Edinburgh’s 12th Century broken heart
Erupts with celebratory applause,
Smiles caress Rodin’s sweet art
Through untouchable marital laws.
Imposition of Anglican liturgy
Ruffles the golden goose,
Literal Presbyterian eulogy
Frees the hangman’s noose.
Senses agitate, foreheads glisten,
I arise and respectfully follow
The newly weds as the congregation listen
To the organ as it reverberates fortissimo.
Floating through holy aisles
Merriments trail dank air,
In the High Kirk of St. Giles
Odors spiral plaited hair.
Feverish allergy, invasive toxins
Filter the word of God Anglais
Generations of invasions,
Dictating guilt, fear and compulsion to pray.
Sporting my ancestor’s pretty kilt,
An amusing breeze blows cool and airy,
Towards the evening’s cotton quilt,
Music and sobering malt of the ceilidh.
Beyond the Kirk, adjacent to the spirits
And spit of the Nation’s heart,
A King Charles Chevalier pivots
And zooms after a once elusive wildcat.
I kilter off balance but steady myself
On the 5th Duke of Buccleuch’s statue,
And pretend nothing happened by averting my gaze
To a gull perched on Walter’s curlicue.
While posing for photos the feisty cat
Rockets by chasing the King,
I exhale a sigh as the feline acrobat
Regains dignity after centuries of pursuing.
The married couple mount their Mercedes
As the bride’s bouquet silhouettes the sky,
Rotating like a ballerina in a meadow of daises
Descending eagerly towards the passersby.
Caught by the pernicious cantankerous gull,
Fibonacci’s posy of elegant roses nosedive,
Graze and tumble upon the stony quadrangle;
White bouquet and persistent scoundrel survive.
Dog and cat attack with synchronized jaws,
The gull ascends with a caaa-caaaa rose-free,
To perch upon a spouting gargoyle because
Views far above are Albany.
Guests awe and gasp at the tangle of fur,
Then the wildcat escapes into the Kirk
To feast on intelligent rats that scamper;
Furry spirits oblivious of latticework.
The procession navigates down the Royal Mile
Past a piper playing a lament.
The throne of Arthur’s volcanic smile,
Shadows North Bridge’s foundation cement.
We arrive back at the Balmoral hotel,
It’s clock famously two minutes early
To assist travelers in wishing their farewells
Either north or south of Waverley.
In room 1314, I cast off my breeches
And ventilate to meet the elite,
At the gathering of the speeches
In the sumptuous Sir Walter Scott suite.
Drinking and legless jollity follow
Euphoric dances and giant roast beefs,
Swirling yards of tartanisms that echo
Inflicted shame on banned clan-chiefs.
I try to pause, expressions melt
And the room heaves and burls,
Fire face red, drunken celt
Let’s bribe more greedy Earls.
I quickly poured another malt
And addressed my swaying kilt,
Slurring like sleat in a somersault,
Dam, dram gracing floor, spilt.
“Ye bedraggled, mothball eaten
Patriotic fabric o’ time.
I plead yu tae speak tae m’
Yu mishmash o tartan slime.
Resonate wi’ m’ a smack
Or a smidgeon o realization
Aboot Scootlund, th’ jack
‘N’ this country’s unionization.
Impart yer scholarly wisdom,
Recall fae future-past.
Ah implore yu, ah beseech yu.
Yu wooly Hielan outcast.”
The kilt speaks:
You are certainly intoxicated sir
And that’s no way to speak to a kilt.
I’ll be a truthful babbler
Until your self-confidence is unbuilt.
You are nothing but a pretender
Perpetuating a myth.
Why do you call yourself Scottish
When only you recognize it, Adam Smith?
You are a chinwagger with a foreign dialect
Uttering fast rhythmic sounds,
That baffles the southern intellect
And reinforces Hadrian’s mounds.
Yer locked in th’ cludgie
Huvin a wee stooshie
Juist cause a wee beastie
Bit ye oan th’ bahookie.
Yer juist a wee radge
Wha’s erse needs skelpin,
Juist haud yer wheesht gadge,
Or ye’ll git a beltin!
Yer a wee cowering hoolet,
Sleekit, muckle clocked ‘n’ glaikit,
Gonnae shoogle ‘n’ cool it
Ye schemie peely-wally eejit.
