Culture and Ideas Category—Bronze Winner: Dunkeld Folk Session
by Scott Crawford
In 1540, a new instrument was invented in the Italian town of Cremona. It was called the violin. Over the next 500 years, the violin would prove exceptionally versatile and today is one of the few instruments to be equally at home adorning the shoulders of classically trained musicians in symphony halls or tucked under the chins of men wearing overalls and answering to names like Billy Bob and Cletus. For the former we can thank the great composers of the European continent: the Germans, Austrians and others who incorporated the violin into countless compositions of classical music. For the latter, we can thank Scotland.
When the violin first appeared in Scotland a few years after its invention, it was an instant hit. Its sustained notes and haunting tones resembled those of the bagpipes, and its portability soon made it an essential piece of the country’s folk tradition. Over the years, Scottish musicians, isolated from the methods of the continent, would experiment with new techniques for playing the instrument, ultimately developing a jauntier style that became known as “fiddling”. 1 Thus, the violin of classical musicians became the fiddle of folk musicians, and the world was all the richer for both—though America owes a particular debt to the fiddle.
In the 18th century, a wave of Scottish immigrants poured into America, fleeing religious persecution and economic hardship in an English-dominated society. These settlers, finding the coast of America already well-settled (and that by Englishmen no less!), pushed westward into the wild mountains of the southern Appalachians.2 There a distinctive mountain culture was born—a culture that today conjures images of a hardy, independent people, simple and god fearing. These pioneers—the original hillbillies, if you will—carried with them far more than an adventurous spirit and a recipe for homemade whisky. They also brought the rich traditions of Scottish folk music to the hills of America. And for this music, the Appalachians would prove fertile ground.
Armed with their voices and fiddles, these settlers made the mountains come alive with the ballads and dance tunes of their homeland. Isolated from civilization, music became the common thread that held communities together. Individual families would pass evenings with fireside sing-alongs. Periodically, multiple families would gather at a specified barn or church for a night of music and dancing, in exactly the same way communities gathered at ceilidhs∗ in the village halls of Scotland. Over time, the blending of the old songs with new influences and instruments, such as banjoes and guitars to compliment the fiddle, gave rise to a distinctive style of music: the bluegrass and country sounds that underlie American folk traditions today.3 The style is unique to America, yet is inextricably indebted to its Scottish roots.
This connection was brilliantly captured in the year 2000 with the release of a little-regarded Hollywood movie called Songcatcher. Watching the movie, I was struck at how thoroughly music seemed to permeate mountain society. Everyone seemed to sing—old people, young people, honest people, slimy people, people with strong voices, people with raw voices, people with squeaky voices, it didn’t matter—and almost any occasion could merit a song: obvious moments, such as after dinner or walking along a path, but also unexpected moments, such as after a difficult childbirth or the loss of one’s land, as if the music itself could offer solace at such times. I wondered if, like the songs, this thorough embracing of music was a product of the settlers’ Scottish heritage.
Little did I suspect that I would find the answer to this question on our first night out of Edinburgh at an unassuming establishment called the Taybank Hotel.
Our reasons for choosing the Taybank were simple enough. Thumbing through the guidebook for a place to stay, we had stumbled across an entry for the hotel, describing it as “a real beacon for music fans with regular live sessions in the convivial, TV-free bar. The rooms are simple and inexpensive, and the rate includes a continental breakfast.”4 What was that? Live music in lieu of bad TV, cheap rooms and breakfast to boot? I would have driven a good distance to check into a place like that. As it was, we only had to drive about fifteen minutes. The Taybank was located in the town of Dunkeld, just up the road from Perth.
Dunkeld, as it turns out, is a cradle of musical talent in Scotland. The town was the stomping ground of Neil Gow, the country’s most famous 18th century fiddler and composer, and, more recently, Dougie MacLean, a leader of both modern and traditional Scottish folk.5 Today, this rich musical tradition is kept alive at the Taybank Hotel, which was actually founded by MacLean and his wife as a gathering place for musicians of the area. This mission continued under its subsequent owners, and today, the halls of the Taybank still resonate with the sounds of nightly folk music, usually taking the form of spontaneous jam sessions by whatever musicians tend to be congregated that evening. To this purpose, a collection of guitars, fiddles, banjoes, and other stringed instruments hang on the walls above a piano tucked into a corner of the downstairs pub, ready to be placed into the hands of any inspired customer.
Of course, we were blissfully ignorant of all this when we first arrived in Dunkeld. It was still early evening, and we had no idea what the night would bring, though I was rather certain it would include several pints.
Asking for directions to the Taybank, we arrived at a tidy, white hotel, with small paned windows and a gabled roof, nestled, as the name suggests, on the banks of the River Tay. Tables were set up on the sidewalk outside, a few scattered drinkers basking in the evening sunshine, as we parked our car and went inside.
