The beat of a different drum – An Irishman’s Diary about a Lambeg drummer

Anyone who saw the photographs of Prince Charles admiring a Lambeg drum during his recent visit to Northern Ireland could be sure of one thing: he wouldn’t have been standing that close to it if anyone had been beating it.

There are, in Ulster folk history, several different stories about the origins of the Lambeg, one of the most unusual being that it was originally a Papist drum that was adopted, or adapted, for similar but opposed purposes by the other, Ulster-Scots tradition. It may have come to Ireland with King William; but it was certainly also played in Ancient Order of Hibernian marches as well as part of Orange Order processions. It could be described as a cousin of the bodhrán, but, it must be admitted, a very distant cousin.

Be that as it may, the Lambeg has many unique features, from the flexible malacca canes with which it is beaten, to the yards and yards of rope with which the goatskin (female goats are best, apparently) is tensioned.

Loud

But it probably has at least one characteristic in common with other Celtic instruments like the uileann pipes, and the Breton bombarde – one of its primary purposes is to strike the fear of God into an enemy. Paul Marshall, one of the most knowledgeable commentators on the instrument, suggests that “the Lambeg ... is frequently played at above 120 decibels, louder than a small aircraft taking off and about the same as a pneumatic drill”.

The volume it generates at the Twelfth and on similar occasions has one drawback, however; it is difficult to record accurately because any microphone which has been set up for that purpose would – because of the rolling thunder of the drumbeats – signally fail to record all the other sounds in its vicinity with anything like the appropriate fidelity.

Folk music

That pioneer of folk music on BBC Northern Ireland, Davy Hammond, had to grapple with this problem on one occasion when he was producing, not in the field but in the studio, a programme which featured the Lambeg as part of its general discussion of a number of aspects of Ulster folk music. As it was a radio programme, sound effects were of course de rigueur.

There was no problem about finding a Lambeg and a willing drummer; indeed, they were probably forming an orderly queue once the word got about. The problem was where to put the drummer and his instrument. The studio in which the rest of the programme was being recorded was of a reasonable size, but shoe-horning a Lambeg and its operator into the same space presented the producer with problems that at first sight seemed insuperable.

Technology eventually came to the rescue. A suitable room was located in the basement of the BBC studio building, and was fitted with an appropriately calibrated microphone. Tests indicated that all would be well. The final touch was to add the standard little red recording light, and the drummer, once in position, was instructed to wait until the little red light came on before beginning his contribution to the programme.

‘Fortissimo’

All went according to plan. The studio guests discussed Ulster folk music learnedly and with enthusiasm and, at the right moment, the switch was thrown to turn the little red light on in the basement, and the drummer went into action,

fortissimo

. After this demonstration, the sound was faded down and the studio discussion entered its final phase.

At the end of the programme the participants retired to the BBC hospitality room for mutual congratulation, reminiscence, and whatever you’re having yourself. It was later – quite a bit later – that they exited the BBC building under darkening skies, with no doubt a modest sense of achievement.

Thudding

As they did so, Hammond and his companions suddenly became aware of something that at first they had difficulty in identifying. It was a dull, thudding sound coming from the general direction of the basement.

A search party rapidly discovered the source of the sound.

In the basement room stood the doughty Lambeg drummer, covered in sweat, larruping away at his instrument as if his life depended on it, his knuckles bleeding, almost on the point of exhaustion, but determined to demonstrate to the listening multitudes that a Lambeg drummer never admitted defeat. The technician had forgotten to turn the little red light off.