Yer juist pure mingin’
Wi’ wiry hairy oxters
‘A’ yer aye bloody singin’
Aboot charlatans ‘n’ hoaxers.
Howfur come yer aye blootered
Oan dreich ‘n’ bonnie days,
Mibbie yer wappenshaw needs neutered
‘A’ goosed lik’ a Fabergé.
Sae ye’r left a’ alane
W’ mawkit geggie screamin’
Na need tae hae anither bairn
Cried Albany fur th’ schemin’.
Proclaiming yourself a Scot
Is considered rank, invalid and vain;
Powerless strength, seamless crackpot,
By law, you must declare the Kingdoms chained.
While completing a passport application
Your alien identity is misconstrued,
Intertwined through world web officiation,
You must choose UK on drop-down menus.
You smirk and shrug it off
Like a placid Presbyterian beast,
Tamed like the house of Romanov
Through centuries of countless deceased.
You are still a puny pretender
Perpetuating a folkloric disjoin phage.
Call yourself a Scottish defender?
When no one recognizes your coinage.
You are scared of transformation,
You are petrified of going it alone,
You are anxious about monetary misinformation,
You are sheep, worried about clearances and headstones.”
I reply to the cloth of my ancestors:
“Bun-kum, a tum-tom toosh!
Why are you beating aboot the bush!
Plaidie squabbling fabrication.
Haggis basher, get oot ma Nation!
Your razor edged tongue,
Sharply poisoned with veracity,
Wounds deeply cutting among
My lacerated audacity.”
The kilt interrupts:
“Take me off and put yer troosers on Jock!
For seven hundred years
Scots and English bled.
Endless battles, crimson tears
Countless Kings dead.
Acts upon Acts
Of law enforcing power,
Legally bound to detract
Behead and devour.
Acts of Settlement, Security & Proscription
Burned freedom into our heart,
Poisoned political cunning inscription
Forced the Scottish nation to part.
Scaremongering tactics and chanty jive
See karmic laws unfold untold truth,
For the Alien Act of 1705
Pressurized the Scots and future youth.
By treating Scots as foreign nationals,
Their estates as alien assets,
The Alien Act was so irrational
But achieved its sweet regrets.
Unless we entered freely
Into a union with mighty England,
Half of Scottish trade discreetly
Embargoed in my opinion.
The Scottish Parliament’s conclusion,
106 Ayes to 69 Noes,
By signing the Act of Union,
1707 an extremist blow.
Scottish people powerless to change
Broke out in discontent,
The Kirk & Jacobites did arrange
A partnership to torment.
An English-dominanted Parliament
That provoked us from within,
Bought loyal Scottish predicament
And their alliance a bargain.
Paltry pounds of callousness
Our future fate was clinched,
Injured, pitied and lynched.
After the Union in 1707
Followed more bloody wars,
Corpses ascended to Wallace in heaven,
Blood streamed Scottish shores.
Glenshiel, Prestonpans and Sheriffmuir,
All screamed with axe and sword,
Death lay wallowing on Culloden Moor
Where brave Jacobites once roared.
The ground black with blood,
Scots gutted, slain and strewn,
Writhing insane in clotted mud,
Cut down by red Dragoons.
To end the Scottish Highlands
Ability to revolt,
The English crushed my lands
With a fist of thunderbolt.
For thrity-six years the English smashed
The structure of the Clans.
Hushed and crushed while necks were slashed,
Me, the Highland Dress was Banned!
Half a year of incarceration
For wearing a Highland kilt,
Proud price to pay for separation,
Trousers cover coward’s guilt.
Caught a second time
With Tartan underneath,
Seven years for crime
Grinding at your teeth.
His Majesty’s Plantations
Across the seas, wait for you to come,
Enough of poignant lamentations
To the beat of the English drum.
Scottish heritable Sheriffdoms
Reverted to English Crown,
Plaid wearing meddlesome
People and culture drown.
But before and since 1707
Scots discovered and dreamed,
Inventions that observed heaven,
Others that puffed and steamed.
From the pneumatic Tyre wheel to tubular Steel,
The Telephone and Sherlock Holmes,
Radio, Radar, the Calendar,
Television and Higgs Boson.
