Huggadrum in the north East

We had the honour of working with some of the north east's most amazing innovators this week at the No. 1 Tech hub in Aberdeen. Organised by the Entrepreneurship and Innovation Group of Robert Gordon University, we all had a groovy time with the flying pig and I hope everyone was energised and invigorated for their hard work in the afternoon. Good luck to everyone! And look out for "Bubble Bog"!

So, Trybe drum number 1, affectionately called "Mel", has had her makeover. A couple of coats of matt external varnish, cleaned ears (the leather bits) and posh new pure cotton rope (5mm). For aficionados, she has been re-strung using the McPherson renaissance method originally taught to "squinty eyed Jock" McPherson by the last of the Pictish drummers Onuist of Aberbrothok. The ropes need to be pulled tight and I do this using clamps. But it is likely that Onuist would certainly have used the stone technique. This involve placing a huge flat stone on top of the drum, resting on the top hoop. With this downward pressure applied, the ropes can be tightened and secured using the Arbuth knot, a secret knot handed down to the eldest daughter in a drumming clan. She would be called upon to tie the knot under the cover of night and using a candle with a wick made from the ends of the drum rope. Elsie from our village did it for me with the car headlights pointing at her. Those of you from Peterhead will notice that Drummer's corner in the town is very close to the Arbuthnot museum. This links back to Pictish times and also explains the large number of massive flat stones found around Scotland. Some of these stones have been left standing up, like Callanish or even Stonehenge, and these would have been carefully tipped over onto the drum for tensioning. Just imagine how massive their drums were.

There comes a time in the life of every drum when something gives. Modern drums are tuned with multiple screwed nuts that squeeze down upon a metal rim. This tensions the skin (or "head" if you are a drummer) and stretches the skin to change the tone. When I play with the Trybe (http://theoriginaltrybe.weebly.com/), I use what is often described as "Napoleonic" drums. Those used in battles of old including the American civil war. These drums are tensioned, or tuned using the ropes that pull on both ends of the drum. Leather "ears" then pull down upon pairs of ropes pulling in opposite directions. Using friction they stay in place and keep the drum skin tight. moving the "ears" up or down allows you to tune the drum. All good until a rope snaps. you can tie knots but the rope seems to have given up, it's had a good life and can hold its end up high with no strings attached. So, time for new rope and, while we are at it, a couple of coats of fresh varnish on the drum shell. Using rope, or some sort of sinew, on drums is a world wide technique. The African djembe is also tensioned with rope and in an an artful and skilful way. It has been done like this for thousands of years and, climate change permitting, will go on for millennium to come. I'm not sure Napoleon ever appreciated the skill involved in tuning the battle drums, probably why he met his Waterloo.

A song written in 1899 by Charles Hale somehow sounds mysterious and intriguing. It is said that they don’t write them like they used to and I think that is true of “A darktown cakewalk” even in its 120th year. I had to find out more, especially since I had stumbled upon it whilst researching the origins of an old drummer’s trick. I recently provided a drum workshop for an amazing group of people in the northeast and, as usual, introduced them to the technique of learning and remembering a rhythm using short phrases or words. In that way, the thunderous opening of “We will Rock You” can be humiliatingly reduced to BOOM BOOM WHACK! I’m not sure that Freddy Mercury would have appreciated 30,000 folks at Wembley belting “boom boom whack” right back at him. But you get the idea, it is an aide memoire. At the workshop we had moved on from the booms booms and onto another rhythm that most of you will be familiar with. I played it as an example and then asked each participant in the group to play it back to me one by one. Everyone played well as we arced round to the final drummer. It was she who played with perfect precision and simultaneously said “Shave and a haircut – two pence!” I performed an old vaudevillian double-take. She not only recognised the rhythm but knew the accompanying phrase that is etched into the bones of many a musician. She had even adapted it to fit our British currency. “Two pence” had taken over from the original “two dimes”. I was mightily impressed and proud at the same time. But what were the origins of this phrase that had managed to percolate through the decades to bubble up in present day Fraserburgh? The cakewalk was a dance developed from the "prize walks" held in the mid-19th century, generally at get-togethers on black slave plantations before and after slavery was abolished. In 1876 there was an exposition held in Philadelphia to celebrate 100 years of independence. The prize for the winning couple in the “walk dance” competition was a huge cake. From then on the dance was referred to as “The Cakewalk”. Enter Mr. Charles Hay who would have been familiar with an Afro-American district in Atlanta, Georgia known as Darktown. So, his song is named after the version of cakewalk danced in Darktown, which happens to contain the first ever published version of the “Shave and a haircut – two dimes” musical phrasing.

