#fiddle player

[sea-fairer]

trying to put the sea into song

[viciousviolins]

Stampede stage ootd

[twnj]

Scottish Shikamaru playing at a session at his local pub. I wrote this a while ago but didn't think anyone would be able to understand it. It's written in North East Scots dialect (Doric) but I edited some of it to make it easier to read 👀 (mostly spelled phonetically)

Below the cut 👇🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🎻

It had been chucking it doon the last twa nichts. His mum had rung the offshore line tae see if the helicopters were still running, and they were. As he had already telt her, ken. Twa times, the night ‘afore. They hid just been delayed, like. It didna fash him muckle, he just stepped aff the helipad, went back in tae the stack and lay doon next tae the vending machine in een of the lounges. It made the plastic seat hum gently and when he raised his heed the noise grew a wee bitty, but only then. That wis the blessing of haein’ a bad lug. You could sleep almost oany’wer if you just lay doon on the richt side.

But once the winds had died doon, and ab’day got back ootside and belted up, they were aff. It would be nicht by the time Shikamaru touched land again, and then another twa oors up the road hame, along the coast and roond the country bends he kent like the back of his hand.

His mum had left him a message on his mobile again, nae doot asking if he’d touched doon yet, spikin aboot so and so a person and… sich and sich. He paused to himsel as the taxi pulled awa intae his drive way. The fact that he actually couldn’a mind what she had bin spikin aboot the other nicht was pretty bad like, even by his staunderds.

Ach weel. He gai needed tae listen to those messages a’fore he saw her next.

He didn’a listen to them the noo, partly cause his phone ran oot of charge (“yeh really need tae get a newer phone Shika, that Nokia is a’wise dying on yeh”, aye whitever, Ino) but also he wis late for the session the nicht. It wis the usual monthly get together at the ‘Redder’ as the locals called it. Him and his pals had started going as youngins – probably too young tae be in the pub, but hey-ho – and he had missed the last een.

The smoke from his fag trailed behind him in the humid late summer air – strange for this time of year, like. Climate change, or whitever Choji had been spikin aboot in his thesis a few months ago.

“Fit like, stranger?” a few folk waved tae him as he ducked his heed and stepped intae the pub. The rackit from someone chucking empties in the bin bit at him and (as wis custom) he started tae seek oot the furthest awa table fae the bar. Gai muckle folk, and gai muckle instrument cases stacked up against the fire door, as per.

He slung his fiddle case doon and stubbed oot his dying fag in the glass ash tray in the middle of the wobbly table.

“A’right there, min? When did ye get back?” a youngish loon wi scraggly broon hair and a wolfish smile said tae him and offered his haund. Shikamaru noticed he’d acquired a new tattoo on his forairm as Kiba clasped his haund, in probably fit the loon thought wis a manly way. Big fairmer haunds, nae sense. The loony had a tattoo on his face, fer fucks sake. Shikamaru finished the haund shake quickly (aye, yer the big man, whitever) and went tae order a pint. A table next tae him burst intae peels of laughter which made Shikamaru start a wee bitty and he missed his opportunity tae catch the barman’s ein. He wis serving some blonde dame across the other side of the bar. She looked like she was counting oot pennies slowly in her haund, the barman leaning o’er to repeat himsel possibly. Part of the quines face was obscured by the ‘Spey Sheild’ that hung on that side of the bar. He sighed. Tourists. His dad used tae call them ‘in-aboot-ers’.

He lit another fag and sat back doon, the stool creaking a wee bit under him.

“So how wis it, like?”

“How wis whit?”, Shikamaru yawned still holding the fag in een haund and unzipping his fiddle case with the other een. It had been o’er twa months since he had taken her oot. He ran his fingers o’er the fizzy black lining far the gentle curves of wood nestled in comfortably, like. In the background he lugged someone (probably on their third pint) tune up a guitar and play the opening chords tae ‘The Road tae Banff’. In F, probably. Guitarists gai loved F.

“How wis offshore, like? Yer mum told a’bday aboot it”, Kiba chortled. “Wee Shika’s first big adventure?” the airshole laughed and hit him on the shoulder, which made Shikamaru almaist drap ash intae his case. Him and Kiba went wai back like, but it didn’a stop him from being a prick aifter a couple of pints. A’wise trying tae prove some’hin.

“Windy”, Shikamaru said raising his brows and moving tae inspect his bow.

“Come aff it - Ino telt me you hid some run-in wi some technician wifey at the orientation hing a’fore you went? She telt ma sister-”.

A’fore he could finish telling Shikamaru fit rumours had been spread aboot him (nae’hing is sacred in a village) a manny shouted o’er the tap of a set of ‘6/8’ chords that he minded.

“Shika – this een’s yours, like”, the disembodied voice rang oot o’er the din of the bar. There’s som’hin aboot music that can chainge the atmosphere in a split second. It’s like aifter the ‘big bang’ (or maybe a’fore it, he would have tae ask Choji) where there are ah these separate molecules or groups of elements just floating aroond, seemingly doing their ain thing. Or nae oany’hing, even. Just totally inert, like. The wee pooches of conversations here and there; smaller groups slowly merging together aroond a bigger table, each wi their ain wee dynamics. And then bam! It just takes a person tae start a tune; a wee spark, and ah these wee tables filled wi folky suddenly coalesce somehoo, intae een mind. Ah playing and moving in the same direction, ah withoot oany apparent communication and as though they had a’wais been dae’ing it. Like, some musical cosmos…or some’hin. Oany’way.

Shika turned his guid lug to the direction of the caller, trying to ignore Kiba for a minty. He sighed oot his smoke (he had only just lit this een fer fuck sake!) and picked up his bow, turned on his stool and got sucked into the orbit.