We entered a pub full of tables and a square wooden bar set into one side. Acoustic instruments, concert handbills and Dougie MacLean posters hung on the walls. I approached the bar and was only halfway through my inquiry for a room before the bartender, a young woman in her twenties with dyed coal black hair, pushed a key at me and said in a neutral tone, “Top of the stairs. Keep going up until you can’t go up anymore.”
The room, as the guidebook had warned us, was not about to adorn the cover of Good Housekeeping. It was a snug little chamber containing two small beds: one to the left of the door as we walked in, and another in a little alcove at the back of the room, which I guess qualified the room as a double. Each bed was slightly wider than an ironing board.
“So are we going to get really cozy tonight, or sleep separately?” I asked, good-naturedly.
“I’ll take this one,” my wife, Sabrina, replied, closing the discussion as she dropped her pack on the bed nearest the door.
The room, I should note, had no bathroom. There was a toilet down the hall to be shared by the two or three rooms on the top floor and a full bath on the floor below, to be shared by everyone in the hotel so far as I could tell. It was a bit like being in a fraternity house. Sabrina was less than ecstatic.
“I think it’s time for a pint,” she announced.
Downstairs, I ordered up cider and ale and took them outside. I didn’t see Sabrina at the tables by the entryway, and for a moment I considered the possibility that she had bolted to the fancy hotel we’d seen at the other end of town. At second glance, I located her across the street, looking like she didn’t need to go anywhere any time soon. She had claimed a spot at one of several picnic tables that had been thoughtfully placed in the grass near the river’s edge. The waters of the Tay rolled smoothly by just a few yards from her feet, the view framed by the graceful arches of a stone bridge just upstream. Sabrina’s mood, I was pleased to note, had improved greatly.
We sat for some time sipping our pints and watching the river. Birds were playing in nearby trees, leaving their branches to swoop low over the water’s surface, only to return to their perch and add a song to the sounds of the gurgling water. Across the street, the tables in front of the hotel were filling up with drinkers and, we noticed, diners, so when it was time for a second pint we placed a food order, as well. Dinner by the river was followed by a peaceful stroll through town, with tidy flowerboxes, whitewashed houses, a medieval cathedral, and encroaching remnants of ancient Caledonian forest all adding to the contentment of the evening. Inevitably, however, our thoughts wandered back to the Taybank, with its guitars hanging from the walls and the promises of live music made by our guidebook. We anxiously retraced our steps to the hotel.
The downstairs pub, upon our return, was relatively quiet. A few of the tables were occupied, but there was certainly no band in sight. I wondered if we had hit the Taybank on an off-night.
“There’s a session going on upstairs,” the bartender replied to my query about live music.
“A session?” I inquired.
“Aye, a folk session,” she replied. “Different musicians bring their instruments and set up. It’s real informal, like. Ye can take your pints and gae’n up.”
Upstairs, there was a room apparently dedicated to these folk sessions. A large room, though small for a music venue, was cluttered with chairs in a more or less circular arrangement. A young man going prematurely bald was strumming an acoustic guitar and softly singing a tune as we poked our heads in the open doorway. He was watched by a handful of others—some holding instruments, some not—occupying other chairs. It seemed more like a group of friends playing in a dorm room than live music out at a pub, and we hesitated at the door unsure if we should enter. Seeing this, one of them looked up and beckoned us into the room.
As we entered and took chairs around the circle, the young man continued playing. No one was talking. The song sounded like a traditional Scottish ballad and I didn’t quite catch all the words, but the melody was wonderful. When the song was finished, everyone clapped and murmured words of approval: “Well done.” “Beautiful, mate.” “I love that one.” And so on. Then, with no preamble, the man to his immediate left brought his guitar to his lap and started fingerpicking what sounded like a flamenco tune. In a bold voice, he poured out Spanish lyrics, displaying an incredible range, all the while alternating between picking and strumming a bold, syncopated rhythm on his instrument. When he finished, the people in the room again shared comments of genuine enthusiasm; and then the person to his immediate left readied his guitar and began to play: this time another ballad, but sounding more Country and Western than Celtic.
I began to sense what was happening. Apparently, a folk session was similar to an open mike night in America, where anybody can play. But instead of having to go up on stage, musicians just take turns going around the circle. This was great, except there was now only one person between me and the current musician. I grew nervous, not knowing what was expected of visitors. I should note that I do play guitar and sing—but not exactly on what could be called a performance level. My audience usually consists of Sabrina, who tolerates my strumming but never actually requests me to play, and my cat, who usually sleeps through my playing but sometimes will acknowledge me by getting up, stretching and leaving the room to sleep elsewhere. Sitting in the room with a handful of people listening to yet another talented musician belt out a tune, I didn’t know what to do. I was way out of my league but didn’t want to insult the group if everyone was expected to play. Fortunately, the man to my right solved the dilemma.
