Harper’s Retreat, Take 2

This is the year. I’m totally going to do it.

That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway. I actually spent time learning my music. In fact, I had memorized my music, unlike last year. I was more prepared this year than I was last year, and had even decided to share some of what I had learned at college with others. There had been a post in the forums asking for teachers for this event; I had polled many of the locals about their interests: I had narrowed it down to three classes: the first being about protecting your voice for singing and local heraldry; the second was on period rounds; the final was about medieval notation and church modes. I looked at my schedule for the event, decided to forgo the heavy field, and if I moved around my perusing of the merchants I could squeeze in all three classes and still make the competition, and perhaps squeeze in some more shopping after. Vikings need bling; after all it might be bad taste to pillage my competitors.
11am. Protecting Your Voice

I was armed with York Peppermint Patties and DumDums. In my head, I kept bouncing between Oh, God, I hope people show up, and Oh God, I hope no one shows up! After all, if no one showed up, more candy for me. I arrived at my designated car-port fifteen minutes early, and was kept company by my litany until people started arriving. And arriving. And arriving! To my chagrin, I think seventeen people showed up; I might have lost count after the third Oh God! And the wet trickle down my leg that may or may not have been sweat. After all, it was summer.

I had my handy bullet of talking points, inclusive of vocal warm ups, breathing exercises, physical stretches, and partner massages — keep your mind out of the gutter Karen! I discussed the importance of warming up your voice, as well as the horrors that professionals had experienced such as polyps, nodes, hemorrhaging, aphasia, and laryngitis/pharyngitis.

We discussed discovering your soft palate through the clever use of the aforementioned candy, and voluntary raising of the soft palate. The stretching and massage circles loosened up the body — and hey, who doesn’t love a good massage? For those who had difficulty with breathing, we even made use of the floor in our exercises.

The hour flew by, and I had people begging to ask me questions beyond the time limit. I was glad I could help so many people to begin — or continue — their careers as some sort of vocal performer. It was even discussed with me that one of my students had even regained confidence in performing due to the techniques I had taught in one short hour.

It was now time to haul as — I mean swiftly fly to the next class. Who’s idea was it to schedule them back to back? Oh, yes, shopping, bling.
12pm. Round and Round and Round We go!

The litany in my head had changed slightly from the previous class. I had had so much fun helping people, that I was no longer afraid of nobody showing up, I was hoping for a handful, maybe seven to show up and spend an hour singing with me. Though now the litany on my head was Oh God, please let them read sheet music. I hope they can carry a tune, I hope I printed enough copies. What if they already know these songs. Or worse! What if they don’t know any of them?

My new classroom, a scenic picnic table in a wide open space, was empty, but in the near-distance, there were a few harpists twiddling on their instruments, and to the other side, the sound of rapiers punctuated the intricate dance of fencers. Neither were disruptive, but still permeated the air with a music all their own.

The bodies poured in. I don’t know where they were hiding. Not only did we fill the extra long picnic table, but Sir Cumfrance himself showed up — and his seat at the table was surrounded as well. An amoeba of bodies totaling twenty-three — I know because I made an absurd eighteen copies, and five were without and had to make due with looking over shoulders or getting cuddly with new or old friends — raised their voices in layered homophony, and overpowered the harps and rapiers both. Again, many levels of experience surrounded me, and yet every moment was a joy. What was originally slated to be an hour class swelled to fill two and a half. I didn’t have the heart to stop the group once they got going; I guess I wasn’t getting my much needed break before my final class. But who really needs to eat or nap or shop anyway?
3pm. Medieval Notation and Church Modes

Hurray! I got an actual building for this class! With walls and everything! More space than I actually needed.

I had a circle of benches and five eager attendees; three familiar faces from my household — who swore they weren’t just there for support — and two new faces. The inquisitive faces and inquiring minds were puzzled at the very square notation which lacked many lines on the white paper I handed to them. There was no treble or bass cleft; there were no bar lines; all the notes were oddly diamond shaped. Where were the familiar {or even evil}  time signatures; where was the familiar italian that we knew and loved?

