Well, I’ve had my Jin Bao bass trumpet from Steve Ferguson’s store for a few days now, and have toyed around with it enough that I feel I can give a highly personal appraisal of it at this point.

While I am certainly no bass trumpet expert (who is, for goodness sake!) I have played in performance situations a Bach, a Conn, a Getzen, and a Lidl, so I do have some frame of reference.

I really don’t know what kind of shape these come in to Ferguson Music; I do know that as a matter of course, Steve packs them off to Robb Stewart’s repair shop as soon as they arrive.

As Steve says on his website, TOSS the mouthpiece that comes with it. It has no brand or size on it, but it looks like a Wick 4BS (roughly equivalent to a Bach 4G) which I would categorize as a large-bore tenor mouthpiece. Of course, the one that comes with the Jin Bao is a small shank, but it’s a larger cup and rim.

I tried it with a Bach 12C and 6.5AL, a Schilke Dorsey mouthpiece (I think that’s a 42) a Stork T1 and T2, Greg Black 1.25G, 2G, 3C, and 3G and two of my custom setups from Doug Elliot (larger rims, shallow cups). Also, a couple of my vintage mouthpieces, one if which simply reads “Innes” and the other “Conn-Innes,” both dating from the 20s.

General observation: Use as small a mouthpiece as you can. A larger rim or deeper cup immediately leads to HEINOUS intonation problems and paucity of tone. With larger ‘pieces, it doesn’t slot at all and unless you really do a Valsalva maneuver, the timbre is airy and lackluster. Of course, that’s partially true of ALL bass trumpets–which really has to be the comparison control here. Bass trumpets are strange creatures, period, so please note I’m comparing this fellow to the “best” bass trumpet I ever played, an older Bach piston several years ago.

I started with simple long tones and scalar exercises. Using the smaller range of ‘pieces (the ones that worked best for me were the Dorsey, humorously enough, and the Black 2G and 3C) and really keeping my embouchure firm and consistent, I got a nice, pointed trumpetesque sound from the Eb on the staff up to the C an octave and two-thirds above that. Here’s something I noticed, though–with my Edwards bass and my new 3B+, it usually feels like all I have to do is hold the horn in front of me and blow, and voila, a nice timbre. (Author’s note: I am a firm, passionate believer in making the hardware work for you, not against you. That’s why I play an Edwards bass and a 3B+, not a 2B, not a 3B; I discovered during trials when I was purchasing them both that they “fit” me well, and that even with a cold, stopped up nose, and a headache, I sounded decent on those instruments) By contrast, playing the Jin Bao–and in my case, the Getzen bass trumpet as well–it’s a constant battle to keep the sound right. To contrast, the Bach in my experience is a much “friendlier” horn. With the JB and the Getzen, I feel as if I need to keep a constant monitoring process aimed at my breathing, my embouchure and mouthpiece positioning. I can’t remember the last time I had to concentrate that hard *just* to get a good sound. Very humbling!

However, with the JB, as long as I “kept mah mouth right,” as dad would say, the sound was passable, and from mf up to ff, very impressive! MUCH harder to get a good sound at the softer volumes for me.

I’ve noticed several comments about Chinese horn tuning problems and bass trumpet tuning problems, generally. As anyone who has had to play a bass trumpet for any amount of time will tell you, possibly while screaming, tuning is a problem on these instruments, period. The kicker is to get one that has as few inherent acoustic problems as possible. When using the “correct” mouthpiece, I didn’t notice any real clunkers, save with all three valves depressed, which was then horrible–but it’s horrible on most horns with 1-2-3 down. It’s lippable, but unless you’re into gut-turning alternate fingerings, I can’t imagine using 1-2-3 in the upper register on a bass trumpet, anyway. Generally, the horn is in tune with itself and there’s enough slide on the three valve slides to maneuver the tuning around. I checked all notes from the Eb to the C noted above and they’re all within tolerances given the native problems with any air column brass instrument. No worse than my Bach cornet, in other words.

As far as mechanical work goes–and I don’t know how much of this is Jin Bao and how much is Jin Stewart–it was quite good. Solid feel, well-soldered, no blemishes or solder-drops, and I was actually pretty impressed with the short-throw rotary valves. I’d gotten out of the hang of holding those darn side-saddle European-style horns, but once I got that feel back, I was very pleased with the mechanics. Valves are quick and solid and lie well under the hand.

Moving on to orchestral excerpts (yes, of COURSE I played the Valkyries on it!) all I can add is that, as stated above, *I* had to continue to pay close attention to my “set” as I played it. After three sessions with it, this became somewhat easier, but the fact of the matter is that a trumpet ethos is NOT the same as a trombone ethos; they are very different instruments. Approach the bass trumpet like a marching trombone and you will be mightily disappointed. I was happily surprised at the response of the horn in playing a few excerpts, some Rochut and some Arbans, although I would NOT describe the instrument as “nimble” in any respect.

So, in conclusion, it is my opinion that the Jin Bao/Robb Stewart horn that *I* got gets a good, solid C+. Not great, but not awful. (By contrast, I give a Conn Director trombone a B and a King Sonorous a B+, and a Blessing B88 a B-) The biggest beef I have with it is that compared to other bass trumpets I have played I feel as if I have to work inordinately hard to get a characteristic sound. The JB is also VERY VERY sensitive to mouthpiece size.

Would I recommend it to a professional? Christ, no. Would I use it if I got a slap-shot last minute symphony gig with a regional group? Sure. However, if I knew 2 months in advance that I’d be doing the gig, I’d find a Bach or a Conn piston horn, myself. It’s worth the $450 bucks Ferguson is charging for it, anyway, so I’m happy. In a sick way, I rather enjoy playing it because it FORCES me to pay REALLY close attention to brass fundamentals to get a good sound–and the sound, when thus approached on the Jin Bao, IS a decent timbre.

My two shillings.

Hello, my name is Anton. Welcome to my BurgerWelt!
Rated “Triple-A” (for Anton, Arnold, and Alban)

---

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Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,
Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice
Is seldom rent ;
Then I in Heaven all the long year
Would keep, and never wander here.

– Henry Vaughan (1621-1695), The Night, from Silex Scintillans, Part II, 1655

Day 9 -1, 31 October 2003

FM1488, near Magnolia, TX 8:15pm

On a lark, I opted to do my first “sleepover” at the Festival this weekend. Rather than driving out early Saturday morning, I decided it might be less hectic to make the journey out to Todd Mission Friday evening. After cramming all the necessaries into the Grand Cherokee (tent, air mattress, clothes, beer) I point the bow northwest and set all plain sail.

The drive to Plantersville at 8pm is fundamentally different than the drive at 8am.

