In dark bars and concert halls. Of course.
My buddy in Stromness on the Orkney Mainland urged me to return for the annual folk festival. It's in late May, a time of year I rarely travel but I had to go. Beyond the fact that it sounded like eight tons of fun, the idea of being so far north, so close to the Arctic Circle at the 20 hour daylight time of year was irresistible.
I usually stayed with Betty but she was booked solid well in advance of the festival. Everyone who grew up here, I’d been told, returns for the festival -- it’s homecoming weekend, Orkney style. Happily, I managed to score a room at the Stromness Hotel, the only game in town apart from B&Bs and the youth hostel. It’s located right at the pier, the center of town, and most of the festival musicians stay here. The place had a shabby, antique kind of charm which was just right for me.
The four day festival had formal evening concerts showcasing local Orkney Island folks as well as musicians from the Scottish mainland. I went to a couple of those but much preferred the pick up sessions in the main lounge of the hotel. The informality and spontaneity were joi de vivre rocket fuel.
There were two bands in particular that I was immensely keen to see. The Iron Horse, a speeding freight train of trad/rock/Gaelic/punk and Black Eyed Biddy, more straight up Scottish folk but they play tunes of their own, with an emphasis on social justice. They were both playing at the concert on the final evening. This was held in an old, creeky Victorian church/meeting hall/theater kind of a structure -- the sort of place with balconies and upper balconies and way upper, SRO, nose bleed balconies. Late in buying my ticket, as usual, this is where I was along with a group of young backpacking punks kitted out in sweatshirts, huge unlaced sneakers, floppy athletic socks and kilts. We were all moving to the music, enjoying the tunes and then Iron Horse came on and it was as though a wild tornado of sound and musical fury hit the joint. Don’t know about the folks on the mezzanine level but those of us in nose bleed-ville were ignited and pogoing as though our blood had been replaced with high volt current. I wondered, albeit briefly, if the balcony would collapse from our collective stomping, spinning and salmon-headed-upstream dancing.
After the final encore I returned to the hotel where many of the musicians continued to play in the lounge. Last call came about and most of the crowd and players left for their homes, hostels and B&Bs. I was returning to my room when I was snagged by a fellow music fiend and brought to the hotel’s private resident bar where the party was continuing. It was midnight and still light out as we crammed into a room the size of an oversized closet (or so it seemed) for a more mellow seisiún and conversation.
Finally, I made my way back to my room to shower, pack and head to the 7 AM ferry. Looking out the window in my snug room I saw that the sky was bright. The dark of night had come and gone during the few hours we were all wedged into the back bar.
Wistfully I boarded the ferry. I don’t do well on boats, especially on the rough water of the North Sea, so I headed to the ferry pub for a Guinness. I was happily surprised to find the Stromness Hotel back room seisiún was on board and in full swing. They were playing reels -- a couple was dancing with more style, coordination and energy than I could’ve managed even with a full nights sleep.
By the time we docked in Scrabster, I found that I was exhausted and ready to return to the, relatively, calm and quiet, if perhaps less magical, Edinburgh music scene.
My buddy in Stromness on the Orkney Mainland urged me to return for the annual folk festival. It's in late May, a time of year I rarely travel but I had to go. Beyond the fact that it sounded like eight tons of fun, the idea of being so far north, so close to the Arctic Circle at the 20 hour daylight time of year was irresistible.
I usually stayed with Betty but she was booked solid well in advance of the festival. Everyone who grew up here, I’d been told, returns for the festival -- it’s homecoming weekend, Orkney style. Happily, I managed to score a room at the Stromness Hotel, the only game in town apart from B&Bs and the youth hostel. It’s located right at the pier, the center of town, and most of the festival musicians stay here. The place had a shabby, antique kind of charm which was just right for me.The four day festival had formal evening concerts showcasing local Orkney Island folks as well as musicians from the Scottish mainland. I went to a couple of those but much preferred the pick up sessions in the main lounge of the hotel. The informality and spontaneity were joi de vivre rocket fuel.
There were two bands in particular that I was immensely keen to see. The Iron Horse, a speeding freight train of trad/rock/Gaelic/punk and Black Eyed Biddy, more straight up Scottish folk but they play tunes of their own, with an emphasis on social justice. They were both playing at the concert on the final evening. This was held in an old, creeky Victorian church/meeting hall/theater kind of a structure -- the sort of place with balconies and upper balconies and way upper, SRO, nose bleed balconies. Late in buying my ticket, as usual, this is where I was along with a group of young backpacking punks kitted out in sweatshirts, huge unlaced sneakers, floppy athletic socks and kilts. We were all moving to the music, enjoying the tunes and then Iron Horse came on and it was as though a wild tornado of sound and musical fury hit the joint. Don’t know about the folks on the mezzanine level but those of us in nose bleed-ville were ignited and pogoing as though our blood had been replaced with high volt current. I wondered, albeit briefly, if the balcony would collapse from our collective stomping, spinning and salmon-headed-upstream dancing.
Finally, I made my way back to my room to shower, pack and head to the 7 AM ferry. Looking out the window in my snug room I saw that the sky was bright. The dark of night had come and gone during the few hours we were all wedged into the back bar.Wistfully I boarded the ferry. I don’t do well on boats, especially on the rough water of the North Sea, so I headed to the ferry pub for a Guinness. I was happily surprised to find the Stromness Hotel back room seisiún was on board and in full swing. They were playing reels -- a couple was dancing with more style, coordination and energy than I could’ve managed even with a full nights sleep.
By the time we docked in Scrabster, I found that I was exhausted and ready to return to the, relatively, calm and quiet, if perhaps less magical, Edinburgh music scene.
No comments:
Post a Comment