The Last Lady from Hell (4 page)

When a solo piper is tuned and playing, one would seldom notice the tonal changes brought on by environmental factors. But get a band of twenty pipers whose pipes all react to climate at a different rate and you have tonal chaos. Therefore, it is essential that a band be tuned as close to a parade step off as possible.

I could hear the sounds of pipes being tuned as I opened the large oak doors to Grant Hall. As I entered Room 110, the combined noise of twenty plus chanters being played up and down the scale blasted me.

Pipe Major Manning was keenly focused on the tuning and either didn’t notice my arrival or chose not to acknowledge it. I preferred to remain anonymous at the time anyway. I moved quietly to the periphery, content to watch and listen. Tuning is an important process, and requires some time to complete. A good piper with a good ear and a ready band can, however, make the process move along at about three minutes per piper.

“You! Pipes up!” I was jarred from my thoughts to see the Pipe Major looking in my direction.

A thump of adrenaline coursed through me as I hurried to the center of the room.

“Blow up and tap off!” he barked.

The reed of a drone is softer and more flexible than that of a chanter, so it makes a sound with less air pressure in the bag. To silence the drones, you tap your hand on top of the drone opening and it quiets. I can’t explain why it works, but it does. When all three are tapped off, you can blow more pressure into the bag and the chanter reed will sound.

I quickly blew up my pipes, tapping off my drones, and continued to blow evenly into the blow pipe to keep constant pressure. Manning stepped directly in front of me and made a sideways fist, with his pinky outstretched. To me it looked as if he were choking an imaginary chicken in a dainty way. My puzzled look was all he needed to see.

With his blow pipe still in his mouth, he continued to blow air into his bag. Between breaths, he commanded, “A! Give me a low A!”

Then it dawned on me what his hand gesture meant. To produce a low A, you cover all the chanter holes except the one covered by your right hand pinky. I blew harder and squeezed the bag until the chanter barked out a low A.

Manning did likewise and we played the same note for several seconds. Then he held up his hand with his middle three fingers outstretched to form the letter E. I was catching on.

I followed his lead as he continued up and down the scale while he listened for the difference between our reeds. They were obviously off, so he stopped blowing, as did I, and he held out his hand. No words were necessary. I pulled out my chanter and placed it in his outstretched hand. He put the chanter to his mouth and blew an E on the exposed reed. With his teeth biting down on the base of the reed, he pushed it deeper into its seat, sharpening the note. When he satisfied with the tone he handed it back to me.

I reset my chanter, blew up, tapped off my drones and waited for his next command. I followed Manning’s lead up and down the scale, now in perfect tune.

Then, without a word, he turned away and moved on to the next piper. This fellow has a great ear for tuning, I thought. Minutes later, with the last player in tune, Manning moved to the center of the room.

“Circle up,” he called out.

I watched as all the pipers formed a circle so I followed their lead and joined in. An observant piper next to me noticed my slowness to respond to Manning’s command and tapped my shoulder.

“Follow me,” he whispered.

“Thanks, I’m Ian MacDonald,” I said.

“Sean Lyons,” he replied.

Sean was not a tall man, less than six feet, but he had a strong frame. Not a muscleman sort of build, but more like that of a farm hand or a mason. His jet black hair was short, in a crew-cut style, and his eyebrows were so dark, they almost looked penciled in. A five o’clock shadow graced his square jaw. I was thankful for the guidance from this obvious senior piper. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I had been taken under the wing of one of the finest pipers in Ontario, and without question, the second best piper at Queens University next to Terry Manning.

The other pipers stood at the ready, heads up, backs straight. Their heels were together, but their toes were spread apart at a forty-five degree angle. Again, I followed their lead, and stood with my pipes up on my shoulder, blow pipe in my mouth and my chanter held in front of me.

Pipe Major stood silent and motionless in the center of the circle, his eyes fixed straight ahead. We waited for a command but none came.

Then, suddenly coming to life, Manning barked out his orders.

“Band ready, pipes up! From an E. “Going Home!”

Everyone blew up their pipes and played an E. Manning pumped his foot up and down three times and we began to play the tune. Manning made his way around the circle, listening to each chanter and adjusting the reed of those that weren’t perfectly in tune.

Satisfied with what he heard, he had the band stop playing and called in big Dan McKee and the drummers to join the circle. He told McKee that he wanted the band to play “Scotland the Brave” twice, starting with a three pace roll. Dan acknowledged the request with a nod.

In a concert or in practice, the pipe major usually calls cadence, but there are those occasions when the pipe major requests the drum major to call the tune.

On the street, the drum major calls cadence: “By the right! Quick march!” This command tells the marching band members that they should “dress right,” or keep their line straight, formed on the member farthest to their right.