For starters, and perhaps most obviously, it’s DARK at 8pm now that the time has changed from manufactured, false, useless daylight savings time. (See picture) And remember, boys and girls, that’s not Chicago “dark” or Houston “dark” or even suburb “dark.” It’s sticks-dark, boondocks-dark, FUCKING DARK. I can, for one of the few times since I’ve purchased it, use the highway beams on the Grand Cherokee–nay, am compelled to do so. I grew up in the woods, and I haven’t really been gifted with this particular shade of black since I ran screaming from the swamps of southern Alabama in ‘82.

Following closely is the absence of (visible) law enforcement personnel. Of course, they’re not really needed, as the roadways are completely desolate, and utterly deserted save for an occasional skulking woodland creature that scuttles across the road–usually an opossum. There were three that did so on this trip, always taking the time to pause in mid-scuttle to glare at me with their feral eyes for a moment. Unsettling, that. At least they didn’t hold up a little sign, Merrie-Melodies style, that read “Hey! Does that have a hemi?” (Editor’s note: Yes, I am fully aware that this is a time-dependent bit of prose, and that in a few years no one reading this will remember the godawful Dodge pickup commercials with the white-trash rednecks worried about the engine construction of their dream-truck, but as I’ve just handily expounded the point in this italicized note, you’re safe now. SWEEEEET.)

I’m a bit nervous, to tell the truth–one hears stories about RenFest campsites, especially of the after-hours activities of the virtuous denizens. So while I’m not particularly anxious, I am mildly hesitant. I drive through the murky darkness, through Toontown, and up to the guard shack, show my performer ID, and find a place to park near the main backstage edifice, the entertainment building. From what I can gather, the entertainment building is the heart of the Festival, the offices near the front-gate entrance being the brain. The lights are still on within, and a number of campsites are already set up. I find a decent parking slot, near the building and the all-powerful bathrooms and showers, but far enough near the back of the area so that when the lights go out (Quiet Time is officially at 11pm with Lights Out starting at midnight–note how when you say those two phrases out loud you can actually hear the Capital Letters)

There is a small group of folks around the picnic tables in front of the entertainment building when I arrive, and as I step out of the Cherokee I can hear the faint strains of Blues Traveller drifting through the balmy night. I haven’t quite decided if I’m going to sleep in the back of the SUV or pitch the tent for tonight; eventually I decide to have a beer (St. Pauli Girl for this evening), walk around a bit, see what the ambience is like, and then turn in, sleeping in the back of the vehicle.

I reflect a bit as I get the evening’s sleeping quarters set up–why come out on Friday night? Why stay over at all? While it is an hour’s drive back home, it’s usually not a terrible burden to drive home, as long as I blast out of the Festival precincts by 4:45pm on Saturday afternoon. The only answer that I can finally distill is that I want to see what it’s like–or more precisely, what my RenFest colleagues are like when not “on the job.” Perhaps, like learning a language, the immersion technique will yield some interesting observations.

In fact, this first Friday night at the campground results in an enjoyable couple of hours spent talking with Preston, a drummer with Tartanic, and Stephanie, the viellest from Istanpitta, who commute together from the Dallas area every weekend. Most of the other folks present are long-time TRF musicians and actors, and have their own little groups. I, being one of the many new guys (although not hymena intacta after last year’s efforts), don’t have a group to hang out with yet. By midnight, I’m ready for Morpheus–the god, not the bald mystic)–and I head off, towel and toiletries in hand, for a shower and then bed.

Oh, dear.

Wee sleekit beastie (mildew)

I considered actually taking the digital camera into the showers to take a shot of the large-scale growths on the walls and floors, but discarded that idea when I contemplated how it would appear to others if I should be seen taking a camera into the men’s showers. Ergo, verbal description will have to suffice.

The participant’s bathroom and shower building was no doubt quite pleasant when it was new. However, mold and mildew growths now have become cultivated from a quarter to half the height of the wall in most places. I’m not particularly squeamish, but this was impressive. These are old-growth forests. These are evolved protozoans. With a microscope, I am fairly certain that I could see very small factories, schools, and municipal parks in these giant colonies of fungus–perhaps even Lutherans.

After a gingerly acquired shower and such, I meander back across the darkened landscape to the Cherokee. Despite this being All Hallow’s Eve, the campsite is virtually silent. I’m sure something’s happening somewhere–probably in Toontown–but it’s positively idyllic here. Within a few minutes, I’m packed in and snoring like a buzz saw.

Day 9, 1 November 2003

Camp overview

Sun through the windows and an excruciating pain in my lower back awaken me at about 6:30am. Never again will I sleep in the back of the Jeep. My 6 foot 4 inch frame just doesn’t fold like that anymore with any degree of flexibility. After a few well-chosen curses, I debouch from the vehicle, stretching mightily. The place is already hoppin’, with a number of Fest denizens in various states of dress and undress.

I can roughly divide the camp-folk into two broad, and no doubt highly inaccurate groups: (a) those, like me, who arise, perform the necessary ablutions, put on mundane clothing, eat, etc.–then change into their character’s costuming, and (b) those that awake, and are instantly in-character, right down to the last stitch. Since I’m a mere ensemble musician, I suppose I don’t have the same character identification as others might; in fact, I don’t even have a character, per se–just a costume. It just strikes me as devilishly uncomfortable for folks to already be in layers of clothing, hoop skirts, farthingales, etc., at 7am on a Saturday morning, when you know you’re going to be in that particular attire for at least 14 hours. Ladies, I’m told that corsets are exceptionally uncomfortable–not that I’m complaining, mind you, but fat Jesus, how do you stand it? Sheesh.

I putter around until around 9am, then drive over to my usual parking area, just abaft the main gate and Festival offices, and start my warmup. Darryl is already in a foul mood, and well he should be; FIVE weddings are scheduled for today, neatly filling in his every break, and then some. At least us non-trumpeters do get a bit of a break, but then again, we don’t get paid for sitting on our fat white asses, either. On second thought, nuts to Darryl, anyway!

Deceased Robert

Midway though our first set, Darryl decides to attempt to glean the attention of the hundreds of patrons who are filing past our gazebo. Editor’s note: The Newmarket Gazebo is a great place to perform, as we’re hard by the Festival entrance gates; however, few patrons actually stop at our gazebo, as they’re headed deeper into the village to seek out other stuff. This attention-getting ploy takes the form of…

• DED BOB DOESN’T REALLY TALK–HE’S A DUMMY!
• THE MUD GUYS DON’T REALLY EAT MUD!

…etc. To which I usually add “WE’RE NOT REALLY PLAYING OUR HORNS; IT’S MUZAK.”

The rest of the day passes in this somewhat mediocre vein. It’s gotten HOT, from the cool and foggy morning, and I’m relieved at 4:30 when our day is over.

