Outhere Music on SoundCloud

I have had the pleasure of discovering an early music label out of Brussels called Outhere music, and they currently have a massive discography sampler on SoundCloud that is an absolute pleasure.

As much as I love the recordings of the Dowland Consort and the incredible sounds of the Early Music Consort founded by David Munrow in London, continental recordings of early music from France and Italy utterly captivate me as well.  This selection of music will keep me happy as a writer for a considerable period of time, so I'll share it here as well.  The label's genres vary from early medieval, to renaissance, to baroque, to romantic, and even a little jazz, concentrating mostly on baroque and Italian Renaissance.

Poem: The Smell of Ireland

Con Durham, a man full of talent, gentleness and love.

I met and played trad music with him in Daingean ui Chuis.

RIP, angel of music.

The Smell of Ireland

by A.R. Carter

When I first landed there, I noticed the smell;

an odd acrid tang, not unpleasant at all.

New to that place I wondered about it,

and after years couldn’t recall

what life’s like without it.

It’s turf-grates and oak,

Bord na Mona’s thick smoke,

vinegar, sausage and chips.

Dettol and paint, and on feet of a saint

beeswax sweet, and the spice of incense.

The harbour’s rotten hemp rope,

and the lavender soap

on old ladies sitting at mass.

The cough of the bus

with a tourist-full truss

wearing too much cologne

as they pass.

St. James’s Gate stinks of burnt barley malt

with relief found in Howth and its air full of salt.

Botanical treasures await in Glasnevin,

the breath of woodbine heaves its own special heaven.

Steaming tarmac, gooey and black,

is mixed in with cow-pats and green.

Mussels in sand, and the smell of a land

of stone walls and fresh Carraghín.

Silage and stink on February dirt,

blackberries rotten on vines;

bacon and eggs with rich soda bread,

the deep quiet stands of white pines.

Black tar on canvas of curraghs tied down,

the trawlers’ old engine oil,

damp woolen jumpers of men worked to the bone

that smell of tobacco and toil.

The smell of a nation, the dirt-smell of spud,

crimped on the coastline by seaweed and mud.

I didn’t hear jays or the mockingbird’s song,

and when all was right, a piece was still wrong.

Nights caught me off as I gazed on the thickets.

They were velvety deep, with no chirping of crickets.

I imagined them all, and then I recalled,

wood stoves on a morning’s cold hickory pall,

fried country ham on the first day of autumn,

cinnamon, walnut, molasses and pumpkin,

sumac and honeysuckle on a deep summer evening,

cornbread, and Lysol, and homemade fried chicken.

Mom’s cotton quilts kept in old cedar chests,

the whirr of cicadas, the razzing of locusts,

and peeking through snow,

the first purple spring crocus.

Then I remembered what I loved about home.

So I’d think of Nashville,

and pick up the phone.

New Poem- Johnny Blue

This is a poem about the Southerners in the US Civil War like the Tennessee regiments who fought on the Union side, of whom were many, and their ranks were silent by necessity but many in number.  

Johnny Blue

The men in gray embrace their lies,

The Union army holds what’s true,

but beware the most the unknown prize

fought for by Johnny men in blue.

They hold most dear a precious fight

oppressed in silence through and through,

and keep thus hid ferocious light

fought for by Johnny men in blue.

Around them they see every day

rags and slavery’s suffering true,

thus propaganda’s feet of clay

are smashed to bits by Johnny Blue.

His eyes are fire, his nostrils flare,

to lay six deep the gray mens’ crew,

of all good fighting men, he’ll dare

not to aim high, brave Johnny Blue.

Accuse the South of rebel heart

no quarter given through and through,

but rebels in their ranks are smart,

cutthroats at night, dark Johnny Blue.

When blue boys are on the north train

avert your eyes, they’ll stare you through;

the Grays have God, we have Mark Twain,

Hell’s flames won’t touch good Johnny Blue.

The Paladin's Lament

The Last Crusader, by Karl Friedrich Lessing

The Paladin's Lament

by A.R. Carter, 2011

The swirl of vengeful desert dust

and moral rage long simmering

dulls the sound of angel's wing

and hides my hope's light glimmering.

In righteous roar of red-tinged mist,

all peace of mind is gone and lost.

If challenge in this life were fair,

not vigil by Saracen's lair,

if I had just normal struggles made,

not bashing demons on my blade,

the gnashing in my soul would stop

and simple joys from heaven drop.

I deftly face the Devil's knife

slicing weakness from my life,

but facing monsters miles wide

with no-one's army by my side

is getting old quite hard and fast;

time's mortal strength will not long last.

If worldly needs did not exist

I'd retire to a hermit's nest,

but a quiet breaking heart at noon

makes sinful midnight hand creep in

delivering me so I may rest,

tears falling after on my breast.

