As Father's Day approaches my thoughts turn to my dad. He passed away more than a decade ago at the age of 89. Dad was born in a village in Poland, the son of poor peasants who made their living peddling household goods.
Welsh music is either the poor stepchild of the Celtic world, or its best-kept secret. So I was glad to see a whole contingent of Welsh musicians showcasing and schmoozing at the Folk Alliance International in Kansas City.
The problem is this: you have chosen as your outdoor concert space the area immediately below my bedroom window. Therefore I have been awoken for the past several days by bagpipes, commencing with militaristic regularity at 9:00 am.