few other men in the yard of the camp, equipped them with the instruments they’d been confiscated, and told them to start playing, and to play loud.

The orchestra he’d dreamed to be part of - harmonicas, trombones, flutes, and the chorus - was now a living nightmare. They were forced to play and sing until their fingers were numb and their voices coarse and their faces burnt from the sunlight - louder and louder to cover up the horrific screaming from the cabin, until it stopped, until Wallace had punched out the will to live from a man. This was no music dance to, to drink to, no tune for working people and women in love and sad drunkards - their stage was the scaffold and their audience were a crowd of walking dead.

At night, in the few hours when he got to fall asleep, he’d dreamed of playing his fiddle all alone in the dead silence of the camp. The bow flew over the strings and no tune would come out, but it made no difference because there was no one to hear it - the only sound filling the air being loud, broken screams of pain.

[stone-cold-groove]

So say it once, say it twice, third time's the charm. Hootenanny! Hootenanny! Hootenanny!

[artjipson]

Full Interview with Irish Musician David Howley

On January 31st, Dr. J interviewed Irish musician, singer, and songwriter David Howley is appearing at the Sears Recital Hall at the University of Dayton on March 13, 2025. David will be joined by special guests Kiana June Weber and Caitlin Leahy. David Howley is an award-winning folk artist from Ireland, blending traditional Irish music with modern folk. Founder of Billboard World #1 band We…

[markonpark]

The couple that plays together stays together. Vintage photo of a man (Fred) playing a fiddle and a woman (Hilda) playing a banjo. https://markonpark.etsy.com/listing/1631739127

[coffeeandbatboys]

These are my babies I call them Chonco and Fuckass. I won them surprisingly and love them more than life itself.

[indecisiveoverthinking]

Some of the Banban gang taking care of a sick player would be real cute

I would think that they'd argue over what to do

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+Party hat

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Lil Captain Fiddles reading you a story

[happyheidi]

𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 <3

[mother-ofthe-universedraws]

Hey what if I just…

Something something Angy Theatre Kid x Mad Scientist.

Anyways, Happy Halloween! My favorite holiday deserves my favorite ships

[thejestofit]

Uhmm sort of spoilers?

GARTEN OF BANBAN 7 ART 🔥🔥

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Guys...

[scotianostra]

On November 16th 1700 James Macpherson, the famous fiddling freebooter, was hanged at Banff.

The outlaw’s father was a laird and his mother a tinker. How he became a criminal is as unclear as some of his activities, but his career appears to have culminated in “a reign of terror” on the Banff, Elgin and Forres markets. He seems to have enjoyed the Laird of Grant’s protection, but was captured in Keith when, according to his own account, a woman threw a blanket over him and he was disarmed before he could free himself.

He was tried in Banff where he was especially disliked. The jury was packed with the dependants of Lord Duff, who had previously organised a group to capture MacPherson, but as on many other occasions, he escaped.

MacPherson was found guilty, but a reprieve was said to be on its way to Banff at the time of the execution. Duff turned the clock 15 minutes forward and MacPherson was hung before the pardon arrived. There is a traditional account that says the clock was kept 15 minutes fast for years and Macduff has its west-facing town clock covered so the people of Banff can't see the right time.

The story goes that in the week before his hanging, Macpherson reportedly composed an air variously described as “Macpherson’s Lament” or “Rant” or “Farewell” which he then performed on the gallows.

In the most picturuesque version, he played his own fiddle in this exit performance, then dramatically smashed the instrument.

By all accounts MacPherson was a big muckle man, this is justified by his sword, which is preserved in Duff House, at Banff as seen in the second pic, and you have to question the story a wee bit.

The first pic is a depiction of MacPherson playing before they hung him, now would they have given a Goliath the free use of his hands at such a desperate moment?

Well there are, as always different versions of the song, I will post my favourite afterwards, which was written by oor Bard Rabbie Burns, this is an earlier version:

Fareweel, ye dungeons dark and strang, fareweel, fareweel tae ye,

MacPherson's time will no be lang on yonder gallows tree

Chorus

Sae rantinly and sae wantonly, sae dauntinly gaed he

For he played a tune and he danced aroon, below the gallows tree

It was by a woman's treacherous hand that I was condemned tae dee

Above a ledge at a window she sat and a blanket she threw ower me

There's some come here tae see me hang, and some come tae buy my fiddle

But before that I would part wi her I'd brak her through the middle

And he took the fiddle intae baith o his hands and he brak it ower a stane

Sayin, nay other hand shall play on thee when I am dead and gane

The reprieve was comin ower the Brig o Banff tae set MacPherson free,

But they pit the clock a quarter afore, and they hanged him frae the tree.

Additional verses

The Laird o Grant, that Hieland saunt, that first laid hands on me,

He pleads the cause o Peter Broon, tae let MacPherson dee

Untie these bands frae aff my hands and gie tae me my sword,

And there's no a man in all Scotland but I'll brave him at a word.

[the-alpha-doodle-dome]

crap

[ikissfiddle]

redraw of smth from 2023 giggles a littke tehehehehe

my nonbinary husband (fiddle) and her nonbinary wife (blacklight)

[meirimerens]

playing the amonica. wyinwyinnn wyunwyiiinnnnnn