etfb

I wanted to write another filk about the SCA, particularly about the somewhat lax standards it allows. I started out trying to filk the theme from Kimba the White Lion, something about "TSCA the (something) (something)" but I got stuck: "Who's got purple kittens on his coat of arms / Who wears jeans and Adidas in court ..." and then nothing. Then celsa posted her filk and my angle changed. This is much less cynical. It's to the tune of Mad World, either the Tears For Fears version or the Gary Jules version; you pick.

Known World

All around me are a hundred faces
Swords and maces, courtly graces
Brightly flicker in the candle's traces
Going Dreaming, going Dreaming

They cheer now, raising up their tankards
No evasion, no evasion
Hide my smile, I want to say it's crazy,
Far too hazy, even lazy

But I find it right and proper, I find it just the thing
We got our basic structure from The Once and Future King
It's written on the cover, and it's there for you to see:
"To dream the Middle Ages just exactly as they
Should be, should be"

Children learning even though they hate school
This is still cool, this is still cool
Play at being king and queen of misrule,
Bright eyes glisten, bright eyes glisten

When I started I was very nervous
Just a newbie, just a newbie
Found a way to figure what's my talent
Now just watch me, now just watch me

And I find it right and proper, I find it just the thing
We got our basic structure from The Once and Future King
It's written on the cover, yes it's there for you to see:
"To dream the Middle Ages just exactly as they
Should be, should be"

Given recent controversies over first words and suchlike, I feel it is appropriate to mention The Three Laws of Minstrelsy, by which I try to live my life:

1. Never let the facts get in the way of the story.
2. Never let the details get in the way of the rhythm.
3. Art is reason enough.

I think that's all we need, really.

(Reposted from my old blog, fLog, from 28 January 2006.)

Here's how to make use of any free time you may have, in a way that will have minimum long-term benefit for you and your family.

( Read on for the saga of the swimming pool... )

In the beginning, in the evening, after the Mothers and Fathers had put the tearing, screaming, demanding, loud little horrors down to sleep on their beds of straw in the cosiest end of the cave, they sat around the sputtering fire and tried to decide what to do. Civilised warfare was still many thousands of years in their future, so they didn't know the term "shell shocked", but it's what they were. "Oh my god," said Grarg, the oldest and scarred-est of the Fathers. ("Oh my what?" another asked. "An idea I'm working on; I'll explain later" Grarg whispered, hoping not to lose his audience with an irrelevant aside.) "Clearly," Grarg continued, "we can't go on like this. These children are going to run us ragged. We barely have time to hunt a mammoth, kill it, drag it home, cut the fur off, hack off chunks and eat them, without those children running around, asking questions, demanding to know, why did the mammoth fall over, what are our ropes made of, how does the knife cut the meat, why don't we warm the meat over the fire before we eat it... It's insane. We can't live if we have to spend all our time answering these questions! What are we going to do?"

The ragged crowd fell silent. What indeed? Still dazed from the day's endless interrogations from their three-foot-high inquisitors, they could find nothing to say.

From the cave mouth, a twig snapped. "Bear!" someone grunted, and lunged for a spear. But instead of a shaggy beast-mountain with hungry jaws, into the circle of light came... a man. Well, sort of a man. Impossibly old, at least forty summers, wrinkled and stooped, with a walking stick and a mane of white hair. His eyes glinted, even without the firelight catching them. In a faint, piping voice that all strained to hear, he spoke:

"You fear for your minds, you mothers and fathers? You fear your little children and their endless curiosity? Their questions, their insatiable thirst for knowledge. You would silence them?"

The assembled parents murmured their assent. Silence indeed! What a joy! What a dream! Grarg spoke for them: "Do you know of a way, O wizened sage? Can you save us from our own flesh and blood who threaten to drown us in questions? Share your wisdom, snow-hair!"

The old man said nothing, only reached into the scrappy leather bag he wore around his shoulder. He took out a bundle of ill-tanned hides, beaten thin and bound with thin leather strips. He threw it to the ground for all to see, and with a triumphant gleam in those eerie eyes he shouted one word: "Schooling!"

