Let's Go Bagpiping!

Originally written April 2012 • Updated November 2020 • Uploaded to Facebook on Apr 30, 2012, 7:26 AM

It is always the old story when I tell it: how a young Mexican Jewish boy could wear a kilt and go around making lots of noise. How come? What made you do it? Was it difficult? If you are looking for the answers to those questions, you should probably look somewhere else.

But bagpiping in Mexico was definitely quite an experience, and it was through piping there that many doors were opened to places and people I never even knew existed. Many of these people and experiences shaped the way I go through life these days—including my insatiable thirst for a cold Guinness on a warm day.

I began playing the bagpipes around the time I turned 14. To be honest, I was never a star or anything close to it. It was only through hard work, dedication, and a bit of luck that I was able to join the one and only pipe band in Mexico: the St. Patrick’s Battalion Pipe Band. The band was affectionately named after a historical event in Mexico’s past when a bunch of crazy Irishmen and other Europeans defected, tried to defend Mexico against the United States, and instead got hanged. It sounds like a massive ensemble, but I think at the height of my best years there, we had no more than eight pipers, six drummers, and a pipe major. So all in all, not a huge band, but we could surely make quite a racket.

On the plus side, we also had a partnership with an Irish dance squad, which was nice because we occasionally had people dancing to the tune of our pipes. It was also a bonus because some of the dancers were quite fit and friendly; being 15 and having pretty girls around was pretty awesome.

But this isn't about numbers, dancers, or puberty. None of that. Instead, just last night I was reminded of my trial by fire, which began a year or so after I first started learning the instrument.

Contrary to popular belief, the bagpipes are learned first on a smaller wooden or plastic flute called a practice chanter. It sounds very shrill and emulates the fingerwork of the bagpipes. The pipes themselves are about 300% louder than said chanter and are a lot more difficult to play, simply because there are far more moving parts. It is vital that you keep all these components in full working order to avoid sounding like a swarm of angry bees—or worse, a squad of cats getting slaughtered.

After a year of playing the chanter, my mother was gracious and smart enough to buy me a set of bagpipes, which were not cheap at all. Even the entry-level sets made from plastic range around the $700 mark. For a 15-year-old kid in Mexico, earning that much money can be a daunting task, so my mother stepped in and made my dream happen. Of course, we didn't settle for the cheap plastic set; instead, we opted for a $1,200 behemoth crafted from real African Blackwood with stainless steel accents and silk adornments. It was a really swell set that was beautiful to look at, but well, pretty damn hard to blow.

Moving from the chanter to the full pipes can be a real physical challenge because the instrument has at least four distinct elements requiring constant attention: the blowpipe (where you blow air), the airbag (where the air goes and which you have to squeeze to keep the pressure steady), the drones (three massive towering sticks resting on your shoulder that emit a low, continuous hum and are a hassle to tune), and finally, the chanter itself, where—if you are lucky—you play the actual musical notes and they sound decent. Keeping all of these elements in harmony can sometimes feel impossible, but my teacher at the time, a charismatic Irishman named Michael Kelly, was confident I could do it. And he wanted me to do it right in front of a live audience.

His idea of a trial by fire was something I will never forget.

I must have been around sixteen years old at the time. It was a Saturday morning almost like any other, except that I was a little bit hungover from drinking too much on a Friday night with some friends. It was not pretty. Being underage in Mexico, we could get any alcohol we wanted, but we had absolutely no idea how to mix drinks. Our idea of a good cocktail was to combine rum and vodka, add ice, and drink until you forgot your own name.

Around 9:00 AM, my charismatic teacher called and asked if I would like to do a small demonstration at an orphanage. "Just a quick gig," he said. I asked for more details, and he explained he had met a very nice woman who ran an orphanage for girls a little ways outside of Mexico City, and she had invited him to perform to introduce a bit of new culture and spark some curiosity in their lives. I was terrified. When I played the pipes, it was normally just at band practice or during shy demonstrations for family and friends. It was always a bit messy, because bagpipes are an instrument of open-air chaos—not really meant for a small room. I used to brag that indoors, the pipes are so loud they can bring people back from the dead. I never really had the guts to go out into the streets and play on my own; their volume and sheer cost made me wary of taking them out too often.