[wouldyourecognizethisperson-poll]

Would you recognize this person if you saw them in public?

Yes, I know who this is and I feel confident that I would recognize them

I know who this is but I’m not sure I would recognize them in person

They look familiar but I’m not sure who they are

I have no idea who this is

Nuanced answer

Voting ended onAug 26, 2025

[higherentity]

[oggysonart]

Jests you✨

I’ve been having artblock so I wanted to try doing something different. Might have even turnt out a little bit happy with it!

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday one Scotlands finest musicians' fiddle player Aly Bain, born in Lerwick, Shetland May 15th, 1946.

Bain began playing the fiddle at the age of 11 and studied under influential Shetland fiddler Tom Anderson. In the late '70s, he played on two of Anderson's albums -- The Silver Bow and Shetland Folk Fiddling, Vol. 2. Honing his craft in a series of local bands, Bain attracted international attention after joining Irish/Scottish band, the Boys of the Lough, whom he met at the Falkirk Folk Festival in 1969.

Aly released his debut solo outing, First Album, in 1985. Three years later, he traveled to Louisiana to record the album, Aly Meets the Cajuns. The same year, he met Phil Cunningham at a pub near Edinburgh and they agreed to tour together. Their first duo album, The Pearl, released in 1994, was followed by The Ruby in 1997.

Bain has hosted several musical series for BBC Television. Down Home explored the spread of the Celtic fiddle tradition from Ireland and Scotland to North America. Push the Boat Out, shown in 1991, was taped during the Mayfest celebrations in Glasgow. The Shetland Set, shown the same year, was taped at the Shetland Folk Festival. Bain's autobiography, Fiddler on the Loose, co-written by Alistair Clark, was published by Mainstream Publishing in 1993.

Aly had a wee health scare in 2019 and had to undrgo a triple heart bypass, but was soon on his feet again and is keeping himself busy.

Today, Aly continues to be an ambassador for Scotland abroad and a powerful advocate for traditional music.

Aly Bain & Phil Cunningham are currently touring, you can catch them next at Backstage at The Green in Kinross, on May 23rd The two will be at Sidmouth Folk Festival in August and will return to Scotland for gigs in Forres and Lanark, two concets in Glasgow's Òran Mór in September, quite fitting as the rough translation for the Gaelic name of the venue is 'great melody of life' or 'big song',

[seadem-on]

Activity 1 for the @dollarstrilogyevent - the fiddle player.

He had dreamed so long of being part of an orchestra.

Back in his hometown, there was not much to do in the long evenings for a young man like him - nothing that did not involve getting drunk and being involved in bar fights or meetings with the women who used to entertain soldiers and bounty hunters. He had never been strong enough to fight another man with the chance of winning. As for women, he’d known all of them by their names as they had raised him since he was a little infant - one of them was his mother, he was not sure which one as they all took care of him in the same way and called him sweet, affectionate names.

Since he’d been a little boy he had to find himself something to be occupied with. He’d started knocking together old rusty iron pot lids, and his mothers would sing along obscene tunes which sounded tender and nostalgic to him. Eventually a passing stranger, a paying companion of his mothers who’d end up develop a little affection for him, left him an old scanted fiddle. He’d learned to play by himself, and soon he came to know the instrument like himself, like it had always been part of himself.

In the dimly lit saloons where the boy spent his evenings he would start to play tunes on his fiddle - often merry and entertaining, to light up the spirits of the owner, the workers and the customers alike, to see his mothers dance with their colorful skirts and hear their crackling laughter. Seldom he would play slower, more nostalgic tunes, to keep company to heavy-hearted loners or just for young lovers who wouldn’t not hear music with their ears - being focused only on their partner’s soft whispers - but who would feel it in their hearts.

He would play for the homeless, for the hungry miners, for the children and their mothers, for seamstresses and for the aimless wanderers and fortune seekers. Then the streets and saloons started to welcome more and more the dirty uniforms and boots of the Union troops, whose officers did not like music very much.

He would play for himself, and for his mothers, wandering from village to village ignoring that the thunder of the war was coming tumbling nearer and nearer.

Until one day he was woken up by a boot lightly poking his side - his eyes trailed over the uniform of a Union officer in a black hat, with a cold smile, telling him to get up and follow him. He knew by the sound of the man’s voice it was not an invitation.

He knew would not see his mothers ever again.

They’d brought him to the fort.

His companions were now war prisoners. Old haggard men, wrinkled faces and thin bodies wrapped in their big coats, youngsters slouching in dusty corners with empty eyes, strong men who would soon lose the spring in their step and the glint in their eyes along with their belongings - watches and hats and scarves which a few hours later would appear on the heads and wrists and around the necks of the officers and their friends.

When one of the men who still had the sparkle of life in their eyes protested a little too heatedly, he was escorted by Corporal Wallace to the officer’s log cabin. At the beginning he would not understand what was that for - strangely there was only a still silence coming from the cabin. That was until Corporal Carley gathered him and a few other men in the yard of the camp, equipped them with the instruments they’d been confiscated, and told them to start playing, and to play loud.

The orchestra he’d dreamed to be part of - harmonicas, trombones, flutes, and the chorus - was now a living nightmare. They were forced to play and sing until their fingers were numb and their voices coarse and their faces burnt from the sunlight - louder and louder to cover up the horrific screaming from the cabin, until it stopped, until Wallace had punched out the will to live from a man. This was no music dance to, to drink to, no tune for working people and women in love and sad drunkards - their stage was the scaffold and their audience were a crowd of walking dead.

At night, in the few hours when he got to fall asleep, he’d dreamed of playing his fiddle all alone in the dead silence of the camp. The bow flew over the strings and no tune would come out, but it made no difference because there was no one to hear it - the only sound filling the air being loud, broken screams of pain.