Life is like playing a violin solo in public
and learning the
instrument as one goes on.
- Samuel Butler.
When I was just starting to play, not only in public but for
hire, I got a call from the organizers of a dance festival.
It was not far from where I lived and I had been going there
every year. They wanted me to play at the next festival, as
part of the main act. They had a piano player lined up,
someone from Up North whom I'd met and played with a little,
who I knew would be very good to work with on a date like
this one. This was going to be my first appearance as part
of "the main event" at such a festival.
There were two things I knew about this festival which set it
apart from most of the other ones I went to. One thing was
that they favored "English Country Dancing" and the program
would surely feature it. English Country Dance has its own
repertoire which is distinct from the tunes I played at contra
and square dances.
Each dance in English Country Dance requires a specific tune,
so there's no wiggle room in terms of tune choice. I had
played some before but I had to sight-read from books as I
didn't know any of the tunes. The piano player was very
experienced and would be able to help me get through it. I
would basically be one step above faking it, at least during
the English Country Dance part of the program. But I had
done it before and had been able to bluff my way through, so
to speak.
The other thing about this festival was that they maintained
an "open stage" policy. Their thinking, with which I agreed,
was that the local players who made their dance happen week
in and week out should not be excluded from playing on the
stage at the big once-a-year festival. Rather than hiring
a band, the festival would hire a fiddle player or two and
a couple of accompanists and leave a lot of chairs on the
stage for anyone who shows up. And it worked. The music was
always good and the local musicians got some well-earned
recognition.
I did not let either of these things stand in my way. I had
successfully handled the occasional English set before. I
knew the piano player to be solid, and if the sheet music
would be available I could fake through a couple of sets.
The open stage thing, well I'd been to this festival and seen
it work. That's how I got my stage time in those days,
by relying on the kindness of strangers. So heck yeah, I told
them, I'll be there. Just be sure to spell my name right on
the posters.
The festival would start bright and early on Saturday. I
blew into town the night before because a friend of mine was
playing in the area with his band. I went to their show and
hung out with them afterwards.
Saturday at the festival site I found my accompanist and met
the caller. That is when I learned that the program would be
basically all English Country Dance. There was another caller
on the program but they specialized in "singing" square
dances, which also have specific music requirements.
To put that into perspective, I typically carry my repertoire
around in my head, then and now. At the dances I usually
play, tune selection is up to the band for the most part.
That means that I can be sure I am playing tunes I have some
familiarity with.
I was going to have to step pretty far outside my comfort
zone, repertoire-wise. And I was slated to be the "main"
player along with the pianist. It meant that this weekend
would be a white-knuckle ride but I would get to polish up
my sight-reading skills, anyhow. No pressure.
Before lunch there were two "workshop" sessions of maybe an
hour and a half each. The caller would spend some time going
over the fine points of the dance with the dancers, pointing
out nuances and whatnot, which gave me time to learn the tune
with the piano player's help. They would find the tune and
play through it quietly, and I would read through it. With
luck there would be time for me to play it at least once
through before the caller and dancers were ready for us.
About that "finding the tune" part. The piano player had
brought a "library" of English music, six or seven books,
maybe more, which contained most of the working repertoire.
The challenge was in knowing which book to look in. The caller
would name the next dance and which book they thought
we could find it in. It was like a scavenger hunt. In front
of an audience. And that was to get to the point of starting
to learn the tune. In front of an audience. Who were waiting
to hear me play it so they could dance. Not to put too fine
a point on it.
It was shortly after this that the life-saving "Barnes
Collection" was published, gathering all the most commonly
played English Country Dance tunes in one place. It took the
guesswork out of finding the tunes, at least.
I don't mind admitting I was a wreck after a couple of hours
of that. When we broke for lunch I ran off and found a sandwich
shop with a big coffee pot. I spent the lunch break pep-talking
myself. Seriously. And drinking coffee. I briefly considered
and rejected the idea of skedaddling altogether. I didn't
want my first festival appearance to be my last. If you
catch my drift.
The afternoon consisted of another two or three workshop
sessions. I made it through them. (I give very effective pep
talks.) Then there was a dinner break and I guess I ran off
to recuperate again. I returned from dinner and saw the
evening dance program. None of the dances from the workshops
appeared on it. It would be all new material! More sight-reading.
If you're waiting for the funny part... the lead up to the
big evening dance is as close as it gets. The piano player
and I took the opportunity to get the music for all the dances
on the program lined up and we played through some with the
time we had. As we were doing that one of the local musicians,
whom I knew, came over and said to me "You know there'll be
sit-ins. You'll have to play music everybody will be likely
to know."
I let that sit there for a few seconds before I said, with
the calmest deadpan I could muster, "We're not even playing
music I know. You'll have to talk to the caller about that."
Later the other caller, the square dance caller, handed us
the sheet music for a dance saying, "I don't call this exactly
as it's written."
I think I didn't say it aloud but I definitely thought
"Great, now we've gone from sight-reading to mind-reading."
There is indeed strength in numbers and when a few of the
local players showed up I felt greatly relieved. We made it
through the night and the Sunday morning session as well.
I think that one of the reasons I was successful over the
course of the weekend was that during my lunch-time pep talk
I had decided not to let on how much of a panic I was in the
whole time.
By way of followup, I got a call from the piano player a few
weeks later. They'd heard I was planning a trip Up North and
asked if I would like to join them at a dance while I was in
the area, along with the caller from the festival. The three
of us, together again for the first time.
I took that as positive feedback. And over the next few
years I had more occasions to play for English Country
Dances. The "Barnes Collection" made it more manageable,
especially for someone like me who has not committed the
tunes to memory. But still, I was sight-reading the whole
time.
I'm sure I learned a lot that weekend. I'm not sure how to
articulate all of it, though. Of one thing I'm certain, and
take this as a lesson I had to learn the hard way: ask a lot
of questions before you take the gig.
True story.
Eyewitness accounts vary, as is typical. But
the lunch-time pep talk may have gone something like this:
Suggested reading:
My First Time at Greenfield
In which I find a new home. Metaphorically speaking.
I Can Quit Whenever I Want To
In which I kick the coffee habit. Until about lunch time.
Full Moon Over Peterborough
In which Bob shows the dancers what he's made of.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen... Grab yer partners!
Caller Bernie Chalk came not to bury Caesar but to do-si-do with him.
Some experience required.
You never forget your first time.
Time Travel!
Return to those days of yesteryear
The $20 Fiddle Tune
We're not in it for the money, but neither do we turn it down.
Is That Guy Okay?
A case of mistaken identity.
Every Fiddle Has a Story...
... but they can't talk.
Mmm, Ham...
In which Pete and I rely on the kindness of strangers.
Not Sure Who Won But I Can Tell You Who Lost
In which I wind up with farm fresh historically accurate Colonial-era egg on my face.
Happy New Year
In which the New Year creeps in on little cat feet.