I learned to pipe deep in the ancient forests of the Coastal Redwoods. My tunes echoed through the majestic forests and deep glens, both by Summer moonlight and in Winter's misty shroud, only to be taken in by the ancient trees. It was a place of such beauty that my pipes could not help but absorb the magic. And now you know an even greater secret. You can never be a Piper if there is no poetry in your soul.

     Now I live in the Great Southwestern Desert, as my Little Brother says "midway between sunrise over the haunted Superstition Mts. and sunset over the desolate White Tank range. For the "less poetic" that would be Phoenix, Arizona.

     Perhaps some still, starry, desert evening you've heard my piping on the soft, warm night air of the vast desert? You'll know it's me, by the sparing use of ornamentation, I love the harmonics and simply refuse to guild the Lilly.  


     How would I describe my music?  “High Plains Celtic”, straight from the Colorado Plateau. No accompaniment, absolute minimum of ornamentation, coloration, or grace noting, and no vocals. Just the haunting sound of a single stand of pipes, slowly, relentlessly, drawing you deeper and deeper into the swirling harmonics of this magnificent instrument.

     Pipes, as you might hear them on the winds of the high mesa, or perhaps some Saturday, off in the distance, piping the departed. Pipes, heard in the distance, carried on the wind.

Any fool can criticise, complain, condemn, and most fools do. - Anonymous,

Ⓜ️𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝑺𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏

Followers of dolly