Every year on January 25th, Scots and those from Scots descent around the world (but particularly those who live outside Scotland) get together to perform a curious ritual known as Burns’ Night. Ostensibly to celebrate the birthday of Scotland’s best-loved poet, Rabbie Burns (not Rabbi Burns, he’s a Jewish guy), the evening revolves around a formal dinner with recitals of the man’s poetry, much whisky and of course, Scotland’s national dish, haggis.
Living as I do, in the United States I have long been accustomed to journalists working haggis into any story involving Scotland no matter how irrelevant. Naturally, they all have to list the ingredients, as if there is a person on the planet still unaware just how disgusting they sound. In a way, that’s fair enough, they do sound fairly gross and listing them makes for good copy. Any food that contains, among other things, a sheep’s heart, liver and lung (illegal in the U.S.), all cooked inside a sheep’s stomach is an automatic 10 on the eeeuuuww factor. My response to any Americans expressing revulsion at the concept of eating such a concoction is always the same, “But you eat hot dogs don’t you? What do you suppose is in those?” Not surprisingly, nobody can tell me because the precise ingredients of America’s national dish are a closely guarded secret. One thing’s for certain however, it isn’t sirloin steak.
True students of haggis lore will of course; tell you that these ingredients are merely used in imitation haggis. Faux haggis if you will. Real haggis must be caught fresh from the mountains, preferably early in the morning and whisked straight to the butcher’s before the flesh has had time to spoil. While the ingredients of imitation haggis have been well documented, little is known about the wild haggis, which has yet to be found outside its native Scotland. Naturalists have long attempted to study these shy, but charming creatures, but as with their better-known counterpart, the Loch Ness Monster, they have for the most part remained elusive.
Haggis hunting on the other hand, has a long and storied history in the Highlands and despite Scotland’s increasing urbanization; many natives still eke out a living in this traditional manner. Wild haggis are perhaps one of the easier beasts to catch due to a genetic marvel which causes the legs on one side to be considerably shorter than on the other; an evolutionary curiosity, allowing the haggis it to run at speed around the hillsides. Skilled haggis hunters are savvy to the fact that all one has to do is chase the haggis in the opposite direction and it will of course, fall over and roll helplessly to the bottom of the hill, where assistants are waiting with nets.
Such is the role of the haggis in the Scottish culture. Burns himself dedicated a poem to the animal. Entitled “Address to a Haggis”, it is the centerpiece of any Burns’ Night and is usually delivered by a respected guest, often by memory, before the dish itself is ceremoniously skewered with a sword.
Despite being a native born Scotsman, I’ve never actually been to a Burns’ Night and it’s perhaps telling that the first such event I did attend was in the good ol’ USA, last Saturday night here in Denver. For the last few months, I’ve been hacking around in an attempt to learn the snare drum, with the goal of becoming a functioning member of The Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrews Pipes and Drums. I say functioning, because even though I’ve made two public appearances prior to this weekend, my performance has been somewhat…original. The phrase “marching to the tune of a different drummer” isn’t generally well received among the ranks of pipe bands, where conformity is actively encouraged, at least as far as the music is concerned.
After many hours of practice however, I'm able to play a portion of my limited repertoire more or less at the same time as everyone else. There’s a phrase in the middle of Scotland the Brave, which I can play just fine in practice but always, seem to screw up when attempting to play with the rest of the band. On Saturday night however, I nailed it for the first time ever. Well, we played that phrase several times and I still managed to goof it up on some of the passes, but at least twice, I got it exactly right. Saturday was a high point in my career.
So, buoyed by this success, I was rather looking forward to my second Burns’ appearance, the very next night. This was a far less formal affair, in our local bar; a recently opened, Irish themed pub, familiarly known as Sweet Fanny Adams. My friend Kris, a piper and I had encouraged a number of people from the band, including a couple of other drummers, to make the trip up the hill to Bailey and several had enthusiastically agreed. This was of course, before one of our periodic winter storms blew in and essentially shut down the roads in and around the city, while leaving Bailey and the surrounding areas, virtually untouched. Many band members decided, quite wisely, to give the whole thing a miss. Others struggled bravely on but as the clock ticked inexorably forward, it soon became apparent that my fourth public appearance as a drummer; was about to become my first solo performance.
There are many techniques for dealing with stress. Yoga, deep breathing and exercise come to mind. I chose panic, which on hindsight may not have been the best option. This manifested itself in my inability to remember the tune I know the best. The one tune every beginning snare drummer learns first, a tune, which even with my limited experience, I’ve played hundreds of times. Completely and utterly gone. I went out to the car to check my sheet music, which turned out to consist of a series of swimming tadpoles. I tried playing the tune anyway, hoping it would miraculously come back to me once I started. Nothing. I asked the pipers to play, thinking this might unlock whatever synapses were jammed in my brain. They tried but couldn’t really help, because their music is vastly different. “How can you remember the second tune, but not the first?” they asked, “Isn’t the second more complicated?” Their questions were pointless. I certainly had no idea.