At the tower of Lethendy in Perthshire there is a carved stone that appears to be the earliest know image of The Trybe. Carved in the 9th Century it shows the ancestors of Skirlie and Scottie playing pipes and a stringed instrument, with a drum in between them. It is probable that Aoengus the wise was not in the picture since he was carving it. To this day it is not unusual for his descendant, Angus, not to be in many of the Trybe photographs. It has been hypothised that the band did ask a passing gaul to carve the picture, but they could not spare the necessary 2 and a half weeks.

The Albino Sparrow Helena was worried that she would be sent back to Germany. The walls of her living room had pictures of grandchildren smiling into their future and oblivious to the past. Beside the photographs were Helena’s paintings of Scottish landscapes that had been her background for seventy years. Her country, Scotland, had welcomed her and embraced her. Her mother had reported every week to the local police until it was decided. You are no longer aliens, you have the right to stay. You are home. Helena’s mother had been liberated by the Americans from a camp in Poland, married a German, had her children, her husband died, she sought refuge in Britain, and ended up in Scotland. Home at last – relief. Helena feeds the pigeons although she knows she shouldn't. She describes the albino sparrow that visits the garden and the joy she gets from seeing it feeding on seed left for the birds. After a lifetime living on farms, she respects nature and the need for shelter, food and company. It worries her the albino may not be accepted by the other sparrows. My mind slips back 30 years. It was a fresh spring morning in central Edinburgh. A green spring was in the leaves and in my step. I was here to train for a war, one borne out of ideals and ideas that began in a match factory but spread to coal mines, shipyards and factories. Like purifying flames cleansing society using the oxygen of publicity and social conscience. One hundred years before, a new weekly paper launched a campaign that sparked a revolution using the words of Victor Hugo; “I will speak for the dumb. I will speak of the small to the great and the feeble to the strong... I will speak for all the despairing silent ones." Around about the same time a certain P T Barnum was three years from a fatal stroke. The “greatest showman on earth” had also been elected as the Mayor of Bridgeport, Connecticut, in 1875. In this role he worked to improve the water supply, introduced gas street lighting, and tackled alcohol and prostitution issues. He also identified American psychologist Bertram Forer’s subjective evaluation phenomenon before Forer did. So, it is more widely known as “the Barnum effect”. Barnum statements continue to be used to this day by mentalists, spiritualists, clairvoyants and politicians. Essentially, they are a series of general statements that just about everybody thinks applies to only them. A gigantic fishing net full of haddock, each thinking “how did they fashion this perfect snare to entrap me?”. Maybe Hugo had done nothing more than produce a Barnum statement. Who wouldn’t be in favour of speaking up for the “despairing silent ones”? In sunny Edinburgh I was aware that the desparing ones were on the brink of another attack from a government that had already swept aside generations of voices. Mining was collapsing, shipbuilding was sinking and car manufacturing had hit the brakes. For public servants, “market testing” would be mean the next item on the agenda. Government departments would be fileted and offered to the private sector on a plate. Privatisation was coming down the tracks. “Providing cheaper and more efficient public services is the right thing to do”. Barnum would have been proud. At the same time, Helena had been hanging out washing on the farm in Aberdeenshire. Her mother was still alive but spoke little about her life in war time Poland. Whether she had been regarded as an economic migrant or a refugee from her damaged country, she had landed at Greenock with her three children. The little card gave her alien status with the right to stay in the United Kingdom along with three children, unnamed on the card. As long as she attended a nominated police station once a week she was permitted to stay. At 6 years of age, Helena along with her older sister and brother, had travelled the width of Europe to seek sanctuary. She had been born in Germany but the Aberdeenshire community had been welcoming and understanding in the post war atmosphere. I walked up the steps and the sun bounced off a brass plaque announcing the offices of The Scottish Trade Union Congress. I was here for a seminar hosted by the Council of Civil Service Unions. There was a flip-chart, an overhead projector, a fax machine a large beige room with a conference table, chairs and coffee. Scrawled at the top of the flipchart was “Market Testing”. I was all set for a day of briefings and discussions that would be slightly more interesting than my day job. We discussed damage limitation, how to protect the jobs and livelihoods of thousands of people. People with rent to pay, children to feed, pensions to keep. The sun beamed through the window as if trying to set the flip chart alight. Public services were being attacked on all sides and all we could do was dig trenches. Brendan O’Neill was a Union employee. A full-time official who supported the elected members and officers with the day to day functioning of a Union branch. Brendan had earned respect for his wise and considered counsel. He was in his early thirties and had a deep voice that cut through a noisy background with reasoned authority. I remember this day because of a dramatic intervention made by Brendan. He was not in the room during a group discussion on market testing. Suddenly the door opened and Brendan flew in clutching a fax. He held in his hands a legal decision that indicated that the “Transfer of Undertakings and the Protection of Employment” (TUPE) Directive would be applicable. I had no idea what he was talking about, “why is he so excited?”