Friday, August 25, 2006
A Weekend of Norwegian Folk Fiddle
“How would you like to go to Folklore Village?” my husband casually suggested. “We could drop by on our way up north to the lake this summer.” Folklore Village is set in the rolling countryside of Wisconsin, and hosts events which celebrate various folk cultures, and especially Scandanavian music. “Sure,” I said, “why not? I’ve never been and it would be fun to see the place you go each fall.” Thus I absent-mindedly committed myself to spending a weekend listening to Norwegian folk fiddle this July.
As we drive past billboards for Cheese Curds and Mile High Lemon Pie, my husband slips in a tape of Hauk Buin, acknowledged National Musical Treasure of Norway, who will be teaching master classes in Hardanger fiddle. Fields and tunes slip by and it dawns on me that this weekend might not be easy listening. I’ve been moved to tears by a plaintive Celtic pennywhistle or the skirl of bagpipes at dawn. But, to my untutored ears, the Norwegian folk fiddle sounds out of tune and out of time. My husband enthuses about the drone of the sympathetic strings and the subtlety of the shifting beat. I mutter, “Heck—why don’t I get the easy Love Challenges, like slaying dragons, or something?”
Such thoughts are dispelled as we turn off the main road and crunch down a wooded lane to Folklore Village. A motley assortment of restored farm buildings clusters around a handsome red-painted hall, hemmed with blooming flowerbeds. We pitch our tent quickly under the apple trees, in the fading dusk, and enter the foyer, which is buzzing with activity.
Outside the hall, there’s a pile of discarded sneakers and Birkenstocks, all mixed up with Hans Christian Anderson silver-buckled shoes with funny heels. Someone is taking tickets or running a raffle, I can’t tell. People rush up to greet my husband and start talking about “Gangars” and “Springars” and gossip about common acquaintances in the world of Scandanavian dance. Fiddle music calls the dancers and my husband disappears onto the dance floor.
I escape upstairs to a balcony overlooking the scene and watch the dancers twirling in pairs. Some of the dancers are wearing traditional costumes: the women in heavy woolen skirts that rise up into full circles as they spin, and then furl tightly back around their bodies when they pause. From this vantage point, I can see how each couple draws on the same repertoire of figures, but strung together as they please with a traveling step between. The fiddler embellishes the tune with variations and improvisations, as he beats time with his foot. There are moments where it seems I can almost find the beat myself.
The next day, I spend reading on the verandah and making friends over the delicious, dairy-rich meals. People have traveled from all over the US for this weekend. Some are here to hone their fiddling skills, others have come for the dance workshops. There are doctors and school teachers, eighty-year olds and teens, Sons of Norway, and a Princeton musicologist, all drawn by their passion for Hardanger fiddle. I am shown an antique fiddle carried from Norway by someone’s grandfather: it’s beautifully decorated and inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory.
On Saturday evening, there’s another dance party, with performances by each of the workshop groups. The Norwegian national dance champion performs the Halling, a celebration of masculine cockiness, with lots of devil-may-care strutting. It’s not easy to look macho in tufted wool knee socks, but, as the dancer kicks a hat off a pole ten feet above the floor, he pulls it off, sweating and grinning.
By about 10 p.m., I have been taken in hand by an expert dance teacher. Under her guidance, my halting waltz takes on a Nordic pace and we assay a modest polka, Norwegian style, together. It feels great to be on the dance floor. I finally quit at around 3 a.m., as my new octogenarian friend pulls my husband back on to the floor for another turn.