— * —
After the Mothers and Fathers had finished dining on the old man's paltry flesh and sucked the last of the marrow from his bones, they leafed through his collection of pages. Full of knowledge, it was, all trapped on the page in scratches and scribbles. A map — although they knew not yet of such a thing — for a million children's lives full of sitting sullenly still, "learning" only what was taught, remaining silent, remaining obedient. Doing what they were told. "Horrible, horrible," muttered Grarg. "No amount of parental pain could be worthy of such punishment. Let our children drive us mad with their endless, insatiable thirst for wonder; we may wish them dead a thousand times, but we'd never wish them schooled."

Around them, the firelight flickered. The Mothers and Fathers may have been desperate in many ways, but they still had some standards.


And now for something completely different...

Another day, another chilling effect.

A discussion on the Shambles (SCA Lochac mailing list), that was ranging widely over the topic of Festival sites, got effectively shut down again, just like about this time last year, and by much the same people.  Apparently the discussion was negative and cynical -- or so they claimed.  I was reading it as extremely positive, respectful almost to the point of gushing sycophancy, and no more repetitive than one expects with the typical lead time and lag of a mailing list.  But a couple of people appear to equate discussion with criticism, and criticism with unfair criticism, and so batted their eyelids and begged that the whole thing be silenced.  Now.  Or you're all nasty people.

It's not censorship in the usual sense.  When the List Boss, say, announces that the topic will be ceased for reasons that are spurious, that's censorship - but we haven't had a List Boss that foolish in a very long time, if ever. But when a sweet lass says things like "I've listened to you all complain here... I've listened to people ... off-list become upset at your words", she doesn't need to say which comments she considers complaints, or which people were upset.  People take her at her word, even if she rarely posts anything but that sort of insinuation.  We're a polite Society; that's how we work.

It annoys me to see the usual suspects at it again, especially when they have so little to say the rest of the time.

Here's the principle I work by: if you are intimately involved in Topic X, and you find a collection of people discussing that topic, informally and even ill-informedly, here is a list of things you may do:

1. ignore it;
2. join in; or
   
3. wish quietly that they'd stop.

Here is a list of things you may not do and still consider yourself a mature adult:

1. tell them they're not allowed to talk about it.

The above includes using emotional bullying tactics to effect the same result.  It's not just rude, it's destructive and mean-spirited.

But as I've said before, some people like being offended.  They can't get enough of it.  For these people, I have one thing to say: you're ugly, and your mother dresses you funny.

Heath Ledger is notable for being two things at the moment. They are:

1. Not gay
2. Dead

This hasn't stopped our good friends at the Westboro Baptist "Church" announcing plans to picket his memorial because he played a gay cowboy in some movie a while back. (And hey, he was a gay athlete in his first TV show, so there's a real trend there. I'm sure the whole thing with girlfriends, an ex-wife and a baby daughter is just a cover, right? Are we even sure Mary-Kate Olsen counts as a human female? She's probably some sort of gay robot or something. But I digress.)

My first thought, a familiar one whenever I read anything about our satanist friends the Phelps, was that someone needs to go beat them to a pulp. Sadly, however, unplugged flaws in the legal system of the USA mean this sort of thing is inexplicably frowned upon. So here's what people need to do, and if you're in LA or anywhere that the Phelps show up. Feel free to pass these instructions on.

When dealing with anti-gay protests at Heath Ledger's memorial, or anywhere else for that matter, gather as many gay or gay-friendly friends as possible. Form a circle around the protesters, as much as possible blocking them from view and preventing them running away. Pair up (or trio up if you like that sort of thing; I'm not fussy). Specifically, pair up in same-sex groups. Then: snog.

Yes, that's right: kiss. Lots. Snuggling, cuddling and canoodling should also be part of the process. Remember, your goal is to:

1. Demonstrate that gay people are lovely and cuddly and nice and hardly ever sprout horns and breathe fire except on special occasions; and
2. Make those Phelps bastards' flesh crawl in terror and revulsion.

Now, I'm not gay, so maybe this is all dreadfully culturally imperialist of me... but I don't need to like big hunky boys to realise that the Westboro Baptists are the slime that grows on the fungus you find on the underside of the lower-quality varieties of semi-recent cat shit. And if you can give them fatal heart failure with a harmless, enjoyable (and entirely legal) snuggle, why the hell not?