After a bit of persuasion, I agreed to join him on this Saturday adventure to God-knows-where. We were picked up by the director's driver in a nice, big sedan—I think it was a Nissan. The lady running the orphanage sat in the front, chatting with us about everything and nothing. I was so incredibly nervous that I couldn't tell you what we talked about. The orphanage was about an hour outside of the city, and it had a unique twist: it was run by Korean nuns. Huh?!

At the time, I had no idea there were any Koreans in Mexico. I also had no idea there were Koreans who were Christian, let alone Korean nuns. I was thoroughly confused, which made the drive there even more nerve-wracking.

After a couple of hours on the road, we arrived—fully dressed in kilts—at a massive compound that housed more than 3,000 orphan girls. They came from all over Mexico to receive a good education and a better life. They were fed three square meals a day and taught a curriculum of standard academics alongside vocational courses like sewing, painting, and woodworking to help them find jobs later in life. In a sense, it had everything an orphan needed to succeed. And now, they had a couple of crazy bagpipers as a bonus.

To my surprise, my teacher hadn't specified how many people would be attending. From his original account, I thought maybe a few dozen girls would watch us perform. It was not to be so simple. We were escorted to a massive auditorium that doubled as their gym. A stage had been set up, and rows of chairs stretched out across the floor. Inside this massive gym, 3,500 girls were waiting for us.

I could not believe my eyes: 3,500 girls. And also, sadly, I could not believe my nose. The gym was not air-conditioned, and these girls were not provided with deodorant, so the pungent, humid smell of the room hit me instantly. I wasn't angry or disgusted; I was just amazed by how incredibly intense the atmosphere was.

After a very brief introduction, we launched into a 25-minute medley set that seemed to last a lifetime, at least for me. After each tune, we would stop to explain the melody and its history. Because my teacher was Irish and I was the only Mexican next to him who spoke English, it wasn't just my task to play; I also had to translate his charismatic jokes into Spanish and act as the MC. By the way, Irish humor doesn't translate seamlessly into Spanish. This was the first time I had ever spoken in front of a crowd that size. I was incredibly glad I was wearing a kilt, even while sweating profusely under a heavy jacket and tie; otherwise, I would have looked like a complete fool. Balancing both playing and public speaking was intense, and when we finally hit our last note, I was overwhelmed with relief.

The crowd erupted in applause, and we were both handed a small bouquet of flowers. Afterward, the sweet old nuns invited us to have lunch with them. We walked across the compound to their residence, where they served us freshly slaughtered chicken. I could barely eat because my hands were still visibly shaking from the adrenaline. To make matters worse, I was a very picky eater back then, and the chicken was full of bones and cartilage. I could barely swallow a bite or two without gagging. I felt incredibly ashamed that I couldn't finish their food, and even more ashamed that I couldn't hide it, but the nuns didn't seem to mind. We finished up and were driven back home shortly after.

On the drive back, I felt a flash of anger toward my teacher. I wasn't ready to play in front of that many people. I wasn't ready to wear a kilt in front of 3,500 girls who, as I found out later, were all right around my own age. Thank God I was wearing underwear.

I think I was mostly frustrated by how ignorant I felt about the world, and it took this sudden experience to realize it. Ultimately, I was glad we played well and that the girls and the nuns enjoyed the performance—after all, what else were we supposed to do? I really hope they enjoyed the show and didn't mind how green and visibly terrified I was. But after that afternoon, I truly felt like I could overcome anything. I figured the next time I was offered a difficult meal, I'd chew it with confidence and a lot less gagging. And from that point on, I made sure to work just as hard on my public speaking skills as I did on my bagpiping.