Bank of England, Bank of France,
Let’s vote Aye and clasp a chance,
Marmalade and Stirling Heat,
Let’s not forget Dolly, the Postage Stamp Sheep.
Curling, Golf, Shinty and Football,
Cycling and Peter Pan,
Long John Silver, the Carnegie Hall,
Macleod of Lewis Clan.
MIR and PIN,
BBC, Sean Connery,
Malt Whisky and Modern Sociology.
Hypnotism and Hogmany,
Insulin and Colour Photography,
Chloroform, Burke and Hare,
Billy Connolly’s bum is bare.
Fierce and tribal,
King James Bible.
Miles of Wire Rope,
Tins of Shortbread,
Did we invent Wikipedia?
But Modern Geology,
SI unit power, Watt?
Iron Bru and Paraffin,
Fax Machine and Halloween,
World’s first Oil Refinery.
With a Gregorian Telescope
You spot a humpbacked whale,
Iron Steamship isotopes
Spouting Kelvin’s Scale.
New York Herald, Penicillin,
First text book on Surgery,
Self Filling Pen hyperventilates
Modern Asthma Therapy.
Imaginations for creation
Enlighten our amazing nation:
Bovril Gravy, United States Navy,
Worthy of no parchment declaration,
Our backyard a dumping ground,
Northlands a faded sensation,
Experimental people uncrowned.
We send taxes down the road,
Where they decide to spend it,
If we keep our money stowed,
Return Poseidon’s Trident.
But today I remind you aristocrats
Repetition of History wail,
While spiteful political diplomats
Panic North Briton’s tail.
Render us mute and impotent,
Coerce and bully the Scots,
Quivering and non-combatant,
Stagnate like putrid water-pots.
Light the fire in your belly,
Melt their offensive rhetoric,
Be inspired by Machiavelli,
Focus and be a maverick.
But as a pseudo Scotsman
You wrestle negative doubt,
Quietly observing the fiery charlatan,
It’s important to rise and shout.
Your focus and deliberation,
Passport to the world,
Grants you passage for exploration,
Warmed heart unfurled.
Years of circling the globe
Sees a soul without a nation,
Scottish loot a xenophobe,
You forget to exchange your money
And travel far abroad,
To reach cloudless lands of honey
Quickly on Concorde.
Without thought or question
Nor pious picky prejudice,
You present foreign indigestion
With speechless guttural injustice.
Embarrassed you drift away,
Credit card at home,
Your cash burned by Dante,
And head back to the aerodrome.
Coin of Hans Christensen Andersen,
Considered false economy,
Exchanged to English loot in London,
Scotty-dosh no isonomy.
The tens of thousands that have died for Scottish freedom
Mean nothing to the no-thank-you sway,
For finance and fear have always defeated
Yes we can do….
Yes we can leave…
Yes we can decide..
Yes we can achieve.
Why trust the banks
Who gambled our currency,
Whose mis-managed managers overdrank
And deliquesced this Nation’s solvency.
Expounding Scotland’s future
Is in the hands of our youth,
Uprising for our Culture,
Welfare, Workforce and Truth.
Making your own mind up,
Hope conquers enforced fears,
Job opportunities lined up
Progressional new careers.
Intimidation from doomsayers
In our land, our garden of Eden,
Self governance welcome naysayers,
Our backyard, our freedom.
Oil fund for generations,
Ta-ta to crumbs from Westie’s table,
Governing budgets and administrations,
Our country rich and stable.
If you vote and cross a no,
Democratic right is yours,
Carved in the manifesto,
Enticing atomic lures.
In times when a ghostie wrote,
You prayed and crossed your cross,
Limbs believed a single vote,
Empowered the Alba-tross.
Tuning to the solo note,
The power is ours to spend,
Yes Aye, is the antidote,
And our country will transcend.
We are people determined to carve
A path out in the snow,
Clear directives not to starve
And govern our own show.
Or is our destiny to be wrapped
In fluff and cotton-wool,
And looked after like a patient strapped
In an asylum fit for fools.
We have clearly been diagnosed
Crazy and off our heads,
To contemplate, coast to coast,
City freedom to farmstead.
For we know not, how to run
Our own land as in England,
Nine hundred years, empowered sons
Since first King Kenneth MacAlpin.