“Quick march” tells the band what type of march to expect, and the speed at which the cadence is called sets the tempo for the drum section which, in turn, sets the tempo for the tune and the speed of the march.

McKee stiffened. “Band ready!” he yelled. “By the right...quick march!” The bass drum pounded out its beat and the snares growled out their three-pace rolls. The pipers blew up, first striking in the drones then following with a short E before playing “Scotland the Brave.”

I quickly noticed that Sean and all the veteran pipers were watching Terry Manning. Not the man himself, but his fingers. As his fingers moved, so did theirs.

Those in the circle who weren’t focused on Terry’s fingers were, like me, “new meat” and tried desperately not to look lost.

I noticed one fellow in particular. Lean, blonde, and well dressed, he was obviously well off. But most striking to me were his pipes. They were a piece of artwork with sterling silver engraved furls and tuning pins, even the chanter had a silver base. They must have weighed a ton, but to me they were the most ornate and handsome pipes I had ever seen.

My thoughts were broken by a deep booming voice coming from behind an opening door. Into the room burst an imposing figure waving his arms and yelling.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” he shouted over the deafening sound of twenty pipes and drums. The pipes groaned and whined to a stop and the drums tapered off.

“If you don’t want to play together,” the man said, “then leave and play solo on some street corner for two bits! Now, let’s try it again, but this time together!”

Without hesitation, Terry snapped to attention.

“Gentlemen,” he called out, “‘Scotland the Brave.’ By the right... quick march!”

The drums rolled and the pipes struck in and we started the tune again. I thought we sounded quite good. But halfway through the tune, the visitor apparently thought otherwise.

“Enough!” he wailed. The band stopped disjointedly.

“I expect better from you, Terence,” he reprimanded. The man had a distinct Scottish brogue, which along with his deep, resonant voice, perpetuated his image. He carried himself erect, and with one thick eyebrow slightly raised, this gave him a strong commanding air of superiority.

He walked into the circle and surveyed the group, stopping his gaze only momentarily on the new pipers. Manning moved next to the man who stood waiting expectantly.

“Gentlemen, for those of you who are joining us for the first time,” Manning said, “May I introduce our pipe instructor, Victor Matthews.”

Matthews’ eyes were hard and analytical. Scanning the newest pipers in the group, he took a quick glance at me and began to move my way. I braced myself and expected the worst.

“Name,” he snapped.

“Ian MacDonald,” I answered, almost too quickly.

“MacDonald, hold your chanter parallel to your body, squarely in front of you. Don’t play it into your belly,” Matthews said pragmatically. “And you’re over blowing. Don’t blow to hear yourself.”

His appraisal completed, Matthews then moved onto the next newcomer. I breathed a sigh of relief, as inconspicuously as I could, lest he turn his attention back to me. Wow! I had expected a thrashing and instead got some great, sound advice on how to make myself a better piper.

Matthews went around the group giving critiques to pipers, mostly new, until he came to the fellow with the ornate pipes. The young man had taken his heavy pipes off his shoulder and was holding them more comfortably under his arm. He apparently had not noticed that everyone else was still at attention with their pipes up.

“Name!” Matthews barked, his eyes glaring.

“Patrick McDill,” the young man responded, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“I don’t recall hearing anyone call pipes down McDill!”

The reaction was swift. McDill’s pipes popped back into the proper position, drones on his left shoulder, chanter at the ready and blow pipe squarely in his mouth. He stood at attention hoping he could recover from this blunder in protocol.

“Blow up and strike in!” Matthews commanded.

Now it should be noted that when a piper blows up a bag the drones will come in at different times. To avoid this unpleasant sound, a piper can strike the bag with his right hand. The strike should not be too firm, about as firm as one might slap a baby’s
bottom at birth. If done correctly, this slap jolts all three drone reeds and they come in at the same time.

McDill blew up and struck his bag, but because he was anxious under Matthews’ constant glare, he slapped his bag just a wee bit too hard. The result was the drones coming to life along with a faint squeak from the chanter. It was not a godawful squeak–in fact, it would have gone unnoticed by the man on the street–but it was an affront to Victor Matthews’ ear.

“Stop!” Matthews said. I expected him to unleash his fury on the young piper, but he didn’t. Instead, he simply held out his hand and said, “Chanter.”

McDill obediently unseated his chanter and handed it to Matthews. The pipe instructor looked at the reed with no change of expression, then he raised it, reed first to his mouth.

I fully expected him to blow out the scale or play a brief tune while adjusting the reed in its seat. Instead, he bit down hard on the reed as though it were a small carrot or sprig of celery. The crunch was clearly audible throughout the silent room, and it made every piper grimace and cringe.

Reeds were expensive. If you had a good reed, chances are you grew very fond of it. Many pipers even form a sort of bond with their favorite reed, and when it finally cracks or grows too weak to play, they will save it long beyond its usefulness.