After wandering around a bit, I retire to the campground and set up my tent and air mattress before darkness completely falls, and visit Fungusville for a post-performance shower. I’m curious to see what a Saturday night at the Festival is like. Around 8pm or so, I meet up with Stephanie, Preston, and Alex, who suggests we all attend a convocation referred to as “Gigglefest.”

That’s right. “Gigglefest.”

Ye Olde Strumpet

Gigglefest is a party of sorts that involves all males coming dressed as females and, I assume, vice versa. I wear a skirt all day, so I’m not really jazzed about the idea, despite Steph’s entreaties; I gather from his comments that Preston is of the same mindset. Additionally, I’m just plain not that cool. Being a basically bookish and boring sort who ‘wears’ a stage persona when performing, the idea of having to pretend to be a happ’nin’ dude for another three hours makes me inwardly groan, so I beg out of this. Instead, we all opt for Mexican food at a Magnolia restaurant. Preston, Steph, and I go in our “regular” clothes, but not Alex. Oh, no, not Alex. He goes in costume.

And a word about Alex. Alex is a Strumpet for Hire, one of several resident at the festival. The picture above says more than I ever could. I will only add that Alex is a great guy, extremely witty, and a entertaining dinner companion. It also bears mentioning that being present when Alex morphs from Strumpet to Alexander is a startling, disorienting experience–hearing that St. Mary-le-Bow Cockney accent turn into a good ol’ Texas twang in the space of about 2 seconds–aieee. It is also amusing to watch him in action at a Mexican restaurant (remember, he’s in costume) rattling the ice in his glass as his baritone voice booms out “AGUA, POR FAVOR!”–the waiters come running.

Wall ‘twixt campgrounds

Festivale: Everybody’s got a story.

I’m a bit at a loose end after dinner, so I roam around the grounds a bit, just drinking in the ambience. Little groups of acquaintances here and there, a few in their cups making merry, but on the whole, a sociable, affable group of fellow-travelers. The only exception is the infamous patron’s campground, separated from the participant’s campground by a privacy fence. I am told that for a participant to visit the patron’s area is instant death–not that I’d ever wish to go, as they have the whole Shaka Zulu drum thing going, and have had it going at fortissimo since about 8pm. (In fact, when I wake at 4am to take a piss, it’s still going). By 11pm, I’m pretty trashed, and retire to the tent, where I fall asleep, gratefully, blissfully, and immediately. In short, the whole place has the atmosphere of an HBO series, slightly adjusted.

Day 10, 2 November 2003

Crows, or some such

6:04am

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?

I awake somewhat earlier than I had anticipated, thanks to the churlish flock of crows that attack the grassy area behind the campsite at 6am. I blunder around for a bit, getting my bearings, and am forcibly reminded of my location at precisely 7:29am, when the first Highland pipes peal out over the campground. Good morning, Plantersville.

While drinking my morning Irish Breakfast (thank God for Coleman), I take a turn around the entertainment building, which is a hive of activity–fairy wings, muffin hats, hose, and other accoutrements are being flung about with concentrated ferocity within, so I steer clear, instead focusing my concentration on the bulletin board outside. It has the usual stuff on it–official notices from The Management, this shop for sale, this clothing available–but then, my attention is caught by the obituary notices. There are several, on the upper right-hand corner of the board. Most are accompanied by photographs of the deceased in full RenFest regalia, broad grins on their faces, looking hale, hearty, and so obviously having a good time. Most also have testimonials from friends attached, remembering the enjoyable times now irrevocably past. I remind myself that, all gentle irony or vicious sarcasm aside, everyone really does have a story. Will I be missed as these people are when I am no more?

My two favorites

The sets we (The Texas Brass) play today are well-received, and we note today that by strategically placing my robust form (or Eric’s, depending on who is back there) in front of our banner, we can be “THE TEXAS BRASS,” “THE TEXAS BRAS” or (my personal favorite) “THE TEXAS ASS.” It is mentioned today that we miss the Fairies quite dearly. Last year, very occasionally, a group of fairies would bop to our few danceable tunes (Susato, Praetorius, et. al.), and while they preferred dancing to Cantiga’s stringed sounds (fickle, tasteless fairies, forsooth!) they would gift us with their presence from time to time. This year, nada, zilch, zippo. Apparently the fairies have been “banished” to a newly created fairyland somewhere deep in the Festival, and can’t come out anymore. I discovered on another TRF photo site this week that one of my favorites is, in fact, the Fairy Queen. Purcell bedamned, but I do aim high.

THAT guy

Instead of fairies this year, we get THIS guy. What the hell kinda trade is THAT?

By Sunday evening, I can report that I have successfully met (or at least been pointed out to) a number of FestFolk that I didn’t know before, including David the Pirate, Therese Honey, the Bard O’Neil, all of whom I am glad to know on sight now. My preliminary analysis of Festival players and musicians is actually a non-insight–take a broad cross-section of the populace, sprinkle in a leavening of historical or fantasy interest, and slap funny clothes on ‘em, and pouf! It’s a festival campground. You’ll have about the same number of statistical outliers at the Festival as you have in real life, in virtual every direction you could have in real life.

Two Shakespearian quotes round this off nicely, methinks:

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

from The Tempest

and…

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts–

from As You Like It

Sticky Coke

Closing word: I notice five days later that an unopened can of Coke I put on my pedestrian catcher on Friday night is still there. I am going to leave it to see how long it takes to get slung off.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear’d the light:
But oh! she dances such a way
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.
– Sir John Suckling (1609-1642), Fragmenta Aure, 1641

Day 7 minus 1, 25 October 2003

The culprit, ultimately

I have beige carpeting in my house. I like it. I have light colored walls, a mirrored dining room, and work very hard to keep everything clean. Consequently, when I come into the house from outside, I usually remove my shoes and pad around either barefooted or in stocking feet. This keeps the crap from the yard off my loverly carpet. Regretfully, however, it also does away with any slight leather armoring my tootsies have.

This created an Unfortunate Incident ™ of a personal nature on Friday evening, late. Leaving my office (crammed with all kindsa electronic equipment from Cisco routers, firewalls and eight high-end servers, as well as MIDI crap, mixers, sound modules, and digital effects processors), I slammed my unprotected foot into the door jamb with great force, juuuust catching my left little toe, and destroying it utterly. Broken. Smashed. Ouch. Within an hour, my entire left foot was swollen and blue. Were I a Saxon eaorl, I would have been Rickert Smurfoot.

Thus having prepared myself for a blissfully flagellative weekend, I retire.