YES is not an aye in the sky,
It’s a real optimistic choice
To banish the Union’s samurai,
Clean cut through and rejoice.
Our hands and impressions
Decide our future plans,
Our bonds and expressions
Shape our vibrant lands.
It’s healthier to be neighbours
Than be ruled until you’re blue,
No ambition to govern raiders,
In woe, we’ll help you through.”
And with a weave of passion
The kilt unfolds its memories
And slumps on gravelly ground,
Silence unravels mysteries
That embroider and astound.
For the future is clearer
Than the brightest bluest sky,
Our cosmopolitan nation-state should always be independent,
Make it that way again and vote Aye!
Written by Tommy Smith
Dear Supporters of ‘Review all Genres of Music’,
When I departed home this morning the petition was quiescent at 442 and my bones were unsettled. Having just returned from teaching at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland it’s now ascending at an active 832. I’ve taken time to dutifully read everything everyone has written and I’d like to take this humble opportunity to thank you all; this grand list of individuals from 21 countries, for your time, resolve, passion and creativity. For without whom, this entire petition would not have had the effect to cause such a swift wave in the corridors of power.
Waiting in my inbox, was an email from the Deputy Arts Editor of The Scotsman, who, this morning brought it to the attention of his management, who, in turned, quickly made money available for the continuation of World, classical and jazz CDs reviews; Weekend Life magazine is also going to thrive.
There will be no reviews this weekend but the three journalists involved are firmly reinstated, ready to listen, reflect and review World, classical and jazz music for all of us on February 8th. This is especially important to all the homegrown talent in Scotland, as it is a platform to the world stage.
For me, this, my first petition, was worth the sacrifice of besmirching my name against my hometown newspaper, who I’ve supported all my life, but the principle of injustice outweighed any personal loss to me.
I ended my petition with the 3rd line in the first stanza of Burn’s ‘Auld Lang Syne’. I will conclude this notification to you all with the 3rd line in the last stanza of the same song. ‘And we’ll take a rich guid-willy waught'; a draught of good fellowship.
Best wishes from the bottom of my heart.
Tommy SmithRead on...
25th January 2014
Dear Robert Burns and his descendants,
On this sacred day, the Scotsman newspaper has taken the budgetary decision to end reviewing world music, classical and jazz recordings, which is a heart-breaking bowdlerization of minority art forms and another cessation for the popularization and liberality of creativity. They may publish occasional reviews in the future but only from their syndication agreements, as long as they don’t have to pay for them. Who knows where they’ll appear, as their current Saturday magazine is also going to the four winds.
The final jazz CD reviewed for the Scotsman is printed today and coincidentally is for an ECM album featuring Arild Andersen, Paolo Vinnacia and myself, entitled MIRA, a red giant star. It is irrelevant whether the review is rated one star or a sea monster five, what is relevant is that the recording is reviewed for the public to read. Gratefully, the Scotsman will continue to review rock/pop and folk music, but should there be favouritism among musical genres? Equality will keep your heart pure. Let’s hope, one day, they will fluctuate their focus and luminescence on jazz, classical and world music again, just like we do when we look up at the astonishing MIRA balanced in the cosmos.
One thing I am glad about, is that you, Rabbie Burns, wrote about things tiny and guid, like the mouse and the louse.“We’ll tak a cup o kindness yet,” from the illiberal Scotsman.
“Chancellor, Principal, Chairman and Members of Court and Senate, Distinguished Guests, members of Staff of Glasgow Caledonian University, Graduands, Ladies and Gentlemen, Mum, Dad, Lorna, Anne and Ian.
It is an honour and privilege to be here with you on this very special day and for all of us to receive these prestigious awards from Caledonian University.
My work in music has taken me from a housing scheme in Edinburgh to many distant countries across the world; some friendly, others hostile…. My experiences, in life, touring, have taught me that people across the globe have many common goals: food, work, family, health, the environment and sometimes even music, despite some people saying it is “a satanic voice that deeply penetrates the human heart, stimulating desires and wreaking havoc on your body and soul.”