When the current song finished and the applause and comments had died down, he simply gave a wave and said, “I’ll pass. I’m just enjoying the talents of others.” The room seemed to accept this without question, and then all eyes were on me. Following my neighbor’s lead, I said something similar, as did Sabrina. We didn’t get off as easily as our neighbor, however. Our accents gave us away as Americans, and we found ourselves being welcomed and asked about home, how we liked Scotland and other such typical questions. Everyone was very nice, and then the session continued.
The middle-aged woman to Sabrina’s left had no instrument, so I was surprised when, rather than passing, she said, “Here’s a song we’d sing at kirk when I was a wee bairn. Ye all ken the lyrics, so feel free to jyne.” Then she opened her mouth and belted out the most beautiful a cappella version of “Amazing Grace” I have ever heard. It’s never been a song I’ve particularly cared for, but sitting in the room listening to her raw voice, which carried the tune but was not particularly trained, gave the song a purity of context that made me hear it as if for the first time. Everyone let her take the first few lines alone, and then others began to join in as she had requested. The voices filled the room and I found myself singing along. (“Amazing Grace” is one of those songs everyone knows the words to whether they like it or not.) Looking to my left, I saw that Sabrina, who admittedly sings worse than me or the cat, was also joining in. It was fantastic.
When she was finished, the singer’s husband—a calloused fellow who looked like he had spent the majority of his days outside—also belted out a traditional a cappella spiritual: “Down to the River to Pray”, which I actually knew the words to thanks to a version that had recently been released by Allison Kraus for the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack. Allison Kraus is considered a country or bluegrass singer, and hearing the song now in this context—being sung a cappella by a salt of the earth Scotsman, with eager harmonies being added by the rest of the room—brought home the strong connection that exists between the folk music of Scotland and America.
Sitting there in the session room of the Taybank Hotel, this cross-ocean connection and the extent to which music permeated folk society in Scotland—as it did in the Appalachians—was suddenly, and in a very tangible way, exposed to its core. The songs, even the ones I didn’t recognize, all sounded vaguely familiar. And everyone in the room seemed to have a musical talent. After the a cappella couple, a father—who looked like a long lost brother of Gerard Depardieu—strummed and sang a ballad on guitar while his daughter accompanied him on flute, adding in harmonies on the chorus. Had a highland cow walked in and grunted out a tune at that moment, I don’t think anyone in the room would have batted an eye. Rather they would have enthusiastically clapped, murmured their words of approval and then looked expectantly at the sheep next to it in the circle. The enthusiasm—the pure and simple joy of music—was contagious.
By the time my turn came around again, I was itching to play. (I had also downed a pint or two in the interval, which seemed to help.) Borrowing a guitar from Depardieu, I brought it to my lap, but after a few false starts I almost gave up and passed. I can’t explain it, but in my awe of the situation, I seemed to have forgotten how to play most songs. The room, however, wouldn’t hear of it, and Depardieu and Balding Guy threw out encouraging remarks, as my brain quickly scanned the list of folk songs I could play. In a bit of subconscious irony, I somehow settled on Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”. As I started strumming and singing the first verse, the energy in the room seemed to pick up—feet were tapping, hands were clapping, and most of the room was even singing along. The effect—which may have been intentional—was reassuring and allowed me to relax and have fun with the song, feeding off the energy of others. The experience was thrilling.
Finishing, I returned the guitar to Depardieu as the listeners murmured their words of approval and a cappella lady prepared to launch into the next tune. Thus, the evening progressed. From time to time, someone new would arrive, and pretty soon almost every chair was full. Some newcomers joined in; some just sat and listened, tapping their feet. We went around the room several more times before Balding Guy finally closed the session with a Dougie MacLean song that everyone in the room knew but Sabrina and me. I would make sure that never happened again by buying two Dougie CD’s off the bartender on our way out the next morning.
As we left the session that night and walked upstairs to our room, I was soaring. The experience had heightened my curiosity of Scottish folk music, and I would spend considerable time in coming months learning more about the country’s rich musical legacy. For that night, however, I was content to feel like a rock star—though I would wager Bob Dylan never had to sleep alone on an ironing board after the gig.
Endnotes
1. www.scotlandintune.com/enjoy/bow_to_the_west.html
2. www.mtsu.edu/~tah/currunits/scotsirish/essay.pdf
3. www.ibma.org/about.bluegrass/history/index.asp
4. Humphreys, Rob and Reid, Donald, The Rough Guide to Scotland, Sixth Edition, 2004: Rough Guides, New York, London, Delhi, p. 451.
5. Information on Neil Gow was taken from a framed print of the artist on the wall of the Taybank Hotel during our trip. Info on Dougie MacLean can be found at www.visitdunkeld.com/dougie-maclean.htm.