. The significance of the shiny fax was lost on me. But the policy director of the Council of Civil Service Unions had heard of it and would have dismissively consigned the fax to the bin if Brendan was not holding onto it with clenched fist. Helena had married a local farmer and was steeped in the Doric stronghold. The rich Aberdeenshire soil had provided generations of families with life. It was hard and the fruits produced by their labour not always bountiful. For years it seemed as if one harvest would stumble to the next. Many would cross the fields to the sea and harvest the silver darlings. Later, oil would create a far stronger pull in order to satisfy the hungry tractors that replaced the horses. Helena’s mother had witnessed the horrors of war, starvation and encampment. She hoped that her children’s young ages would mitigate the exposure to the worst of the sights and sounds. As she grew into her new home, she felt grateful in the knowledge that she had done the right thing. Nearly seventy years later her Alien’s card would be handed to me, still with its photograph of a young beautiful Polish woman. There were no photographs of the children. Brendan was right. TUPE would become famous, in employment law circles, as the UK version of a European Union Directive. It halted the policy of privatising anything in the public sector that looked profitable. It prevented the harvesting of low-lying fruit at the expense of jobs, pay, holidays, pensions, working hours and other hard-won conditions. This directive removed the incentive for private companies to take on public contracts because it entitled working people to retain all of their existing terms and conditions. There was no scope for profit. The workers of the European world breathed a collective sigh of relief. Workers' rights had been protected by Europe against a predatory government that sought to sell off the family silver; melted down and siphoned upwards. For Helena, it never crossed her mind that her right to stay in her home country could ever be challenged. And she was correct, Poland and Germany were part of Europe. She had the right to live in any one of 28 countries which included her beloved Scotland. She was content with a long happy life and the sparrows that had the freedom to visit her garden. Then one day a wind rushed in. Just over half the voting public had decided that being part of the European community was not such a good idea after all. For the first time that she could remember she felt different, unwanted and disempowered by her own country. It does not matter how many times her friends told her “there are too many foreigners here, oh! But we don’t mean you”. She felt insecure and terrified that she would be sent to Germany, the country of her birth. Alone, without her husband, family, friends and unable to communicate. Still attached to the branch but feeling like low-lying fruit. Helena, in her desperation, sought help. The Citizen’s Advice office had told her that there was nothing they could do for her. I told her there was nothing I could do for her as the coordinator of a health and social care drop-in centre. Not in our remit, sorry. For 35 years I have been aware of the protections afforded by TUPE. Employment rights are so easily taken for granted when they are guarded by laws. Victor Hugo had been inspired by articles written by a crusading journalist, Annie Besant. She listened to the matchmaker girls and women of the Bryant and May match factory. She publicised the shocking conditions they toiled under. Fines for petty offenses like talking, being late, dropping materials, and taking unauthorised toilet breaks. The money was deducted from their pay, such as it was. The campaign resulted in the first organised strike action in modern times. Their conditions improved and efforts began to introduce laws that would improve the lives of millions of ordinary working people. This policy of balancing the rights of citizens with the economic drive for profit has flowed across the decades and countries. It has been a fundamental strand of European law and regulation and has protected citizens against sporadic attack by UK governments. I listened to Helena. She told me the story of her mother and how she had arrived at Greenock one wet Thursday morning with her bundle of children. She had survived a Polish internment camp, had lost her husband but had been offered work in Scotland and a safe place to live. I was ashamed, angry, and upset that it had come to this. Helena wanted the security and re-assurance that she was a British citizen and could not be forced to move somewhere else alien to her. With her German birth certificate and a copy of her mother’s alien card, I sought help on her behalf. Surely this can be resolved by someone, an expert in this field. The likelihood of exiting the European Union raised the possibility that Helena would be deported. No amount of re-assurance from friends, politicians or from me could erase that possibility with absolute certainty. After an appeal on facebook, we found our expert who was familiar with the hundreds of pages of forms that needed to be completed and submitted to The Home Office. Months later we received news. Yes, the situation could be resolved; first, provide evidence of seventy years life in the UK, secondly, submit the alien identity card. Then, and only then, apply for a British passport. It would take months, maybe a couple of years. And it would cost around four thousand pounds. There was light at the end, but of a very long and expensive tunnel. So, for what it is worth, these are some of my experiences of living as a European citizen. I am grateful for the protection that I have received, the wars that never happened, the jobs that I have had, the opportunity to live and work in another European country, the joy of Cycling from Germany to France for a day out without the need for border checks, the ability to drive from the republic to Northern Ireland to take a ferry home and most of all, for the chance to meet my German wife while she was on holiday in Ireland. In Scotland I have been privileged to work with Poles, Lithuanians, Germans, Swiss people, French people, and many more from many places. They have all enriched my life and I hope I was able to help them. Helena has still to decide what to do and whether she can afford the cost of proving who she is. This is about her identity, who she is and what she has contributed to her community. I hope she can spend her final days in the knowledge that she is not defined by a Home office process but by the person she is. By what she means to her husband, family and friends. And by what she meant to a brave young mother who brought her here for a new, better life. I hope she keeps looking out for the albino sparrow.

