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Perhaps some still, starry, desert evening you've heard me 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 will not "guild the lilly". As long as the drones and chanter fill your heart with mirth and joy, the ruckus raised will be your own reward! Believe me when I tell you that nothing raises a ruckus like a stand of bagpipes.
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.
I work mostly 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.