So we agreed to simply play the second tune twice through. And I played it just fine. Well other than screwing up my usual phrase, but you can’t have everything.
Living as I do, in the United States I have long been accustomed to journalists working haggis into any story involving Scotland no matter how irrelevant. Naturally, they all have to list the ingredients, as if there is a person on the planet still unaware just how disgusting they sound. In a way, that’s fair enough, they do sound fairly gross and listing them makes for good copy. Any food that contains, among other things, a sheep’s heart, liver and lung (illegal in the U.S.), all cooked inside a sheep’s stomach is an automatic 10 on the eeeuuuww factor. My response to any Americans expressing revulsion at the concept of eating such a concoction is always the same, “But you eat hot dogs don’t you? What do you suppose is in those?” Not surprisingly, nobody can tell me because the precise ingredients of America’s national dish are a closely guarded secret. One thing’s for certain however, it isn’t sirloin steak.
True students of haggis lore will of course; tell you that these ingredients are merely used in imitation haggis. Faux haggis if you will. Real haggis must be caught fresh from the mountains, preferably early in the morning and whisked straight to the butcher’s before the flesh has had time to spoil. While the ingredients of imitation haggis have been well documented, little is known about the wild haggis, which has yet to be found outside its native Scotland. Naturalists have long attempted to study these shy, but charming creatures, but as with their better-known counterpart, the Loch Ness Monster, they have for the most part remained elusive.
Haggis hunting on the other hand, has a long and storied history in the Highlands and despite Scotland’s increasing urbanization; many natives still eke out a living in this traditional manner. Wild haggis are perhaps one of the easier beasts to catch due to a genetic marvel which causes the legs on one side to be considerably shorter than on the other; an evolutionary curiosity, allowing the haggis it to run at speed around the hillsides. Skilled haggis hunters are savvy to the fact that all one has to do is chase the haggis in the opposite direction and it will of course, fall over and roll helplessly to the bottom of the hill, where assistants are waiting with nets.
Such is the role of the haggis in the Scottish culture. Burns himself dedicated a poem to the animal. Entitled “Address to a Haggis”, it is the centerpiece of any Burns’ Night and is usually delivered by a respected guest, often by memory, before the dish itself is ceremoniously skewered with a sword.
Despite being a native born Scotsman, I’ve never actually been to a Burns’ Night and it’s perhaps telling that the first such event I did attend was in the good ol’ USA, last Saturday night here in Denver. For the last few months, I’ve been hacking around in an attempt to learn the snare drum, with the goal of becoming a functioning member of The Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrews Pipes and Drums. I say functioning, because even though I’ve made two public appearances prior to this weekend, my performance has been somewhat…original. The phrase “marching to the tune of a different drummer” isn’t generally well received among the ranks of pipe bands, where conformity is actively encouraged, at least as far as the music is concerned.
After many hours of practice however, I'm able to play a portion of my limited repertoire more or less at the same time as everyone else. There’s a phrase in the middle of Scotland the Brave, which I can play just fine in practice but always, seem to screw up when attempting to play with the rest of the band. On Saturday night however, I nailed it for the first time ever. Well, we played that phrase several times and I still managed to goof it up on some of the passes, but at least twice, I got it exactly right. Saturday was a high point in my career.
So, buoyed by this success, I was rather looking forward to my second Burns’ appearance, the very next night. This was a far less formal affair, in our local bar; a recently opened, Irish themed pub, familiarly known as Sweet Fanny Adams. My friend Kris, a piper and I had encouraged a number of people from the band, including a couple of other drummers, to make the trip up the hill to Bailey and several had enthusiastically agreed. This was of course, before one of our periodic winter storms blew in and essentially shut down the roads in and around the city, while leaving Bailey and the surrounding areas, virtually untouched. Many band members decided, quite wisely, to give the whole thing a miss. Others struggled bravely on but as the clock ticked inexorably forward, it soon became apparent that my fourth public appearance as a drummer; was about to become my first solo performance.
There are many techniques for dealing with stress. Yoga, deep breathing and exercise come to mind. I chose panic, which on hindsight may not have been the best option. This manifested itself in my inability to remember the tune I know the best. The one tune every beginning snare drummer learns first, a tune, which even with my limited experience, I’ve played hundreds of times. Completely and utterly gone. I went out to the car to check my sheet music, which turned out to consist of a series of swimming tadpoles. I tried playing the tune anyway, hoping it would miraculously come back to me once I started. Nothing. I asked the pipers to play, thinking this might unlock whatever synapses were jammed in my brain. They tried but couldn’t really help, because their music is vastly different. “How can you remember the second tune, but not the first?” they asked, “Isn’t the second more complicated?” Their questions were pointless. I certainly had no idea.
So we agreed to simply play the second tune twice through. And I played it just fine. Well other than screwing up my usual phrase, but you can’t have everything.