Days 7 and 8, 26/27 October 2003

Lookin’ and feelin’ my best

Christ on a fucking skateboard. I think I am going to die. My foot hurts so bad I think I shall simply consciously decide to cease respiration. “It’s only a little toe,” I keep thinking to myself, while limping piteously around the house. Actually, it’s my entire foot, but I can’t let that keep me from making it to the gig–after all, I are a perfessional. So, I gingerly drag the hose over the afflicted appendage–and then notice that the feileadh beg (small kilt) that I usually wear has not been reclaimed from the cleaners (yeah, I take the damn think to the cleaners–I’d be damned if I’m going to iron all those pleats). Ergo, I move all the furniture around in the living room, spread out the great kilt, hand pleat it, lay down on it, and put the fucker on, cursing under my breath the entire time as I continually smash my foot against things. Then, it’s slither out to the Jeep and head northwest.

Ick.

Of course, since I’m already in a pissy mood, what could be more fitting that shitty weather, too! It’s in the 50s with lowering skies. It rains on me intermittently all the way to Magnolia, and on the way, it becomes apparent that a fair number of wilderness creatures had low biorhythms last evening, and hurled their bodies onto the macadam. I pass no fewer than 3 former deer, a number of domesticated animals, and what appears to be a kangaroo. I reach Magnolia, where I decide to stop, pre-TRF, and gas up the Charcoal Monster (gotta love that 5.9 liter V8; ugh)–yet ANOTHER mammal-formerly-known-as-deer is splayed out next to the road just past the station. Upon leaving, however, I am somewhat surprised to note a herd (Bevy? Clique? Certainly not ’school’) of native Texas gentlemen in a candy-ass red Dodge pickup field-dressing this animal, preparing to remove the haunches, apparently with lunch in mind. You know, West Virginia actually passed a law making this legal–but I don’t think Tejas has this one on the books yet.

Pow, pow, POWER WHEELS

Of course, it’s positively glutinous at the Festival grounds. The abhorrent memories of last year’s red clay mud are alive this morning, with a vengeance. On the way in, I see this Festival maintenance guy ahead of me in what appears to be an oversized Power Wheels vehicle. Driving one of them around would be cool, huh huh huh.

As I park, I see the boss-lady who is in charge of the weddings held at the TRF; unless I have somehow misunderstood, her name is Amber. (Sorry, no photo–I’m somewhat scared of her). No matter how wild it is–no matter how busy, no matter how crowded, I can always catch a glimpse of Amber striding purposefully around the backstage area, takin’ care o’ bidnezz. Additionally, no matter how crappy the weather is, she’s always fresh as a goddamned daisy, from her feathered headdress to her saucy little shoes. How does she do that? I wonder if all RenFaires have such a unfaltering, stalwart maiden doing the chamberlain thing, or if we’re just lucky here in Tejas. I haven’t even gotten out of the Jeep yet and I feel like a slob. (No comments, please)

The other thing I notice as I part this morning are the flags on the TRF battlements at the front gate, hanging wet and listless in the drizzling mizzle. A puff of breeze halfheartedly catches their folds, and I notice that they are, in fact, Lite Beer flags. There’s authenticity for you.

Cry me a river

I park in my customary river bed and get the horn out. Glop, glop, glop. AND my foot is killing me. I figure that at this point, the only two things that can salvage the morning are (a) beer, or (b) espresso. Figuring that, in the long run, the caffeine is “better” for me at 9:30am, I slop off towards the Risorgimento Starbucks just inside the gates. Ordering, much to the attendant’s surprise, a quad-shot latté, I head back to the backstage area to needfully gulp down its healing secrets–only to have the fucking thing explode on me when I open the lid, covering my shirt, my kilt, my face, and most likely all living creatures within a six-foot radius.

By God, this is going to be a good day.

A slippery slope

Note the lovely red mud in the photograph. Folks not acquainted with the properties of red mud, whether of the Alabama, Georgia, or Texas variety, are sometimes taken aback at the extreme lubrication such a granular material can afford. Such was the case when a trio of individuals, to my eyes sneakin’ in through the sometimes unprotected side gate, hit the mud in the ersatz roadway and went ass-over-teakettle into the slime. I do so wish I had had the camera; it would have made a wonderful illustration to a cautionary tale.

We get started on our first set and everything sounds decent, although I must confess I am listening to the group and myself through a haze of constant discomfort and an Advil-induced haze. My smurfy foot is most tender, and during the course of our set, I fold, spindle, and/or mutilate it at least three times, which tears an involuntary imprecation of extreme wattage from my throat in each case. Thankfully, I manage to keep my lips (mostly) together, thus avoiding a scene–unlike a wonderfully talented colleague of mine several years ago who made a playing error, and then self-criticized herself with a lusty “FUCKING CUNT!” from the gazebo stage. This is not unlike another friend of mine, back in the days when I was an announcer for WHIL-FM radio (that’s “classical radio for the Gulf Coast” to those of you in Mobile, AL), who mispronounced a number of Italian surnames during a pre-announce of a work to be broadcast, then muttered, quite audibly, “Shit, I really fucked THAT up” whilst the microphone was still hot. Ooopsie.

Since it’s raining like hell, we have no audience, save a poor woman and her child in a stroller that Darryl motions to join us on the gazebo due to the pouring precip. Within five minutes, the gazebo is swarming with people, including a group of uncouth, somewhat smelly teenagers who consider it no breach of etiquette to yell over our heads at their equally odiferous cohorts during our playing. Ultimately, we eject all non-musical residents of the gazebo.

Ye Olde Banner

New this week is the Texas Brass banner that hangs in the rear of our gazebo. It fits the Western-inspired motif of the group quite well; however, it ain’t exactly musica transalpina, if you catch my drift. We have dubbed it the spaghetti western banner.

The weather finally clears off, right after I’ve crammed my swollen ped into my Sensible Shoes (as opposed to my Renaissance moccasins). We’re actually getting a decent audience now, and to make up for lost time (and tips), we’re all launching ourselves fairly decadently into the music–especially Eric, the hornist, who is performing with particularly meat-eating fervor. During the afternoon performance of Canzona Bergamasca (see previous installments), he tears into his sixteenth note runs with such malevolently violent intent that Darryl, when it comes his turn to echo the figure, collapses into a musical heap. This has never happened before–we all collapse, forthwith, cackling until the tears flow. As they say in choir, we then restrike and continue–only to have it happen again. Eric is secretly pleased with himself.

How nasty are the feet of them

To continue the podiatric theme of this issue: During the first half of the day, it’s been a real cesspool, speaking in a groundwater-centric manner, and while I responded by changing to more sturdy (and protective) footwear, Darryl, and a number of other performers have taken action by simply discarding their shoes. Lady Devonshire, of Istanpitta, is one of these. Seeing otherwise nattily-dressed people with dirty feet adds a certain amount of medieval flavor to the proceedings–I recall the immortal lines from Python’s Holy Grail:

Q: How can you tell he’s the king?
A: He doesn’t have shit all over him!
(Insert sounds of peasant slapping water with a board and/or a cat being beaten against a tree here)

Despite the atrocious weather, we still manage to meet or exceed our usual tip take for both Saturday and Sunday–a minor miracle (Santa Maria!) in and of itself.