In 2003 while I was touring Yemen with French pianist Loic Dequidt and some Yemeni musicians, we were delayed on the runway, in an Aeroplane, awaiting new passengers to board in the city of Al Hudaydah, situated in the southwest, directly across the Red Sea from Ethopia. Sitting next to me was Ali, the Oud player in the band (incidentally, an Oud is like a Lute, a Lute is like a Mandolin, a Mandolin is like a guitar, but tuned differently), Ali said to me, I think I’ll play a song to pass the time, so he and Addel, the Tirbuka player (by the way, a Tirbuka is a small hand-held drum), took their instruments down from the overheads and started to play a beautiful Yemeni folk song. Passengers around us seemed to enjoy the singing and playing, when all of a sudden, there was a commotion at the back of the plane, caused by three identical looking angry men, who began yelling and shouting that music was strictly forbidden in Yemen and that we had to stop immediately. Well, to put this mildly, this led to a potentially volatile situation. An argument ensued and voices were raised to deafening proportions. Needless to say, this caused much anxiety amongst the passengers, some of whom had become very disturbed by the hoo-hah.
Thankfully, heavily armed police boarded the plane and restored order and silence. After the police left the plane, my friend, Ali stood up again and walked to the back of the plane to confront the three blokes for a second time; to my astonishment and surprise, they said nothing in retaliation; and Ali returned to his seat. I asked Ali, what did you say to them? He replied, “I told them, God created all the birds, and the birds sing so beautifully. Are you going to stop them making music too?”
Perhaps Ali’s courage came from his love of music or the fact he had Gin impersonating aqua minerale in his Evian water bottle.
Truly, just imagine a world without music- it would be like a sky without stars… Dancing in a nightclub would look stupid; you’d have to talk to yourself in the shower; whistling in supermarkets would be banned (well, I guess that’s ok!); Radio 1 would be like Radio 4; iTunes would be iTalk, and how would you know when to answer your phone? Or imagine a world where we are told what to play; what to sing and even what we may listen to. You know, that world already exists and in more countries than you might imagine.
From this moment on, everytime you hear or play your favourite music please don’t take it for granted, as there are people on the planet who are forbidden that luxury.
My message to you all is, “use your natural and studied gifts to create a better world for your families and loved ones; leverage your talents; savour the world around you; be proactive, and never stop questioning! – Sieze every opportunity to better yourself, and become an eternal student, as tomorrow, you’ll wish you studied harder today. And don’t forget to listen to the birds singing” Finally, may I congratulate all the graduands for your achievements to date, and I wish you all great success in the future.
Have a great time this evening and I hope you have many happy memories of today.Read on...
My heart sank deeply when I heard that Michael had died. I first met him when I was 15 years old, in Edinburgh. We were playing on a TV show hosted by Niels Henning OP. I heard him practising rhythm changes and went over to him and said, “Hi! You sound amazing! Who are you?” He replied, “Michael, who are you?”
He was one of the most humble human beings I’d ever met, and after that encounter I followed each note of his career with joy and amazement. Over the last 19 years, I wrote, met and talked with him on numerous occasions. We almost toured with Lovano in 2003, but his schedule was too busy. Now his live horn is silent but his recordings and soul will live on. He’d been so encouraging to me and I will miss him greatly. He joins an extraordinary league of great inspirations the World has ever seen: Coltrane, Alyer, Getz, Dexter, Webster, Bird, Lester…..Read on...
I’ve just finished a tour of the UK with Norwegian bassist Arild Andersen, and we spent many hours discussing the world of jazz. During one of our conversations I was astounded to discover that the Norwegian Jazz Federation was set up in 1953, over half a century ago. Today, at the close of 2006, the Scottish Jazz Federation has finally arrived. Now, some people may think this late arrival is a consequence of uninventive Scots but I beg to differ.
