I was wandering around a nameless small town in Northwestern Pennsylvania, when I happened to come upon a corner bar beside a tiny branch bank office and a used car lot, with it's block long run of cyclone fence enclosure, and the bar looked mighty cute, so I went on in. I just happened to be carrying my new violin, and I had hardly just found a bar stool and a beer when a man turned to me and said, "You gotta' twing that type of fiddle. You bow that fiddle, it sounds like shit."
The place was packed with gnarled, burly, and even some lascivious Appalachians, and it appeared that most of them had purchased the exact same violin I had with me. They all immediately recognized the injection molded plastic case, with synthetic fabric cover. "We all got our fiddles off ebay. On the computer." a buxom red head told me. Go figure, that is how I came upon mine.
It seemed that some continued to play their pressed plywood veneer fiddles, while others took their fiddle outside and smashed it to kindling with an ax, leaving the splinters to blend with the acres of volunteering compost. But they all agreed that if they were to play the violin with the bow that came with the violin, there was no hope of sounding anything but hideous. These are dreadful, cheap-ass violins. Thirty five dollars, post paid. Generic fiddles. It is possible to make pleasing music pitsicato, as the snob-ass motherfuckers at the Symphony say. But in the ghettos, so diverse, so colorful and bohemian and rusticated, there appears to be a culture that found it's own way in musical development. Twinging is lovely, while using the bow to play it is like drinking Drano. I've been twinging mine, they are, to some degree or other, twinging theirs. It's like finger picking, but more whispering. With a light ring to the sound. Obviously, it's why they found the term 'twing.'
They twing their violins, plucking the strings like a harp. The bow that comes with the violin is garbage, and the low grade fiddle can't produce sound as well as a good fiddle. There is no chance of bowing these fiddles to good results. But it is possible to pluck it graciously. The Appalachian folk that meets in that corner bar call it 'twinging.' As do I. Now that I twing my violin every day, I am closer to the people who most stridently drawled and boasted truth about twinging. They named it. I assimilated it. I learned from those musical ridge runners a hundred miles north of here. I will resume my twinging as soon this shit is all uploaded to the blog.
The place was packed with gnarled, burly, and even some lascivious Appalachians, and it appeared that most of them had purchased the exact same violin I had with me. They all immediately recognized the injection molded plastic case, with synthetic fabric cover. "We all got our fiddles off ebay. On the computer." a buxom red head told me. Go figure, that is how I came upon mine.
It seemed that some continued to play their pressed plywood veneer fiddles, while others took their fiddle outside and smashed it to kindling with an ax, leaving the splinters to blend with the acres of volunteering compost. But they all agreed that if they were to play the violin with the bow that came with the violin, there was no hope of sounding anything but hideous. These are dreadful, cheap-ass violins. Thirty five dollars, post paid. Generic fiddles. It is possible to make pleasing music pitsicato, as the snob-ass motherfuckers at the Symphony say. But in the ghettos, so diverse, so colorful and bohemian and rusticated, there appears to be a culture that found it's own way in musical development. Twinging is lovely, while using the bow to play it is like drinking Drano. I've been twinging mine, they are, to some degree or other, twinging theirs. It's like finger picking, but more whispering. With a light ring to the sound. Obviously, it's why they found the term 'twing.'
They twing their violins, plucking the strings like a harp. The bow that comes with the violin is garbage, and the low grade fiddle can't produce sound as well as a good fiddle. There is no chance of bowing these fiddles to good results. But it is possible to pluck it graciously. The Appalachian folk that meets in that corner bar call it 'twinging.' As do I. Now that I twing my violin every day, I am closer to the people who most stridently drawled and boasted truth about twinging. They named it. I assimilated it. I learned from those musical ridge runners a hundred miles north of here. I will resume my twinging as soon this shit is all uploaded to the blog.
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