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Too little, too late.

At this point, a discourse on the voluminous TRF rulebook was inteneded–however, since I’m already almost THREE WEEKS late with this installment, I’ll stop this particularly lame screed and take up my pen again next week.

As a final withering aside, by the time I leave Sunday afternoon, it’s gorgeous. A perfect ending, etc.

The next journal entry will cover the weekend of November 1st and 2nd, during which I did my first ’sleepover’ at the Festival. Expect the unexpected.

The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day,
His glowing Axle doth allay!
–John Milton, 1608?1674, Comus

Day 5, 18 October 2003

Serpentine nightmare

Actually, if you think about it for more than a millisecond, it’s really astounding that something like this hasn’t happened to us already.

Having executed, relatively flawlessly, eighteen performances since I joined the group, an Unfortunate Incident was really quite overdue. Our standard five-person lineup consists of two individuals who are within 45 minutes of Ye Olde Plantersville (Darryl and I) but the remainder of our group has travel time that borders on hazardous duty–members of the Texas Renaissance Brass travel from as far away as Rice and Pasadena.

So, while it was most ill-fated that Eric would have a catastrophic automobile failure Saturday morning, is wasn’t exactly a surprise. In some ways, it was akin to poor Karen flopping down on the slippery gazebo last year–the echoing, meaty thwack still lives in my aural memory–statistics were in favor of it happening to somebody eventually. Lucky Eric.

As a result, while one of the kind-hearted herald trumpeters (thanks from all of us, Matt!) was racing back to Magnolia to assist Eric, whose car had to be towed to a shop, then arrangements made for repair, THEN Eric conveyed to the Festival, the rest of us were inhabiting the New Market Gazebo. There aren’t many quartets in the book, a deficiency I’ll work on changing, as soon as I have a few spare hours, but we played through all of them, with multifaceted Darryl inventing horn parts in his head, and by turns one of us taking the third of the chord when it was apparent that it was, unfortunately, in the horn part (the horn book was, of course, in Eric’s car).

As it turned out, the only thing wrong with the Diva-mobile was a broken serpentine belt. Total cost, towing, parts, and labor: $60. I sincerely hope that Eric thanks whatever gods he may worship (bowing towards Mecca, lighting a candle, beheading a chicken, etc.) for letting him off so easy.

The man in black

I notice after our first set that I’m not playing very well today; I’ve missed a few notes in the first set, and the timbre of my horn is more comparable to a bull in mid-geld than to a brass instrument. It’s been a hectic week, and I suppose the sleep deprivation is starting to takes its inevitable toll. My week starts on Monday and Tuesday with cramming 40 hours of information technology consulting into two days, force-feeding Unix servers in seven different states a varied diet of PHP, Perl, SQL, and other cool acronymic supplements (every other day of the week I’m usually coding or designing graphics, screen layouts, etc. until at least 2am).

Wednesday starts the private lesson segment of the week; I’m the low brass instructor for a local school district (Tomball) and on Wendesday, Thursday, and Friday, I teach a total of 35 private lessons (trombone, bass trombone, euphonium, and tuba) at six different campuses (campi?). Thursday nights I conduct, along with Darryl, the Woodlands Concert Band, a very good civic band located in, duh, The Woodlands. My portion of this concert series, which starts next Tuesday, is Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor, the Berceuse and Finale from Stravinsky’s Firebird, and P. D. Q. Bach’s March of the Cute Little Wood Sprites. Needless to say, I’m pretty trashed most weekends, but I calculated Friday evening that I’ve already put in 60 hours of consulting since Sunday night last, and the week isn’t over yet.

In fact, the entire group seems just a little on the listless side, just enough to be noticeable by ourselves–small wonder, really; here’s a quick sketch of today’s squad, and what they do besides suspend their disbelief for two days:

Where’s my horn? (Darryl)

Darryl: Darryl is the first trumpet and the leader of the Texas Brass, which means in addition to knowing all the music inside and out, he has to rustle up the gigs, deal with the agents, keep the books, purchase and collate the music, keep the website up to date, and myriad other thankless tasks. He also is the instrumental music director at a local school, teaches about thirty private lessons per week, as well as having a number of gigs out and about every week–as well as being the artistic director and principal conductor of the Woodlands Concert Band mentioned above. Plus, his stepdaughter and grandkids just moved into his house. Eeeyow.

Tiger (Eddie)

Eddie: No, I have no friggin’ idea why his nickname is “Tiger.” What can I say about Eddie? Oh, there’s the obvious stuff, e.g., he plays like a fucking MACHINE–put it in front of him, and out pops the music–he gigs like a madman (in fact, that’s what he does, period), he is the composer of over a hundred works, as well as the author of a trumpet method, and runs his own sprawling, megaplex of a website. The best way to describe Eduardo is “philosopher-king,” with a touch of Miles Davis thrown in for good measure. Last year, he’d stretch out in the bed of his truck and sleep between sets, as he had most often been out at a jazz or salsa job until 3 or 4am. This year, he is our Saturday 2nd trumpet, and most often strips out of his Renaissance garb and into his tuxedo after the last set, standing next to his truck, and then whooshes off to another gig.

Tonight, the part of Chris is being played by a ‘possum

Chris, our Sunday 2nd trumpeter, is a Master’s student in trumpet performance at Rice. As such, he’s in about a gajillion ensembles, including the orchestra and multiple chamber groups. He also freelances a great deal, and has about as many private students as I do, in the same school district. Chris spent a year as a member of the Monterrey (Mexico) Symphony before coming to Houston as well. (Sorry, Chris, don’t have a good picture of you yet?)

Eric, the ‘alf-a-bee

Eric makes me sick. In a good way. Let me expand a bit on this so you understand.

Professionally, he’s somewhat akin to Eddie, in that he’s a monster on his horn. Beautiful, singing tone, brilliant sight-reading skills, and quite knowledgeable about the composers and the social milieu from which they sprang. Half of the year, he’s not even in Houston–he’s playing in an opera orchestra in Sarasota, FL. Additionally, he speaks at least two other languages passably well–French and German–and, perhaps most importantly, he’s witty as hell. Pick a topic, any topic, and he can intelligently and capably discuss its essential crux as well as its hidden details. And, he’s a snappy dresser. And he probably weighs 80 pounds less than I do, the bastard.