An Englishman enjoys his breakfast of toast and MARMALADE, invented by Mrs Keiller of Dundee (Scotland), reaches for his RAINCOAT, patented by Charles MacIntosh from Glasgow (Scotland), and dashes to the train station on his BICYCLE, invented by James Kirkpatrick MacMillan of Dumfries (Scotland) and whose TYRES, invented by John Boyd Dunlop of Dreghorn (Scotland), run on a TARMAC ROAD by John MacAdam of Ayr (Scotland). The journey by train, whose engine power is calculated in WATTS named after James Watt of Greenock (Scotland), takes him to work at the BANK OF ENGLAND founded by William Paterson of Dumfries (Scotland). While opening his mail, sent with ADHESIVE STAMPS invented by James Chalmers of Dundee (Scotland), he puffs on a CIGARETTE first manufactured by Robert Gloag of Perth (Scotland). He later rings his wife on a TELEPHONE invented by Alexander Graham Bell of Edinburgh (Scotland). She tells him that dinner will be ROAST BEEF from Aberdeen Angus raised in Aberdeenshire (Scotland). He arrives home to find his daughter watching on TELEVISION invented by John Logie Baird of Helensburgh (Scotland) a programme about the U.S. NAVY founded by John Paul Jones of Kirkbean (Scotland) and his son reading TREASURE ISLAND by Robert Louis Stevenson of Edinburgh (Scotland), and on lifting the family BIBLE he finds the first name mentioned is again a Scot, King James VI who authorised its translation. The same King James was also the first MONARCH OF THE UNITED KINGDOM, having become the British King following the Union of the Crowns in 1603.
The Englishman is unable to escape the accomplishments of the Scots. He could turn to WHISKY, but Scotland makes the best. He could stick his head in the oven, but COAL GAS was discovered by William Murdoch of Ayr (Scotland) and most domestic gas is now from the NORTH SEA, piped ashore in Scotland. He could attempt to shoot himself but his antique BREACH LOADING RIFLE was invented by Captain Pat Ferguson of Pitfours (Scotland). Should his suicide attempt prove unsuccessful, he may require a course of PENICILLIN discovered by Alexander Fleming of Darvel (Scotland) or be given an ANAESTHETIC discovered by Sir James Young Simpson of Bathgate (Scotland). So what hope for the poor unfortunate Englishman? Only one. He could sit back, drink his IRON BRU, eat his SHORTBREAD and listen to a deeply moving Negro Spiritual from Alabama, only to discover that Black Music roots and the source of American Gospel music originated in Scotland. But then he pauses and suddenly a grin spreads across his entire face because he remembers that England has 5 full-time jazz courses, in London, Birmingham and Leeds, and Scotland has none.
He ponders more and thinks of the great Willie Ruff, a professor of music at Yale University, a musicologist and jazz man who has played with Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie, whose surnames, by the way, are Scottish. Their names and religion come from their ancestral Scottish slave masters, as do names like Armstrong (Louis Armstrong), Mitchell (Blue Mitchell), Wilson (Teddy Wilson), McRae (Carmen McRae), Montgomery (Wes Montgomery), Davis (Eddie ‘Lockjaw’ Davis), Lewis (George & John Lewis), Stewart (Rex Stewart), Russell (Luis Russell), Murray (Don Murray), Webster (Ben Webster), McLean (Jackie McLean), Morgan (Lee Morgan), Morton (Jelly Roll Morton), Young (Lester Young), and Oliver, (King Oliver). The Englishman then logs onto the internet and Googles the Harlem telephone book in Georgia, to find that it’s more like the telephone book for North Uist. Black American cultural roots may be more Afro-Gaelic than Afro-American, he thinks. The Englishman then imagines what it was like for the 50,000 Gaelic-speaking Scottish immigrants who settled in North Carolina’s Cape Fear region and other parts of the South in the 18th and 19th centuries. While the Scots worshipped in their churches, singing the unaccompanied psalms in Gaelic, their slaves sat in the balcony above. This unaccompanied singing is called “Presenting the line”, in which a designated person sings a solo line from the biblical Book of Psalms, inviting members of the congregation to follow in their own time and with their own harmonies. The result is a radiant, surging, echoing chorus. It is the direct ancestor of “lining out,” a hymnal singing style of 19th century slaves, which is still practised at a dwindling number of black Southern churches.
“Lining out” evolved into the call-and-response of spirituals and gospel music that, in turn, influenced other American musical styles: spirituals, blues, ragtime – everything else that came later has some of this genetic musical DNA. So, if jazz music flows from the blues and ragtime – it implies its origins are from the Hebrides of Scotland. The Englishman is astounded, but why has Scotland not yet established a Scottish Jazz Academy to promote its heritage? Why does England have five jazz schools? Do the English want to steal all the good players from Scotland and boost their own economy? In spite of the proliferation and growth of jazz education in Europe over the past 40 years, why can’t Scottish jazz students study jazz music on their own doorstep? Has it been banned? I thought Scotland loved its heritage. Perhaps I’ll have that whisky after all.
