The Bill I knew

He was the closest thing to a rock star in piping, and I’m sure that image suited him just fine. I knew of the great Bill Livingstone through his Gold Medallist album—the one on which he double-tracked his own harmonies and included “Lillian Livingstone” and its sensational fourth part—radical stuff for the time.

At that Maxville, I saw him strut around, kilted and topless in the August Ontario heat, cigarette dangling like a bagpipes Keith Richards, setting up his General Motors band. To my novice teenage eyes and ears, it seemed more about the show than the tuning, and maybe it was.

But I didn’t meet him until August 1983. I was competing in Scotland for the first time. That was when I was introduced to Bill at the Argyllshire Gathering and somehow ended up having pints and dinner with him and Lily in Oban. I was starting a wondrous year in Scotland, doing my junior year at Macalester College at the University of Stirling.

Bill made the case that “The inflection is all wrong,” contending the movie would never have been a thriller had the line been delivered without misleading vocal “modulation.” As with all conversations with him, I left a little bit smarter and enlightened and struck by how interestingly eclectic this guy was.

We would be friends for the next 42 years, the first four seeing him at the major solo piping gatherings and World Pipe Band Championships, the next 10 playing with him in his band, and the following three decades at various events, lunches, dinners and occasional “lessons,” that consisted mainly of me playing piobaireachds at him. He’d mostly say, “That was fine . . . just fine,” even though I knew it wasn’t.

I came from a different piobaireachd camp—the one with camp counsellor John MacDonald of Inverness, passed on to me through Jimmy McIntosh, Jack Taylor, and Andrew Wright. Bill once described that style to me as “treacly,” meaning far too sweet and legato, in contrast to the more staccato and robust approach he received from John Wilson, John MacFadyen, and John MacLellan. As a result, we didn’t discuss piobaireachd much.

I remember Bill more for things like movies, other music, books, politics, and bikes, than for piping and pipe banding. My time with Bill invariably included chats about the humanities. And food.

I’ve never known anyone who loved eating more than Bill. He adored food and drink. He would nosh away at chicken wings and nachos with an abandon equal to his scarfing Hunan-style garlic string beans or a large bowl of rigatoni.

He was the only person I have met who admitted—no, steadfastly insisted—that he disliked The Beatles.

The ridiculous picnics we’d collectively organize for the games, replete with fine chardonnay, fresh salads, cold fried chicken and some goopy dessert or other, became almost ritualistic. Julie and I bought plastic wine glasses—expensive back then—that we couldn’t afford. While those around made do with greasy burgers and fried whatnots from the deplorable “food” vans, he loved the food and spectacle of those ginghammed feasts.

He was the only person I have met who admitted—no, steadfastly insisted—that he disliked The Beatles. We had heated How?! Why?! What?! Huh?! discussions about such musical heresy. Like his preference for the “Cameron” style of piobaireachd playing, perhaps he disliked the Fab Four’s too-treacly tunes for the same reason. He was a pure rhythm and blues guy; an old-school rocker who got on with it.

Back to that first encounter with Bill in 1980. After Maxville, my dad and I went to the Montreal Games. There, I saw Bill for who he was: sensitive, loving, and not a little delicate. The day before, he was strutting his bare-chested stuff with his band; now, he and Lily were enjoying the morning together, sitting in the grass, sharing time between tunes.

That was when I realized what a truly loving marriage looked like. My parents weren’t the closest of couples, but Bill and Lily were symbiotic. She quietly sat by while Bill competed, listening intently, supporting him by being there. Apart from band practices, I rarely saw them apart.

So, my fondest memories of Bill are of him and Lily—their partnership, their absolute devotion. I learned many things from him, including a great deal about piping and pipe bands. But his greatest gift to me was demonstrating what true dedication and commitment to another person looked like.

I’ll miss that most of all.

— Andrew Berthoff