March is THE month for fiddlers because of one single day. Yes, I’m talking about St. Patrick’s Day. Ah, dear old St. Patrick, where would we be without you? Not only did you clear the snakes from Ireland and bring christianity to that lovely green place, but you also created an excuse for one day a year of riotous alcoholism. Green alcoholism, but nevertheless……
Despite this, and despite the inevitable attraction quite a few fiddlers I have met have for alcohol (of any color), this is not the reason we fiddlers revel in the joys of March.
No, Paddy’s Day is far more important to fiddling-folk than that. After all, it’s the one day each year where EVERY person, in EVERY country, from EVERY walk of life, from EVERY musical genre, suddenly realizes how stupendously cool playing the fiddle is. Most of the year the response when told that I play fiddle goes along the lines of “Fiddle huh? How sweet, I’m a metal/classic/disco fan myself”. (Though I do try to steer clear of disco fans as a matter of principle.)
But on St. Patrick’s Day we fiddlers strap on our green, go forth into the musical wasteland we call our community, play our jigs and reels and: We. Become. Mighty!!!!
At least that’s the theory.
The first time I tried to put this theory into action was 3 years ago. Being an adult beginner, prior to then I was simply too terrified to pick up my fiddle in front of anyone other than my teacher. To be honest, there were times when a sideways look from them could flatten my self confidence too. Three years ago though, I decided to stop hiding and try to go out and enjoy “my” day.
I can’t honestly say I enjoyed it though. 3 months of preparation resulted in an hour of tunes I could reasonably play, but every single practice day of those 3 months reminded me of what I was planning to do, and so I suffered miserably from Christmas through to March. And boy did I suffer on St. Patrick’s Day itself. Wearing green, shaking in terror, I parked myself beside the local Irish pub and played my little ditties. Played them badly of course, because fear is the enemy of the bow, but play them I did. Actually quite a few (drunk) people were complimentary about my playing. The bar manager even offered me dinner as thanks, though eating was the absolutely last thing on my mind so I passed. Well, the green skirt was pretty short actually so eating may have been the last thing on his mind too, probably a good thing I passed now I come to think about it.
None of that helped my suffering though, I was still terrified and drenched in nervous sweat when I was done. (By the way, sweaty hands are also the enemy of bowing folk, so you can imagine how well things were going towards the end.) I vowed never to do it again and went home and drank green beer to try to help me forget.
The St. Patrick’s Day after that, though I had recovered enough to renounce my vow of “never again”, I was still a bit shell-shocked, so I only played in semi-public, just for a few friends. Not such a big deal this time so I survived with less nervous sweat, and, to be honest, far more green beer.
This year though I decided enough was enough and it was time to get over this paralyzing terror. So, never one to do things by halves, I took my fiddle into the coffee shop at work and played during the lunch break. Obviously this meant playing in front of both my professional colleagues and my students. Also quite a few chickens because this is the Caribbean after all, but I decided to ignore the feathered members of the audience. Anyway, nothing makes a professor curl up and die inside as quickly as looking foolish in front of one’s colleagues. Actually, there is one thing: looking foolish in front of one’s students. I did both in one day.
But this year I had my secret weapon-of-invincibility. I had Michelle.
Michelle is the lady who owns the coffee shop, and she’s Canadian, so she’s genetically primed to be a fiddle fan. She’s also very nice (Canadian!), but none of that is the reason she’s my secret weapon. The reason is simply that she actually enjoys listening to me play fiddle.
Now, let’s be clear about this, she’s not obliged to like my fiddle playing, but she does anyway. She’s not my Mom; not my fiddle teacher; not one of my mutually supportive music friends who are all in the same boat as me and so know exactly what to say to cheer me up. She’s not even one of my students, who may hate what I’m playing but are smart enough to pretend otherwise, at least until I’ve finished grading their exams anyway. Nope, none of that. Michelle is just a very sweet lady who seems, for some puzzling reason, to like the noises my fiddle and I can make. She calls herself my Number 1 Fan and there is absolutely no doubt she’s right.
It goes further than that though. Michelle doesn’t just LIKE my fiddle playing, she BELIEVES in it. Michelle believes, in her heart and soul, that my fiddle playing is lovely. With no obligation whatsoever, she nevertheless does believe I am a good player and so, when I play for her, I am. That is the magical power of my secret weapon.
This March 17th I sat beside my Weapon/Fan and played everything I could think of to play from memory. Just for Michelle. Quite a few others came past and listened and made comments. There’s even a video floating about somewhere. But none of that mattered because I was playing for my friend. So instead of panicking, tensing up, fluffing my bowing, forgetting the B parts of the tunes or any one of the thousand other ways I have learned to play badly, I just played well instead. It’s hard not to when you have someone sitting beside you tearing up, clapping their hands and saying they are “the luckiest girl on the whole island today”. For that one day I think she really was the luckiest girl on the island, and, because she thought so, I did too. And because we both thought so, we made it true.
So my advice to you is to find your own Michelle. There IS someone out there who knows you can play well, even if you don’t. They believe in you and so you owe it to them to believe in them. Believe that you will find them and you will. Actually, your belief might even create them, confidence can do amazing things for musicality.
You probably won’t be as incredibly lucky as I am. Michelle is literally the lady who sells me my coffee in the mornings. So, she does two amazingly good things for me, come to think of it. Your Michelle might not just drop into your lap the way mine did; you might have to look a bit harder to find her. But look hard enough and you will find that one special person who will be your one special fan. And life, and St. Patrick’s Day, will never be the same again.