Dizzy Gillespie had no doubt that there was a connection between Scotland and Gospel music, as he told musicologist and bassist Willie Ruff on many occasions during their tours around the world. I’m always saddened when I hear our nation’s leaders bragging about Scotland being at the forefront of music education, because when it comes to jazz, which we may have indirectly given birth to, there is no tertiary full-time jazz education in place. We must be backward to miss such a wonderful opportunity. Are we?
Any university in Scotland has the power to establish a full-time jazz course. Why haven’t they? Why doesn’t SHEFC, the Scottish Higher Educational Funding Council provides funding for the universities in the form of additional music places to establish a full-time jazz academy? Why doesn’t the Scottish Parliament put pressure on SHEFC to put pressure on the universities. Why don’t the jazz musicians put pressure on the Scottish Parliament to put pressure on SHEFC to put pressure on the universities to establish a Scottish Jazz Academy? Why not? Does everybody just pass the buck? It’s a catch-22, between a rock and a hard place. One blames the other: the universities want more music places, SHEFC want the universities to give up already existing music places. The Scottish Parliament has to be impartial and cannot direct the direction. So what happens? Nothing. If only the heads of universities would be more passionate about the most beautiful and challenging of art forms, perhaps we would be celebrating 25 or 50 years of jazz education in
Scotland. You know, jazz is a serious music and is the passport to understanding all musical art forms. When young musicians open their imaginations to jazz music they then have a skeleton key to open the door of any musical genre. It takes talent, dedication and a country’s foresight. Are we blind, or are the music departments of our universities frightened and prejudiced against an art form called jazz?
What do Stu Brown, Martin Kershaw, Aidan O’Donnell, John Blease, Sebastiaan Rochford, Adam Jackson, Fraser Campbell, Lea Gough Cooper, Rachel Cohen, John Fleming, Gail McArthur, Ben Bryden, Jo Fooks, Jay Craig, Calum Gourlay, Alan Blair, Phil Cardwell, Theo Forrest, Paul Towndrow, Konrad Wiszniewski, Paddy Flatherty, Steve Hamilton, and myself have in common? We’ve all studied jazz outside Scotland. For the past 20 years there has been an ever-growing exodus of young Scottish jazz musicians in search of full-time jazz education. If you add the cost of tuition fees, accommodation and living expenses, that is a great deal of money lost to the Scottish economy and given freely to other countries. Jazz education continues to flourish abroad in the face of this estrangement from academia in Scotland. It does prevail….but we can be an essential part of the process. Can’t we?
Tonight, I’ve had to fly Rachel Cohen, Adam Jackson and John Fleming from Birmingham Conservatoire as they have important exams at the full-time jazz course there tomorrow. Our bassist, Calum Gourlay, who is studying jazz at the London Academy of Music, had an important exam today and could not be with us. It would have been easier if they studied up the road or at least had the choice to study jazz up the road. But all these musicians want the best jazz education and unfortunately it ain’t here.
Unlike many of my predecessors, such as Alex Welsh, Jimmy Deuchar, George Chisholm, Sandy Brown, Tommy Whittle, Joe Temperley, Bobby Wellins, Annie Ross, Carol Kidd and Jim Mullen, I decided to return, make my home here and do my utmost to develop the music that I love in a country that I love. Since the mid 1980’s, there have been many improvements, and the Scottish jazz scene is now moving forward through some fantastic initiatives headed by brave jazz musicians who are willing to stay the course. We have terrific jazz musicians living in this country who could spread the gospel of jazz: Steve Hamilton, Konrad Wiszniewski, Colin Steele, Phil Bancroft, Martin Kershaw, Ryan Quigley, Chris Greive, Mario Caribe, Alyn Cosker to name but a few. The only thing holding us back is the absence of a Scottish Jazz Academy.
“Whisky, Sean Connery, Ewan McGregor.” That is what people outside this country know about Scotland. All pretty positive things, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if Scotland could be known for its jazz education?Read on...