Nonexistent!

All that seemed tangible was the spacing and filled in heads of notes. From there, the aesthetics got worse — even though you might be wondering how it was possible — and I got questions like, what do you mean that the scale stops on the second pitch? What do you mean, this feels like major, but isn’t? And why are there seven of them?!

In the end it all made sense — or at least they nodded their heads and pretended it did — though I don’t think we’re going to have any new medieval music scholars any time soon. Even words like dorian, locrian, mixolydian, might arise out of their mouths in the future, if they can’t bite their tongues fast enough.

 

A glance at my anachronistic time piece and CRAP! A rushed shower and garb change, and then off to feast. At least I didn’t have to run down the stairs, hopping to pull one shoe on, then the other. I was invited to sit at the dais, beside the Baron and Baroness, and the other teachers, who offered their time and skills that day. Lost in conversation with her excellency, I was offered her gratitude once again in the form of liquid courage that I gladly partook, as well as general entertainment.

Feast was a delightful blur — and not because of the alcohol being passed around — and all I can remember is at the end of feast, his excellency offered up the list to sign up for the Baronial Bard competition that evening. Like a comet across the sky, I moved to sign up first, then rushed to the arena. If only I had known what my haste was getting me into.

That same friend I had made the year prior had planted herself beside me; we chatted and talked music and things we had learned in the year since we had set eyes upon each other last. It was then time for instruments to be tuned, voices to be warmed, and the games to begin.

Things were different this year. Instead of separating the performers and having them perform just once piece at a time, we were to perform both pieces back to back. In years past, the performers had been randomized, and the sign up sheet had been but an attendance sheet for the competitors. This year, they called my name first.

Normally, my heart would have raced, but the scotch had set in.

I suavely approached her excellency, Baroness Jocelyn Del Espada, at the judge’s table, and cunningly brought her to the stage to take a seat, so she would be the center of attention, and closest to my performance. I announced my Italian love song would be dedicated to a lover of music and the arts, her. By the end of the piece, I could see tears streaming down her face, her hands trying to cover the rosy blush tinting her cheeks.

I could not leave my Baroness in distress like this.

I had to change the mood, and luckily, I had come prepared. I allowed her to take her seat amongst the judges for comfort, and beckoned for assistance from the audience. I pleaded for the biggest, strongest warriors to join me on stage. I told my comical tale of kings, fairy princesses, knights, dragons, swords, and pickles! That’s right, pickles! (ooh, you have Karen’s attention now!) By the end of my nine and a half minute story, the judges amongst the audience were fighting to keep back laughter. I feel like I was successful in changing the mood just a tad.

Once my performance was over, I then spent the rest of the night sitting against the wall, enjoying the rest of my comrade’s performances. Unlike last year, I didn’t have negative thoughts towards my competitors. I was in awe at their skills, and found myself biting my nails in anticipation for their performances, as well as at my potential demise.

The competition ran late that night, and my head remained questioning the outcome. It was almost torturous waiting for court the next day.

Camp chairs now made a makeshift amphitheatre where the fencers danced yesterday. After their Excellencies and the previous year’s Champions processed in, it was time for business to begin. The first order of business on the docket was for the newest Baronial Bard. I remember staring into my lap, and listening with my right ear to the wind. My name was called, and it almost felt foreign. I had only been called into court once previously, so the customs were still new to me. I think I did okay. I hope I did okay. I didn’t puke on anyone’s shoes, so I must have done okay, right?

Not only was I greeted by the familiar face of her Excellency, but the tender embrace of my friend, who was the previous year’s Baronial Bard. (insert picture and videos here, you schmuck) I was gifted the traditional chalices for bardic performance, as well as the regalia.

I got to stand amongst the newest champions during the rest of court, and let the realization that I had a new-earned responsibility set in. I set in my mind that I was going to change things. I was going to build a bardic community, not just for Stonemarche, but for my own homeland, the land of the badly behaved people, Malagentia.