I subjected myself to an episode of Robin Hood tonight, and... look, there really is only one way I could respond. I'm not your ISO standard authenticity nazi, but even I have to draw the line somewhere, and multicultural peace envoys, ninja assassin girlies in teal pantsuits and ceremonial acupuncture helmets are nowhere near the side of the line I prefer to frequent. So here's my reply. Share and enjoy.

This one pretty much stands alone without explanation, except to say that the name "Lord McGee" comes from a line on an old TV show, which has just the right level of threat to it; there is no single Lord McGee, but a stupid number of Lords, Ladies, Masters and Mistresses who bloody well should know better. If I could turn bright green and eight feet tall, they'd stop bothering us. Until then, there's the old axiom: Meddle not in the affairs of Bards, for they are subtle and quick to anger, and your name scans to Greensleeves.

The tune is my own this time, and I'll stick it up somewhere as soon as I've finished marking it up.

Lord McGee

Here's a newcomer come to her very first feast,
Her garb is a valiant try, at least,
Her velvet's crushed and there's miles of lace
But she's here and that's a start.
And here's the old fart Lord McGee,
With opinions he'll happily give for free,
Critiquing the newcomer to her face,
Politely breaking her heart.

And I watch as another one slips away;
Another lass won't be a Queen one day.
And I wonder if raising our standards high
Is worth maybe killing them dead.
And I ought to take Lord McGee aside,
And give him advice, maybe tan his hide,
If his arrogant air didn't leave me shy,
Then here's what I might have said:

    Lord McGee don't make me angry:
    You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
    Lord McGee don't make me angry:
    You wouldn't like me at all.

Here's a brand new herald who's helping out,
On the tourney field, just having a shout,
His projection's crap and he mangles names,
But it's still a good first try.
And there's McGee in his shiny helm,
To explain how we do things in this realm,
And the new boy's there with his public shame,
Volunteered, now he wonders why.

And I watch as the light in his eyes goes dim;
We need more heralds but it won't be him.
And I wonder if teaching the proper ways
Is worth making everyone small.
And I ought to take Lord McGee aside,
And give him advice, maybe tan his hide,
But a minute with him makes my eyes glaze,
And I might just stand and call:

    Lord McGee don't make me angry:
    You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
    Lord McGee don't make me angry:
    You wouldn't like me at all.

Here's a blazing fire and a healthy crowd,
All singing their guts out, strong and loud,
With Gaudete and the Stickjock song
And everything in between.
And Lord McGee, with ears assaulted,
Into the circle catapulted,
Swears that we're doing it all quite wrong,
And frequently obscene.

And I watch as some of the singers cringe,
But a few take on a darker tinge,
There's a lot of the kingdom started here,
With a song and tale or two.
So this time I take McGee aside,
And give him advice, maybe save his hide,
"Meddle with bards, have cause to fear"
Is a warning, old and true.

    And Lord McGee, he made me angry:
    He didn't like me when I'm angry.
    Lord McGee, he made me angry:
    He didn't like me at all.
    Lord McGee, he made me angry:
    He didn't like me when I'm angry.
    Lord McGee, he made me angry...
    You don't see him around any more.

From comments by wenchilada and others, it appears the sad old alcoholic who whinged about the Bardic Circle got around to other campfires as well at Festival. Her complaint, such as it was, is that some of the singing was entirely too modern, and doesn't belong at Festival or in the SCA. She also said that bardic circles were better "in her day", but you can put that down to the amnesia of the old and infirm, so never mind. Let's have a look at her main assertion.

There are two kinds of singing in the SCA. The Winebar Warblers are the ones doing part-singing, your standard choral stuff. Most of it is authentic to the renaissance period or a little later, so well within the acceptable range for what we call period. It's generally religious, modulo a little John Dowland smut, and requires that you know (a) your voice part, and (b) how to read sheet music. It sounds gorgeous, and adds a huge amount to the atmosphere of an event. It would be tragic if it ever disappeared from Festival, because a lot of branches don't have the minimum number of competent sheet-music-literate singers to get it started, so for many people Festival is the only time they get to hear or sing the stuff.