It happened in 1599 in Scotland but took an amazing 150 years for England to catch up. For those 150 years it remained as 25 march, hence the tax year still ends around about then. But for Scotland, The Netherlands, Venice, Poland and many other countries, the new year would start on 1st of January. Hogmany would be the last day of the old year in Scotland but is known to this day as Silvester in most other parts of Europe. St Sylvester had been a pope who was lucky enough to have his own feast day. Calennig in Wales, Ambang in Brunei, it is incredible that such variation in names is equalled by the historic variation in dates. The etymology of “hogmany” appears controversial but I like the version that attributes it to the old french word “hoguinané” which refers to a gift given at new year. So, that fixed point in our temporal framework has actually been quite transient in the past. For ancient romans new year signified the start of a new senate, the day the politicians got back to work. I prefer the notion of ordinary people giving their neighbours gifts to signify wealth and happiness for the coming year. Given the mess that Britain is in perhaps our politicians should take a year out. There will be another new one after this one.

In 1688 a court case took place in the Lapparks, formerly part of the northern region of kingdom of Sweden. Yule began on 21 December, the winter solstice, and continued into January. This had been the tradition for hundreds of years and was absorbed by the Christians who eventually turned it into Christmas. But in 1688 the bishop, who was also the county governor, embarked on a cutting and pasting mission through the region. Celebrating yule was harmless enough, but some other ancient practices had to go. “Temporal and eternal punishment” would befall those who failed to produce their drums for destruction. Drums were the instruments of the devil and had to be burned. Lars Nilsson was grieving. He had recently lost his son and, in the time old Saami tradition, used the ritual playing of a drum to try to bring him back. The bishop didn’t like this, presumably wanting to create a monopoly over resurrection. So Lars was called to court. Putting up little resistance he stated that he would “observe and use the custom of my forefathers, in spite of what higher or lower authority in this case would now or in the future prohibit me from doing”. Lars was subsequently decapitated and burned at the stake “together with the tree-idols he had used and the divination drum and the tools belonging to it.” The Norse believed that every spark and ember that left the burning yule log represented the birth of new cattle in the spring. If you’re looking into the flames of a fire this yuletide, spare a thought for Lars Nilsson and his drum. Oh, and the 175 other people burned as witches by the good Bishop.

Sitting on a wall. Ears pointed at the rustling, poised like a coiled spring. It’s only the wind teasing and wheezing through the leaves. So, Muffin the Cat jumps down onto the grass and meanders along the back of the house, turns right at the wheelbarrow, stops to sniff the woodpile and turns right again towards the front door. Like the entrance to an Austrian road tunnel the cat flap leads to sanctuary, warmth and food. Easy access to a full belly, deep sleep, and cuddles. But today an invisible forcefield blocks the entrance; a smell that knocks Muffin back like smelling salts waking the fainted. A scent so overpowering that even the drive for food and warmth cannot overrule the instinct to avoid the plastic hatch. The hatch that was sticking so much that, even with a running head butt, Muffin could not break through. So one her servants dismantled it, cleaned it and put it back together with a liberal spraying of WD40. Wrong move. Cat flap moves beautifully like a flower girl on a swing. But now it is Muffin who is stuck. Glued to the concrete outside the front door and looking very disgruntled. Why don’t they produce lavender scented WD40? I’m sure it would go down well with mechanics and their oily rags.