Tag Archives: storytelling

A True Friend — Lindsay Porteous!

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Jack was going to do a different guest post, but news intervened – – –

One of the founding members of my old Scottish folk band ‘Heritage’ was Lindsay Porteous. Like most of us, he didn’t read music – he played by ear. But he heard things differently from the rest of us. When he played what would traditionally be considered rhythmic instruments, he would play melody on them—on jaw harps, for instance. His main instruments were the jaw harp, the mouth bow and various whistles and drums. With these he added a very particular dimension to our overall sound.

I often described him as the only true ‘folk musician’ in the band. If he had been a painter, he would have been called a ‘naïve artist.’

Lindsay lived in the Tron House in Culross, Fife, and he built an amazing collection of musical instruments, old medicine bottles, and all sorts of other things. His house featured in many TV series and movies, including Outlander and any others that required a 17th century setting.

He was friendly with, and appreciated by, many of the most revered Scottish folk musicians and became a close associate of the wonderful storyteller and singer Duncan Williamson. His jaw harp prowess resulted in an all-expenses paid trip to judge the jaw harp competition at Grandfather Mountain highland games in North Carolina some years ago, when he was able to visit his own mouth bow hero, Jimmy Driftwood.

He also traveled all over Europe with ‘Heritage,’ and there are many stories of his adventures in Italy, France, Germany, and Switzerland. One of our favorites is when his mother* packed him tuna sandwiches for a trip that provided us food money, so he didn’t eat them for five days. When he started to open the Tupperware (in our close and crowded van), we shrieked, “No Lindsay! It’s too late!”

He smiled and pointed to the words on the edge of the plastic box. “It’s okay, lads. This says it keeps food fresh for up to six days.” We cursed Lindsay and the smell all the way to our next gig.

It was Lindsay who introduced ‘Heritage’ to Ian Green of Greentrax Records which, in a convoluted way, eventually led to our final album on Robin Morton’s Temple label. Robin knew Lindsay from his time as a member of the ‘Boys of the Lough,’ when they almost included him on their first album playing jaw harp.

I stayed in touch with Lindsay until recently, and he frequently sent me CDs of his favorite music. But the most anticipated posts were his Christmas letters. Where others glorified their stories, Lindsay reveled in doom and gloom newsletters relating the various disasters of his year. Our favorite quote, one Wendy and I often said to each other in moments of peril or uncertainty, was “My sister’s house is sinking down a mine shaft. The council don’t think they can save it.”

I can only imagine what his newsletter would have said this year – – –

Probably he would be describing his arrival at the ceilidh in heaven with Mike Mustard, Jimmy Dunn, Mike Ward, Davy Lockhart, Alan MacDonald, and Dominique LaLaurie. Dominique was the French lassie who played bagpipes with Heritage whenever we went to France, and we were all in love with her, Lindsay most of all. Now he can twang along again in the heavenly choir.

*Lindsay’s mother Nora deserves her own blog post, which I will get to in coming months. A fabulous lady, she studied at the prestigious Slade School of Art in London and lived a life worthy of its own book—not to mention looking after Lindsay, who was autistic.

Hey Ho, Hey Ho. It’s Off to Work–Again

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In Jack’s Wednesday guest post he continues his Romanian adventure – –

After a break back home, I returned for a second month-long stint at Ploesti in Romania. This time was more relaxed as I was familiar with the set-up and the folks with whom I was working. Not only that, but my kind-hearted boss, Alan, paid for Wendy to join me for the last two weeks, so it was a bit like a paid vacation!

While I was teaching during the day, Wendy made contact with a fellow folklorist in the local university, explored the town, fed the many stray dogs, and found the Pinot Noir from Prahova Valley in a local supermarket, which we loved—both wine and market. Along the way she began to make contacts for a visit she wanted to make in the future, connecting Scottish young musicians, dancers, and storytellers with their Roma counterparts.

During this time we had become friendly enough with some people to be invited to their homes – mostly small apartments in high-rise, Soviet-era blocks with extended families crammed in. We also discovered that most folk worked at least two jobs and sometimes three just to survive. We were frequently embarrassed by our relative wealth!

Wendy especially befriended two schoolteachers who would later host her storytelling club kids, and they were crammed into a studio apartment, working their day jobs as teachers and night jobs in retail.

Wendy could also join me for the lavish occasional evening meals presided over by the ex- secret-police chief, who was frightening because he was so affable. But his interpreter had been working for me all day, and he always kept her going through the evenings as well – we felt sorry for her. And maybe she didn’t find him quite so affable…

Wendy visited the famous clock museum, and we were able to make a trip to the even more famous ‘Dracula’s Castle’…

…where we discovered that you could buy wine called Dracula’s blood – made in California!

We also bonded with the young girl working for the hotel, serving breakfasts before school began. We invited her to visit us and discovered that her ability to get a passport was hampered by economics. Thinking we could help, we discovered that kids from Roma communities had to pay astronomical sums just to apply, and were often denied visas.

We enjoyed Romania overall, while aware of its many injustices, and became aware that the population hankered to be seen as west Europeans. Bucharest is often referred to as ‘the Paris of the east.’

Wendy was able to re-connect and take her group of young folk with help from the EU and the British Council to spend time with the Roma kids in the north east of the country, comparing their different but related cultures. She went back to the hotel on a quick visit, but the young lassie was no longer employed, and she couldn’t find anyone to tell her in English if she had ever made it to Europe or simply quit.

Much later when we had opened our bookstore in Big Stone Gap, Virginia, we hosted ‘international nights,’ and one was presented by a friend who was a Romanian immigrant. He had been present when the Ceaușescu reign came to an end, and Wendy and I had our knowledge of the country expanded by his stories. We always wondered how the secret police chief managed to get to be the head of a large, newly private company – – –

Maybe our lasting memory is that Romania loves gypsy fiddlers and their music but treats their Roma folk very badly – the same people who play their fiddles. We remember the kids sneaking into the yard outside our hotel to get water from the outside faucet. And the sweetness of the music. Life is complicated.