Listening to the Dalai Lama yesterday in Inverness after a week of speculation about Fakelore (a term coined in this article on Gypsy Fiddle Music and its presence in the history of music http://www.fiddlingaround.co.uk/hungarian/index.html), much has been going round my mind re history versus myth. What do we treasure the most and is that defined by what type of collector of information we are and what we do with it.
It has undoubtedly been a difficult journey in trying to attain equal music education as a parent for my child and seeing the petite bourgeoisie raking in cheap lessons, free instruments and gigging opportunities under the banner of traditional music. The irony of this of course, is my family background, which most music ‘teachers’ fail to recognise and that we are in a different place when it comes to music-making, the history of music, naradno and selansko pjesme.
By far the most creative people I know have the traveller within. You can define the term traveller as you wish. You know if you are one – you sit outwith the pretensions of society, community and its control (whatever that means now) and feel the world in a different way – it’s in the eyes. That feeling comes through our music-making. So to the person who says my child moves too much when he plays guitar – sweetheart…we’re just in a different headspace ok?
What’s all this to do with the Dalai Lama you ask. I don’t really know, I can’t put it in words. It’s just a feeling -something to do with happiness and contentment. What am I doing right now – smiling.
The Feast of St Nicholas
Cooking with Mama, and Baba
Pinny on, tails trail to the floor
Bowls filled with sumptious ingredients
I dip my finger, then lick, close my eyes,
Delighting in the heaven of vanilla with walnuts,
Juicy, bulbous pearls of barley; smells divine.
Slava bread, large, round
Kissed and blessed by the holy man
Drenched with wine, burned with candle wax
Remembering Serbian clans and tribes
Wanderers from Mongolia, Russia, Armenia;
We are Rom, blue-eyed Gypsy, roses in our hair, our hats.
In our eyes, souls of a travelling past,
Making bread at camps, killing boar for the feast,
Dancing with a spirited moon, laughing at our shadows
Mama and Baba, hands and hearts of the plains
Ceremony of St Nick with love for decades.