Paul le Grande

Paul is our Saturday tenor trombonist, alternating with Karen (see below). Paul is a graduate of Rice, and like most players who have lived through that Temple o’ Higher Learnin’, he’s a abundantly proficient player. (although I will confess that on the first weekend, when some of the more difficult works in the Texas Brass book popped up for Paul to sight-read, I cackled in a most ungentlemanly manner, remembering the hot, bitter tears I figuratively shed last year when pieces like Le Jeune’s Revecy venir du Printans landed multiple, solid clouts on my balls.) Much in the fashion of Eric, Karen, and I, he has an arid sense of humor. Why do I persist in calling him “Big Paul?” I don’t know. It just sounds good. Other than this, I don’t know what the fuck he does. Leave a comment, you bastage.

Karen, tastefully cropped

Karen, I know you’re reading this. I’m sorry I had to use last year’s photo. I’ll take a new one this weekend. Please do not hurt me.

Karen is our own Unsinkable Molly Brown. Wonderful musician, funny as shit, actually gets most of the more esoteric humor I spew out of my gaping maw at times. NOTHING SLOWS THIS WOMAN DOWN. From last year’s Diaries you may recall that being great with child (and buddy, I mean fucking GREAT with child) did not keep her from performing with us. As mentioned above, and also in last year’s screed, she had a truly terrifying plunge to the wet floor of our gazebo–and, cat-like, twisted on descent to land on her bumpus and kept her horn held high, out of harm’s way. Truth be told, if I had fallen, I probably would have broken both legs and fractured my goddamned pelvis. She got up and started playing. Fuck. During the week, she’s a assistant prof in a southeast Houston college district, teaching applied lessons and conducting the band, as well as freelancing. And she designs and sews all her own Renaissance garb.

Then, there’s me… *sigh*

Needless to say, if I ever actually allow myself to dwell on the company I’m keeping, I really feel intimidated. I’m surprised that I’ve managed to fit in as well as I have; were the roles reversed, I’d welcome myself about as ardently as a plague rat. Usually I can cover well enough with a sharply-honed wit, simulated yet convincing stage presence, and dazzling feats of inspired faking. Truth be known, however, about the best I can really muster with these guys is shining episodes of mildly energetic idiocy.

Pseudoceltic crap

Eric and I wander around a bit after our last set; I have in mind to somehow acquire a new hat, but nothing catches my fancy. One of the shows we see (and hear) is this group of bagpipers with Celtic dancers, rather like an exceedingly diminutive Riverdance. If I plug up my ears, everything looks kosher. However, the pipes are playing what appears to be an old Pantera tune–or maybe it’s Def Leppard–I’m getting old and can’t tell the difference all the time any more, not that there ever was much difference to begin with. I psychologically beat the anachronism monster in my soul back down to a grousing mumble.

Eric and I both notice that while we spy some exceptionally interesting patrons, some exquisitely so, nothing really shocks us anymore. One thing most assuredly did shock me, however, and I relate this tidbit as a cautionary tale–and I mean no offense to the hardworking vendors at this particular shoppe, nor do I wish to demean the wares; there may be those of you out there who find this particular cuisine appetizing. If so, by all means, take, eat–I speak only for myself.

No matter how appetizing it sounds, I do not recommend ordering a “battered pig.” It is not a sandwich. It is not like anything you have ever eaten. Well, I take that back–it’s kind of like a corn-dog. In fact, it is a heavily battered, then deep-fried pork sausage on a stick. Call it a “corn-hog.” It resembles nothing so much as a severed, impaled horse penis.

The chips were good, though.

I’m so tired and wrung out by the end of Saturday’s shenanigans (and the lingering psychic trauma inflicted by the corn-hog) that I simply fold into the Cherokee and wobble off home; I’m asleep by 9pm. As I drift off, it occurs to me that the Festival is nearing its halfway point.

Day 6, 19 October 2003

Ain’t nothin’ shakin’?

Due to our revolving personnel, sometimes making sure that the musicians have the correct identification gets to be a pain. Yeah, we could trade off parking tags and identification cards, but the last thing any of us want to happen is to be pinged by the management as “those damn rule-breaking brass players.” So, to avoid this, I have agreed to meet Karen outside the TRF precincts at 9:15am to hand off her official, real, legal hang-tag and ID. I’m usually rolling into the Fest at around 9:35 or so; this morning, it’s more like 9:05, and there is NOBODY on the road. Rather Lost Highway-ish.

Church, with wheels

Our pre-agreed meeting place is this little “church” just across the railroad tracks after one turns in to the TRF employee entrance. No, I mean RIGHT ACROSS THE TRACKS. I think it’s the “Believer’s Fellowship,” but I can’t remember. The interesting thing is that it is housed in a mobile home. We have these in Alabama as well–you can tell this is a hoity-toity Texas mobile-home church because the roof on this one is shingle, not tin. Oh, and there’s no visible livestock. Very upscale compared to where I grew up.

We dive into our opening set, and immediately a division is noticeable. Those of us who were performing yesterday (Darryl, Eric, and I) are in no mood for uptempo, chops-o-steel stuff yet. On the other hand, Chris and Karen apparently ate lots of red meat last night, rare, and are hankerin’ for some killer stuff. My face, from nose to chin, is tingly and a bit numb. Apparently, so is Darryl’s. He wins. We play chorales, thank God.

People!

For the sixth day in a row now, we’ve had delightful weather and good crowds, and as a result, both our musical aptitude and deposits made to the tip-basket reflect this. Excellent! After last year’s dismal turnouts, this is a phenomenally welcome change. Obviously, the tips are cool, but on a more professional level, we always play better with a crowd–and we’ve had good crowds. Much easier to get “in the slot” when you have an audience, especially the satisfyingly appreciative ones we’ve had so far. In my daily saunter down to Istanpitta’s performances, I’ve noticed the same thing.

Bad, evil, naughty, WICKED Stephanie

However, when I visit their gazebo today, I am singled out, almost immediately upon taking my seat, to be the “audience volunteer” for the story that accompanies a Cantigas de Santa Maria. Short version: I am a glutton, I eat like a pig, I choke on a rabbit bone, I die, I am resurrected. Santa Maria! Somewhat embarrassing, but having Stephanie (and, of course, Al) stroke my belly was noteworthy.

During our last set, we were paid a visit by a remarkable individual.

I am at a loss as to how to describe this fellow. He was obviously somewhat learned in the ways of musicology; the simple fact that he actually knew who Johann Christoph Pezel (1639-1694) is a decent indicator. He requested work after work by Pezel, applauding with great energy and, er, force, after each. For other TRF/RenFaire performer-types who are reading this: Do you occasionally get a patron at your stage who is just a little too attentive; whose eyes are just a bit too bright; whose skin is just a wee bit too pasty for comfort? Not threatening, not rude; in fact, exceptionally garrulous, to the point of wanting to talk while you’re performing? This is the guy we had.