It waits to cherish, love, adore,

if just my pride were not at war.

Alone I fall asleep at night,

alone I wake in morning light.

IRA: a poem

I am publishing this poem in celebration of the courage of justice in Northern Ireland to finally arrest Gerry Adams for ordering the cruel and heartless murder and disappearing of widow and mother of 10 Jean McConville.  Rot in prison, Gerry, and then in hell when it's your time to be pulled to the underworld by dark and sticky things when your body utters its last ragged breath.

And to Bobby Sands: sorry you're late for dinner; looks like Gerry got your portion, again.  But take it as a compliment if he tries the poo and blanket approach, even though judging by his Twitter I really don't think he'd be capable of skipping breakfast.  You should have known that murder does not attain political objectives, and you should have known this not only before starving yourself to death, but before you ever joined the IRA.  Civil rights was John Hume's job and he did a billion times more useful work than the IRA ever did.

To justice upon Gerry Adams.  As for you, Bobby Sands, don't be late for dinner again, you fucking numpty.  Maybe you'll come back in your next life as the world's greatest food critic.  In the meantime, I hope some eejit leaves a bucket of KFC on your grave.  It was all for naught.

Slainte mhaith.

------

I.R.A.
by A.R. Carter

Vomit forth your evil,

let it rot into the earth,

for all you’ve sown is suffering

from dull day of your birth.

Your nation’s children would despise

their language and their song,

you twist and spout its hard reprise

in worship of the strong.

You won’t try to let them fly

on wings you never had,

but give them stone in anger thrown

and going slowly mad.

Vice becomes the price you take

for freedom at all cost,

political objective's snake

that bites the frightened lost.

A fist that strikes a shuttered mouth

in raining silent room,

a false idealistic light

brings darkness to the gloom.

And in the belly of the Earth

you sit like worm of old,

waiting for your nation’s birth

in bitterness and cold.

A heart of wild angry child

in mounting hate inflames,

assigning not an equal hand

but throwing only blame.

And you would claim to be the same

as Fianna bright and strong.

Rhetoric nods to valour’s gods,

but you’re dark Crom all along.

Cu Chulainn and the Morrigan

On this Bealtaine day, I will publish a bit of my Celtic poetry.  This one describes the dichotomy of hero CuChulainn versus the goddess known as the Morrigan.

Morrigan is the dark goddess of prophecy, who foretells death, and as such, she holds her position of power in a permanent fairy twilight of immortality and foreknowledge.  Immortality and foreknowledge does nothing to truly advance the virtues of courage, curiosity, and integrity that put all of us mortals truly at risk.  Yet without those risks, there is not life...only twilight and faery shallowness.

In the Táin Bó Cúailnge, Cu Chulainn in his last dying breath scorns Morrigan's self-righteous desire to always be right.  The point is not death, the point is not heroism; the point is life.  Every painful moment of it matters, as does every joy; every moment of cowardice, every moment of courage, every failure, every victory.

Cu Chulainn by John Darren Sutton

Cu Chulainn and the Morrigan

By A.R. Carter

Cu Chulainn and the Morrigan

begs the question, "Who has won?"

For she had been right all along,

the hero's life would end its song,

yet being right is dull, blase,

than risking all for star to blaze.

On bloody shoulder, raven judge,

mocked his errors to begrudge,

but mortal life ends with his laugh

at righteous dullard's living death.

The lie of prophecy stands clear

before the joke of hero's jeer,

and hooded coward, raging bitch,

claims power as the wise old witch,

her cants and spells a hollow stage

to rants of machinating mage,

yet though Cu Chulainn's bones may rot

his courage did what she hath not.

Begrudger's eyes, they judge and scheme;

but scorn gives mine

Cu Chulainn's gleam.

The Society of Strange and Ancient Instruments

If any of you have seen my ethnomusicology profile, you know that this puts me in my happy place. Now I have to go listen to the wonderful David Munrow and the Early Music Consort.

http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-27205752

Article on David Munrow

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/classicalmusic/9285826/David-Munrow-Tragic-genius-who-brought-early-music-to-the-masses.html

I want to play all of these.  All at the same time.  On Game of Thrones.  A hurdy gurdy would definitely be my weapon of choice.

This is David Munrow and the Early Music Consort's interpretation of the music of the medieval Trouveres, a class of poet minstrel who travelled throughout the courts of Europe to sing songs of love and romance from the 12th to 14th centuries.  Before then most music was sung in cathedrals in motet or chant, but the Trouveres brought a high class of minstrelsy to the continent that was first to become even more ornate during the Renaissance and develop into the Classical tradition at its height.

And here are the Early Music Consort's grandiose Renaissance Dances.

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