One night, Rob the bar supervisor told me how many scotches this brilliant fiddler had drunk before the show, and how many more he’d imbibed during the interval. It put my meagre capacity to shame, I can assure you. And yet his playing was flawless and magnificent. What a guy! My admiration for him knew no bounds. Still doesn’t.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Drink and the Artist.
During my time working at the theatre we used to get occasional concerts given by a well known Scottish fiddler – a giant of Scottish traditional music who shall, of course, be nameless. During my forays backstage I used to notice how much more florid he became as the night wore on, and how much more belligerent his responses if I tried to so much as pass the time of day.
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2 comments:
admiration for a walking liver failure. :P
We all have to die of something, Maria. Suppose this fine fiddler had decided to give up the drink for the sake of his liver. He might have been out walking one day instead of sitting safe in a pub somewhere, and been run over by a bus. And the world would have been denied his beautiful music.
What I meant by the post, however, was that I admire a man who can hold his liquor so well that the physical co-ordination needed to play a fiddle like that is unimpaired.
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