Indeed, he had some shocking news to impart, namely that a very familiar work by J. S. Bach, the Musette from the Notebook for Anna Magdelena Bach, has been recently discovered to have been composed by Herr Pezel, mentioned above. Karen and I blinked, gave each other a blank look, and then immediately and cheerfully agreed with him. “Won’t Anna Magdelena be angry!” I pointed out.

For the rest of the day, snippets ‘twixt Karen and I took this form:

K: Hey, did you know that the Little Fugue in G minor was really written by Rachmaninoff?
WG: No shit? I thought that Bach was a contemporary of Stravinsky?
K: No, you’re thinking of Johann Freiederich Pezelbach
WG: –and his pupil, Sebastian Cabot Phillipglassenbach

(etc.)

Wyndnwyre

I did manage to make it by Wyndnwyre’s stage, and got a shot of them; as fate would have it, Therese’s face is behind the harp. Poop.

I didn’t even get by Istanpitta’s last set; as with Saturday, I was just plain trashed and went home–and to sleep. However, Monday, I did a fairly exhaustive internet search on the whole “Pezel is Bach” thing, to the point of calling one of my old music history professors and asking him to look into it. No references of any kind, ANYwhere, about this. (Just in case you were on the edge of your seats).

The cool things I discovered were that several of the other groups at the TRF have websites of note; I’ll be adding them all (eventually) to the links section on this site; for the time being, while you wait patiently for the weekend, here are a few to keep you busy.

The Texas Renaissance Festival Beefeaters: Yep, the Beefeaters have their very own website, and it’s quite cool. I can now say with absolute confidence that the Beefeater who gave me my crash-course on Rennies last year was none other than Sergeant Major Macbean. Macbean rocks.

Queen Anne’s Lace As you may remember from last week’s writing, QALace occasionally performs with The Texas Brass on Sundays. I wish their slideshow worked, though?

Ded Bob Holy shit. This guy is a fucking riot. Judging from his website, he’s somewhat hyperpolitical, but the barbs of sarcasm and satire are always on the mark.

(more…)

Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,
To this troop come thou not near!
–William Shakespeare, The Phoenix (1601)

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It has come to my attention that some of the TRF Diary readers are not aware that clicking on the small thumbnail pictures will open up a separate popup window containing a larger version of the picture. Now you are.

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Day 3, 11 October 2003 Ugh. I did not want to get up this morning. This particular “Byrd of loudest lay” (interpret that as you will, I guess) and “shrieking harbinger” was dead to the damned world at 7am, and the merest thought of putting on wool and standing around in the heat for 6 hours was just a click short of unpalatable. Nonetheless, professional foghorn player that I am, I leaned over the side of the bed until gravity (or, “grabbity,” if you read E. B. White) exerted its malign influence over my overabundant mass, causing me to topple to the beige carpet. Thus invigorated, I began my day.During the TRF, I become, for seven weeks, an inveterate weather-watcher, my drug of choice being The Weather Underground. I even hacked up the five bucks to avoid the ads for a year. This week, I’d been hitting the site at least once a day to see what I had in store for the weekend.

This is utterly brainless, completely obtuse, and optimistic to an extent equaled only by that exhibited by the Princes in the Tower in 1483, e.g., “Surely Uncle Third will let us out any day now; remember, he was really mad at Uncle Clarence, too, and locked him up in the Tower, but then he gave him that whole barrel of malmsey wine–Say, have you seen Uncle Clarence lately?”

Somehow, I always manage to forget that this is Texas, where weather forecasts, like time in a post-Newtonian universe, have no meaning. Trying to predict weather here is somewhat like southern Alabama (i.e., my putative “home”) but even worse. Best-guesses on weather here are accurate up to about 3 days into the future, and at that point, the meteorologists simply run out of track. Nonetheless, there I am, every bloody Monday morning, checking on the forecast for the weekend. The safe prediction, of course, is “hot and muggy in the morning, thunderstorms in the afternoon,” but for some perverse reason, forecasters always feel obligated to string me along with predictions of “highs in the lower 70s, lows in the mid-50s” until Friday morning, when it reverts to the former.

Saturday morning

As it did this weekend.

It’s already 72 as I head north on Kuykendahl, then east on Kuykendahl-Hufsmith towards FM2978. This indicates a high of at least 85, more likely 90. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

Museum of 1000 (bovine) horns

I amuse myself en route by considering the singularly isolated countryside. Really, aside from Magnolia, TX, a bit of a wide spot in the road, there’s not really that much to see–except, of course, Henry’s Hideout: Museum of 1000 Horns. Don’t look for it on the national register of historic places. Henry’s, a familiar sight to Faire-goers, is a juke joint on FM1488, about a mile before the turn-off to the Festival grounds. In my non-Texan innocence, the first time I spied the place, I naively assumed that “horn” indicated musical instruments. Yes, I’m an idiot.

Expensive domiciles

Not much new in Toontown this year. (see last year’s Diaries for an explanation of Toontown), although I do see some new, pearly-white tents. Knowing how much these abodes cost, and seeing so many of them back here, I can’t help but wonder where the money comes from. In a future installment, I hope to have gathered some information on exactly how the shopkeepers/full-time Rennies make ends meet.

Ass-skinner

The one thing that I was quite remiss in omitting from the Toontown depiction of yesteryear is mentioning the existence particularly heathenish dip on Rue Toontown. It looks innocuous as you drive towards it, but beware! The first time I hit this motherfucker I not only nearly ripped the transmission and driveshaft from underneath my Grand Cherokee, but also abraded about a quarter-inch of flesh off my capacious ass. Much faster than 10MPH over this sinkhole and I’m scrod–if you have a smaller vehicle, you might consider carrying it over on your back.

After warming up and getting ready for the first set, I note that Karen, last week’s trombonist, is not here today. For this weekend, we have the valued services of Paul. I feel for him today–during my first year playing the TRF, I spent the entire seven-week series wearing borrowed clothes, as he is today. Eric and I both purchased hats by the end of the second week. As the photo of Paul shows so exceptionally well, the “stock” hats are to some extent equitable with wearing a velvet bladder cloaca on one’s head.

Big Paul

Eric is already battling the “thou shalt not spend all thine TRF earnings on Renaissance garb” demon. As you may remember from last year’s screed, he purchased a way-cool doublet. (Being thin, he can do this) Last weekend, during a break time gambol, he discovered the matching breeches, paned, with the same embroidery work. He has them on layaway.

“On layaway.”

