Hector the Hero
I want to thank Linda Clader, who recently passed along to me a wonderful blog post by someone called Mary Busby, one of the proprietors of a little shop called Sagrada on Telegraph Avenue in Oakland. Inspired by hearing just two perfect notes, it's about practice, about devotion to a skill, to a cause, to a passion. I found it so powerful, and have copied it below this message in hopes that it may touch you as it did Linda and me.
The reference to Aly Bain, the Scottish fiddler who played those two notes which prompted Mary's post, sent me flying to YouTube to listen to his music. There's lots of it out there! And he is indeed a wonderful player and (so far as one can tell through the filters and blinders of the internet) a wonderful person. Check him out...
But the video which really caught at my heart includes Aly in a supporting role, and features another fiddler, Jenna Reid, along with the pianist Phil Cunningham and the great Dobro player Jerry Douglas. It's a studio performance of a fiddle tune called 'Hector the Hero'. The tune is a lament for Major General Hector MacDonald, a distinguished Scottish officer. He committed suicide in 1903, and there was an outpouring of grief among the Scottish people, including poems and songs about the famous officer. James Scott Skinner, a friend of MacDonald, composed 'Hector the Hero' to lyrics by Thomas McWilliam.
I am attaching a scan of Skinner's original score; as is often the case with folk music, changes have crept into the performing tradition.
I think you'll enjoy listening to this wonderful performance, and perhaps it will send you (as it did me) careening off into an exploration of the music and teachings of these very talented musicians.
One of the things I often notice with traditional music is that it seems to echo the ethos and techniques and aesthetic of much early music. There is a directness, an honesty, a willingness to open up; a clarity of line and of harmony. These things among others tie the seemingly disparate styles together across the span of centuries. It makes sense, of course, because almost all of our music stands on the shoulders of its predecessors. But if that is so, then why does there seem this direct connection with early music? After all, there have been a number of significant musical eras in the interim which do not seem to have left big fingerprints on current-day folk styles.
-----
Keep an eye and an ear out for those two notes--those two words--for those 'songs of such exquisite sweetness that the heart falters in its labor and the body is quieted into awe' (Maya Angelou). These moments can open us to direct connection to the arts, to ourselves, to the world, to each other.
A blog post by Mary Busby, November 16, 2021:
Heading out for the day, mind preoccupied and racing in a thousand directions, I started the car and turned on the radio.
A silent pause.
Then, out of the silence...
Two solitary notes perfectly played upon the strings of a violin.
Two notes unlike any other.
Two notes that had just found the ear of my heart
Engine off. The master fiddler continued with the tune,
yet those two notes kept repeating inside, lingering with me.
The soulful longing of a musical interval. A tear in the corner of the eye.
How is it possible that just two notes can stop us in our tracks, crack open the heart,
awaken us to what is essential?
A litany of praise welled up, praise for those who practice, for those whose practice brings us into deep awareness, whose practice gives life, saves life, revives memory, helps us to feel. The long months, the years of study, dedication, repetition and sacrifice. The slow and often painstaking process of learning, and falling down, and getting back up. Devotion growing into a skillful means.
In a world that prizes the fast and furious, that comes at us with constant distraction, could it be that the gifts resulting from lifelong practice will redeem us?
A seasoned therapist who with just two words shifts a lifetime's block of trauma.
A nurse who after years of repetition gives the vaccine and you don’t even feel it.
An artist who with strokes of dark and light enables you to feel the deepest grief you can’t otherwise express.
A dancer, who by a seemingly simple turn of the body, reminds you that you can still live.
A friend who has cultivated a practice of intentional listening holds you when the ground beneath gives way.
A neighbor who always says those two words, “good morning”, to everyone.
Today, for me it was Aly Bain and his fiddle.
Two words. Two notes.
Thank you for your practice,
whatever it may be.
I want to thank Linda Clader, who recently passed along to me a wonderful blog post by someone called Mary Busby, one of the proprietors of a little shop called Sagrada on Telegraph Avenue in Oakland. Inspired by hearing just two perfect notes, it's about practice, about devotion to a skill, to a cause, to a passion. I found it so powerful, and have copied it below this message in hopes that it may touch you as it did Linda and me.
The reference to Aly Bain, the Scottish fiddler who played those two notes which prompted Mary's post, sent me flying to YouTube to listen to his music. There's lots of it out there! And he is indeed a wonderful player and (so far as one can tell through the filters and blinders of the internet) a wonderful person. Check him out...
But the video which really caught at my heart includes Aly in a supporting role, and features another fiddler, Jenna Reid, along with the pianist Phil Cunningham and the great Dobro player Jerry Douglas. It's a studio performance of a fiddle tune called 'Hector the Hero'. The tune is a lament for Major General Hector MacDonald, a distinguished Scottish officer. He committed suicide in 1903, and there was an outpouring of grief among the Scottish people, including poems and songs about the famous officer. James Scott Skinner, a friend of MacDonald, composed 'Hector the Hero' to lyrics by Thomas McWilliam.
I am attaching a scan of Skinner's original score; as is often the case with folk music, changes have crept into the performing tradition.
I think you'll enjoy listening to this wonderful performance, and perhaps it will send you (as it did me) careening off into an exploration of the music and teachings of these very talented musicians.
One of the things I often notice with traditional music is that it seems to echo the ethos and techniques and aesthetic of much early music. There is a directness, an honesty, a willingness to open up; a clarity of line and of harmony. These things among others tie the seemingly disparate styles together across the span of centuries. It makes sense, of course, because almost all of our music stands on the shoulders of its predecessors. But if that is so, then why does there seem this direct connection with early music? After all, there have been a number of significant musical eras in the interim which do not seem to have left big fingerprints on current-day folk styles.
-----
Keep an eye and an ear out for those two notes--those two words--for those 'songs of such exquisite sweetness that the heart falters in its labor and the body is quieted into awe' (Maya Angelou). These moments can open us to direct connection to the arts, to ourselves, to the world, to each other.
A blog post by Mary Busby, November 16, 2021:
Heading out for the day, mind preoccupied and racing in a thousand directions, I started the car and turned on the radio.
A silent pause.
Then, out of the silence...
Two solitary notes perfectly played upon the strings of a violin.
Two notes unlike any other.
Two notes that had just found the ear of my heart
Engine off. The master fiddler continued with the tune,
yet those two notes kept repeating inside, lingering with me.
The soulful longing of a musical interval. A tear in the corner of the eye.
How is it possible that just two notes can stop us in our tracks, crack open the heart,
awaken us to what is essential?
A litany of praise welled up, praise for those who practice, for those whose practice brings us into deep awareness, whose practice gives life, saves life, revives memory, helps us to feel. The long months, the years of study, dedication, repetition and sacrifice. The slow and often painstaking process of learning, and falling down, and getting back up. Devotion growing into a skillful means.
In a world that prizes the fast and furious, that comes at us with constant distraction, could it be that the gifts resulting from lifelong practice will redeem us?
A seasoned therapist who with just two words shifts a lifetime's block of trauma.
A nurse who after years of repetition gives the vaccine and you don’t even feel it.
An artist who with strokes of dark and light enables you to feel the deepest grief you can’t otherwise express.
A dancer, who by a seemingly simple turn of the body, reminds you that you can still live.
A friend who has cultivated a practice of intentional listening holds you when the ground beneath gives way.
A neighbor who always says those two words, “good morning”, to everyone.
Today, for me it was Aly Bain and his fiddle.
Two words. Two notes.
Thank you for your practice,
whatever it may be.