My wife and I are in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, tending to her
sick father. Pittsfield is aptly named, it went belly up when
the Cold War ended, because GE Ordinance was the chief
employer. Dreary, drab, depressed. We’re staying in Judy’s
Mom’s second house–Judy’s Mom has two habits: she
never throws things away and she never puts things away.
So it’s like living in a flea market, except that everything
is under an inch of dust, because nobody has lived
in the place for ten years.
So last week, as we drove to the laundrymat, I suggested
that we go to Williamstown instead, to see Williams College.
Needed to escape, you see.
But when we got there Judy said: ‘Bennington is just
across the Vermont border.’ So we drove to Bennington.
Vermont is very beautiful, the mountains are bigger
and more rugged, the sky was blue, and our spirits
lifted. So we drove on to Rutland.
"Hey’ I said. ‘Why don’t we drive to Chelsea and find
Bryan Byrne? Maybe he’ll show me what a Rudall
is supposed to sound like.’
So on we went. We find ourselves on windy lanes going
through occasional villages. The day changed; it became
dark and it started to rain. About four in the afternoon
we drove into Chelsea, which was bigger than I
expected, maybe five thousand souls.
We figured we ought to find a place to
stay, but there seemed to be no motel. I went into
the Supermarket on the mainstreet and asked
them where we might stay. ‘Go to the back and
ask them. They might know’ the clerk said.
So we went to the back and I asked two people
near the meat market: ‘Do you happen to know
a musician named Bryan Byrne?’
They looked doubtful.
‘Byrnes?’ one fellow asked.
‘No, Byrne,’ I said. ‘B Y R N E…’
A tall young man standing next to us turned
around.
‘I’m Bryan Byrne’ he said.
‘I’m Jim Stone. You made me a flute…’
So Bryan, Judy, and myself stood there
and beamed at each other. The needle in
the haystack, and we’d found him!
Bryan drove home down a long dirt road,
we followed in our Honda. He lives in a small
house with wooden floors; it’s very quiet and
secluded. Most of the house is devoted
to flutemaking.
Bryan then showed us all the flutes he’s working
on, including a B, a Bb, an F–prototypes.
And he played his D flutes for me–well,
Byrne flutes, played well, HONK.
Just a wonderful sound, lots of volume,
focused but honking.
‘Do you want to see the engine room?’
he asked, and he showed us his lathe,
which was made in 1943.
Then Bryan played fiddle and i played flute,
we played The Orphan. He invited us
for dinner (he’s a lovely fellow),
but we had to keep going.
We drove in the rain to Barre and
got to the freeway, then drove through
the evening in a lightening and rain storm,
back to Massachusetts. The road from
Northampton to Pittsfield was fogged in,
and I nipped behind a local and followed
his taillights home.
I’ve been hypnotized by Bryan’s flute,
which I’ve had for a month and half now.
A lovely sound, but I’ve struggled to bring
the bottom up to pitch and full strength.
The secret is to play robustly, I now think.
I’m improving quickly since our visit; I had
never heard a Rudall played before,
except on a CD.
Bryan says he will begin making keyed flutes
again in about five months. Best, Jim