The other kind of singing is done by the Bardic Bellowers. They sing folk, generally; at best it's seventeenth century stuff, but mostly it's "perioid", done in an attempt at period style, with varying success, by SCA people, or else filk, which is songs written Weird-Al-style to existing tunes. The canonical example of perioid is Silfren's Uislenn; the canonical filk at the most recent Festival was celsa's version of the Hunters & Collectors not-a-one-hit-wonder, Throw Your Arms Around Me. Bardic singing is much more accessible to more people; there's no sheet music, just words written down or remembered, and it's always in English. But it's not as lovely to listen to at a distance. You have to be right there taking part in the bardic stuff, whereas for the warblers it's often very pleasant to stand at a distance and let yourself be transported by the harmonies.

Two very different styles. Now: which one belongs in the SCA, and which one is the abomination?

People like the alcoholic woman would have us believe that the bardic stuff doesn't belong. Even Llewen the Unruly, he who wrote The Miracle and popularised a modified version of Graham Pratt's Black Fox as The Foxy Song, is now saying that the bardic stuff shouldn't be done at events, even at Festival.

These people are wrong.

The SCA lets you in if you make a reasonable attempt at pre-17th century clothing. Does that mean you need pre-17th century hairstyles too? Pre-17th century eyeglasses (ie none)? Pre-17th century underwear? Diseases? Bigotries? Religious arguments? No, obviously not. Is that because the SCA has appalling low standards? No! It's because the SCA has appealingly low standards. That is: the SCA has found the sweet spot, between the twee Disneyfication of the Renn Faires and the strict anal retentiveness of the serious historical reenactment groups. You can join in at your leisure, dip your toe in the water, and if you like what you see you can come back for more. We welcome newcomers, we welcome dilettantes. We like it that way, and the result is that we have a considerably greater membership than the other organisations for a considerably lower personal cost.

So why should music be any different?

There was a time when Llewen, to pick a name at random, sang folk and silly stuff. Now he's a winebar warbler, taking himself as seriously as his awestruck fans do, and that's his right; but he's forgotten where he came from. If the warblers had been the only game in town in 1983, would The Foxy Song be the unofficial Lochacian anthem now? More importantly, would his magnificent voice have been sending shivers up people's spines for most of the last few decades? As a court herald, maybe; but not as a singer.

Or how about Silfren? She used to sing. She got criticised once too many times by the anti-bardic minority, and now she's a fencer who feels unwelcome when she opens her mouth. How is that justice?

And me: I hardly belong in this sort of company, but it's my blog so what the hell. I started with filk because it was easy to do. Now a lot of my best stuff is original: Songs of the West, When Sarah Smiles, Oh The Baron, My Son I've Been A Rover. I can guarantee this: I would never have written those, I would never have joined university choirs and learned the warblerish side of things at all, I would not still be in the SCA, if the bardic circles of my early days had been banned, or if they had been even half as restrictive as the old whinging woman believes they were.

I don't think the current crop of new singers will stick around if things get more restrictive. That would be a great shame. So I don't intend to let it happen. There will be the warblers, and good on them. Any time I get a chance, I'll join in, as I have done in the past. I almost ran down the hill to join in when the Abbotsford hard-rocking music fiends started on Laudate on Sunday night, but I had a circle to run so I didn't. But I will always love the bardic tradition, and I will defend it to the death.

My name is Karl Faustus von Aachen, and I am a Bard. Deal with it.

Many years ago, I went to the largely tolerable Adelaide Intervarsity Choral Festival. While I was there, I wrote a three-scene Gilbert and Sullivan opera for the Revue (you have no idea how dull Adelaide can be...) but owing to criminal incompetence on the part of the compere, who should have been nasally raped to death by nuns, we didn't get to perform it. It's been sitting in my Palm Pilot ever since, and today I noticed it in my backups. So here it is. I have no idea of the tunes, but I think it has its own charm regardless.

( The curtain rises, the orchestra swells... )

Inspired by my recent rant (which isn't related to any particular issue at the moment, but has been simmering for a good while). So who wants this on a t-shirt?