Did such a thing exist during the Tudor period? I think not. However, with his Toledo-copy rapier, cool-dude doublet and paned breeches, he’ll cut quite a swath–perhaps managing to achieve an even more haughty, Blackadder-like mien as he swoops in from the battlements.

Begone, thou foulknaves, or taste my steel!

I’m so tired ‘twixt the 10am and 12 noon sets that I simply perch on the back of the Cherokee and read. Attendance today seems to be pretty fair, but an avowed people-hater such as myself can only take so many bodies crammed into the same area at once for so long. Being personable and “entertaining” on the gazebo stage really takes a lot out of me. It’s difficult to explain to someone who doesn’t have this particular affliction how damnably trying it is to smile for a solid hour. My ideal life would involve a large, well-stocked monastery library with a door with the lock on the inside, within which I would while away my days reading in the absolute, blissful, complete quiet, coming outside to “the real world” only when I deemed it necessary. A few conversations, a good meal, and perhaps some swill

Mmmmm-swill

would be my only requirements for a happy life. Of course, the logical question to follow this mini-diatribe is “Why did you originally choose music as a profession?” Ahh, because my initial career choice was to be a composer, locked away with (then) a grand piano, good pencils and pens, and an endless supply of staff paper, or (now), a fast computer, a Korg keyboard, Finale, and a decent amplifier. Incidentally, I read some few years ago that these same creative/isolationist tendencies are exhibited to a remarkable degree by schizophrenics. Comes as no surprise to me.

Lucy, you got some ’splainin’ to do

The Xenas are out in force today. I (as well and Eric and Paul) have noted a new trend this year vis a vis the Xena Brigades. Last year, the fashion statement was, from the skin out, flimsy brassiere and thong, chainmail brassiere, chainmail “skirt.” This year, we’ve seen a number of ladies–ranging from late teens to (ack, phttbtt) mid-60s wearing this particular “costume” sans the flimsy brassiere. I’ve seen two individuals wearing what appeared to be colored plastic thongs as opposed to fabric as well. At the very least, this is disturbing on a primal, molecular level. At worst, it’s repellent. I cannot help but wonder: Yes, I’m a guy, and I never would dream of wearing stuff like that, but to you ladies out there–isn’t that uncomfortable? How can you wear stuff like that in the 90 degree heat and not collapse? Aren’t you afraid of ripping, sanding, or grinding your nipples off? I have so much to learn about women.

Renaissance coffee shop

By 1:15pm, the heat and dazzling sunlight (like most cave-dwelling creatures, the bright light hurts my eyes) have given me a blinding headache. I feel like my head caught fire and I attempted to extinguish the flames with an ice pick. So I pay a visit to the newly-enlarged coffee shop and get a double espresso–that helps sometimes. No dice. The fact that the new shop looks suspiciously like some kind of retro-Starbucks is a bit disconcerting, but hey, gotta bring in the pounds/shilling/pence from somewhere, right? At least by our 1:30 set, I can see out of both eyes, albeit fuzzily.

The trumpet section is late for this set’s start, so Eric, Paul, and I whip out a couple of trios I arranged this week as filler material–a Praetorius courante (number CLXXXIII if you’re following on your scorecards at home) and a pavane by that distant cousin of William of Ockham, Anne of Onymous. Thankfully, they go off passably and are now in the emergency rotation.

Despite good crowds today, our tip take sucks. Apparently, while the Newmarket Gazebo is good for visibility, most people just walk on by going to Dranch-uh-Wanch or Ded Bob.

Day 4, 12 October 2003

Eric le Arrogant

Eric says his swashbuckler face is arrogant. What do you think?

Cantiga, with an enraptured Buster

I make a desperate attempt to leave early enough this morning to make it to Al’s loud band, but at the last minute am waylaid, and arrive only in time to listen to Cantiga. Al’s gonna kick my white ass.

During our first set, we are gifted by a visit from the all-treble singing group Queen Anne’s Lace. We’re just getting warmed up, about 15 minutes into the set, when they arrive to sing Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and then *gasp* Hallelujah from Messiah with us. (That’s #44 in the book, if you have your libretto handy. Haendelly. Whatever.) The performances go off amazingly well–however, after blaring out The Wicked Chorus before 11am, my face is as stiff as a board. I suspect that it shall remain so for the remainder of the day. (in fact, it does).

This year’s TRF experience is turning out to be much more hectic that last–this is due primarily to the fact that last year, I had a job–ONE job–and the Faire was a release, a recreation from the toils and cares of the 9 to 5 grind. This year, the Faire is actually part of the main revenue–along with a zillion private lessons, ad-hoc consulting, and a few other things. It’s enough to make you forget who or where you are. To assist, I made a list of things you can do during the week to keep that TRF ambience somewhat more constant throughout the week:

• Have a household member rev up a leafblower outside your bedroom window just before dawn, so you won’t miss the privy-suckers.
• Invite about 2,000 friends over, then try to walk from one end of your house to the other.
• Crank your heater up to 100 and stand in front of it wearing a sleeping bag for a skirt and a wool blanket for a shirt. Add a hat. Try to cool yourself by drinking warm, rust-flavored water.
• Be drunk by 11am. Sleep it off mid-day and start all over again at 4pm.
• Each afternoon, pile fine silt in front of a portable fan on a card table. Stand in front of the fan so the silt blows into your eyes. Every time it does, curse.
• Put pebbles all over the floors of your house. Wear thin-soled slippers as “shoes.” Walk on the rocks for 8 hours straight.
• Invite a few friends over for dinner; charge your family $3 for iced tea and $5 for a baked potato; charge your guests $5 for the tea and $9 for the potato.
• Sprinkle your toilet seat and bathroom floors with water and wet wadded tissue. Add a pile of fake vomit. Or real vomit. Your choice.
• When you undress at night, wad up your clothes and stash them outside. Sprinkle beer and dirt on them.

I find this keeps me on an even keel.

What the fuck ARE you?

I have been to the Texas Renaissance Festival for three years running now. I see these guys every year. WHAT THE FUCK ARE THEY???

Artistry in Mud

Having not been able to go listen to Istanpitta much this weekend, I finally wander down toward their gazebo later in the day, passing the mud faeries en route. If the teenage mutant ninja sculptors (Michaelangelo, Raphael, Donatello, Leonardo) had worked in mud rather than marble or bronze, the entire course of western history could have been different. Think about it. No, wait–don’t. I’m still an idiot.

Stephanie, with Sahira beltin’ in the background

As mentioned last week, the “line up” of Istanpitta has changed for this year. The newest face is Stephanie, the new viellist. I discovered this weekend that she is a newcomer to the vielle (for those of you that don’t know, the vielle can be quickly [and inaccurately] described as a 5-string violin with odd scordatura and a bow that’s bent backwards), having only been tucking a vielle under her chin fo