Bagpipes, Memory and Luck
How attending an event opened a rich vein of memory.
In 2008 I was invited to be an adjudicator at the annual Nicol-Brown Chalice, an invitational bagpipe competition featuring 10 of the top amateur pipers from that season of competition. Pipers gathered in Albany, NY on a Friday for a meet-and-greet which included a recital by Andrew Douglas and me. That night was the first public airing of a piobaireachd I’d composed for my late father.
Saturday was the business day, with 10 pipers playing three selections each over the course of a long day, with prizes awarded at the end. On the Sunday, the adjudicators, competitors and a couple of organizers drove up to Invermark Piping School, at the top of a hill near Petersburgh, NY, and there we had an all-day masterclass for the competitors, discussing their performances, offering comments about what we liked, and ways they could enhance their performances.
The weather was gorgeous—warm and fresh—the autumn colours were spectacular and bagpipes sounded amazing up there. Leading the day was the amazing player and teacher Donald Lindsay, a giant of USA piping and a true champion of the music. At one moment, re-telling a memory about the teaching of his mentors Robert Nicol and Robert Brown, he had tears—the love of the music and the experiences just welling over the brim. It was moving and inspiring stuff, for competitors and adjudicators alike.
At the end of the afternoon, I was whisked down the mountain to the airport at Albany, where I commenced the journey home, landing in Regina during a snowstorm with the runway freshly cleared and the temperature -20C.
I had many hours of travel, and I ended up scribbling on a scrap of paper torn from an airplane magazine. I got to thinking about my own great fortune in studying piping with the legendary Pipe-Major Donald MacLeod, MBE. I first met him as a 10-year-old at summer camp in Saskatchewan, and this repeated for a few years. I spent two years in Scotland in my early 20s, going for weekly lessons with MacLeod, first at the Grainger & Campbell Bagpipe Makers shop on Argyle Street in Glasgow, and later at his home.
What I wrote recalls the days going to Grainger & Campbell. 1103 Argyle Street is now “The Hidden Lane”—a destination for shopping, tea, a quiet lunch, or getting your hair done. In 1978, you’d go through the close to the back lane, where there was an entry to Grainger’s on one side, and a mortician/funeral business on the other, and little else that I could identify.
Mrs. Rankin made kilts and did tailoring in the loft. Mr. Rankin did admin work for the shop. Duncan Campbell was a shop assistant, and did lots of bagpipe assembly, tying on bags, seasoning and “other duties as assigned.” Joe Hagan and Ernie (last name escapes me) were the bagpipe turners working in a separate space at the back where few dared enter.
I look back on that time, and still can’t believe my luck.
Piping Workshop at Invermark
On heavily treed hills
in autumn-clad splendour,
a piper tells his tale.
Nicol, Brown, MacLeod.
The music of generations
of pipers now gone
and certainly not forgotten.
The notes sounding clear
in the crisp autumn air.
The colour of dying leaves
and the storyteller’s passion.
Stories, tunes, teaching
and even tears, falling for
memories happy and sad,
touching us all and
waking in me
reminders of those times.
The brick alleyway into
Grainger’s back door, and
there—perched on the
“Stool of Repentance” under
the stair to Mrs. Rankin’s loft
and taking it all in with a sense
of wonder. How could I have
been so lucky?
And MacLeod, moving with
such gentle grace and ease—
welcoming, teaching, laughing,
directing and prodding. All the
while… tunes flowing in song
and chanter song,
and often appearing on
the brown paper, the good ones
pinned behind the desk.
The sound of lathes a
background hum, and Ernie’s
occasional curse or laugh
rising over the din. He and
Joe go for a break, chat idly
or jest with Duncan, tying
bags in the corner.
Donald holds court, and
receives piping’s royal
visitors. The police, foreign
pipers, Highland tinkers and
hard men from the street
wanting to make a sale.
He speaks Gaelic when needed,
and beams broadly when
Roddy MacDonald appears to chat.
They talk and sing, and share
tunes and stories and lore of
the old pipers, and of the island
villages they left behind.
Duncan Johnstone, John Wilson,
Angus J., Iain MacPherson and
More. Well-kent faces and
names from Glasgow’s piping
and all welcomed broadly.
In my corner, I take it in
and play the tunes as asked.
I’m desperate to remember it all.
“That will do for now,” the
saddest words I hear, and yet
in them the promise of
more to come.
Iain MacDonald, 2008