Opinion: The sorrow and the glory of aging in piping and drumming

I’ve spent 50 years now trying to figure out piping and drumming – the music and the culture. And both are fascinating, endless pursuits.

The younger competing years seemed to have unlimited wonder and time, so much so that you didn’t have to ponder things much. I think back and try to imagine practicing for hours a day, going to band practices two or three times a week while still in school or just out of college, living from dollar to dollar or pound to pound, eking out a living as a busker or waiter or pizza maker. It seems ridiculously impossible now.

You just sort of did it without any questions or doubts, gathering information along the way that would presumably make things easier or better over the years. The time was limitless; the energy was endless. And we would use up both like so many pints with no hangover and no worry about tomorrow because there’d always be another tomorrow.

Over time, you start to get answers to some of the questions. You find reasons for things, or you just realize that’s just the way it is, so don’t let it bother you.

The mystery of piobaireachd – the cadences, the phrases, the shape of the tune, the notes that connect – they start to make sense. The pacing of the piece, the structure of the song, they come into focus. But the trouble is, there’s less time to deliver it. Well, there’s time, but the time is competing with so much else to do before it’s truly too late.

The greatest joy of playing in a competing pipe band isn’t the sound; it’s the singular camaraderie found in a team of like-minded friends driving toward a common goal of perfection. Even if it’s a hopeless game that can never be fully realized, you find that the people are more important than the plan to win. You appreciate more those you play with, not simply the music you make or the prizes you’re given. It’s all a prize.

The hard work of judging and all that close listening is trumped by the pure joy of listening to a great piper make great music, or a novice player discover that there’s no need to be nervous because it’s music and only music they’re making. A conjuring of notes from nothingness that is so uniquely human. If they experience that epiphany, they’re on their way.

The irony and tragedy of aging is that just when we start to figure out life, it gets later and later and then too late to deliver what we know.

The irony and tragedy of aging is that just when we start to figure out life, it gets later and later and then too late to deliver what we know.

It takes more time and energy – the precious stuff that shrinks in supply as we age – to play to potential. The tunes are that much harder to memorize. You finally know what you need to do with them, and how they should be played, but the hands don’t cooperate like they used to. After so many years, it’s all in your head and your heart, but your hands and body can’t live up to the task.

That’s the glory, and that’s the sorrow, but it’s a beautiful frustration that I imagine will only intensify over the remaining years, all things being fortuitous and equal.

The only hope is to catch the moment as it flies, a poet once wrote. Like the ephemeral moment, the music flies away from us. As we age, we strive to catch and retain more moments, whether a smile or a simile from a loved one, or a brilliant turn of phrase in a John MacColl march played by a crafty veteran who can deliver the goods in a way not yet in the reach of a younger player, or witnessing the unmitigated jubilation and flying kilts of a band that’s just won the World’s.

Persevering in piping and drumming is like anything else. Perfection can be chased but never fully found. As we age, we come to that realization. We find joy in discovering the things that were there all the time, but we needed time to find them.