'Tis now the hour of two, dear readers, and as we depart the peaceful serenades of the Burly Minstrels at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire (PRF), we find ourselves surrounded by fur-clad and face-painted warriors! For it is now Viking Weekend at the Shire, and luckily, these Norsemen and Norsewomen pose no threat.
The Viking week theme is one of our favorites here at The Shire Spectator. The costumes are always the most creative, plus it gives Ax and Lotti an excuse to break out their own furs for adornment. From the divine poetry of Odin, to the courting ritual of writing prose to those you love, poetry was a significant part of the Norse culture. So, it is only fitting that Lotti and Ax head to the next showing of "the wildly inappropriate" poetry of Arthur Greenleaf Holmes. Brace thy selves, faire readers, for with today’s telling, we shall play the Bard Card.
2 p.m.
Located at the Ball and Chain Stage, this is without a doubt the most popular show at the Shire. Sir Arthur is considered the biggest act of the PRF, with all three shows of the day (12 p.m., 2 p.m., or 5 p.m.) almost always filled to capacity. The carpenters' guild must have caught on and so this year they built additional seating on both the left and right side of the stage. Also, the small bar that was located next to the stage has been removed and a larger bar was built behind the stage. Alas, one can no longer observe Sir Arthur's show while waiting in line for a drink, so it is best to refill thy cup well before the show starts, because this is an act that indeed requires a strong drink.
Is he bad, mad, or dangerous to know? With a Lord Bryon-esque level of stardom, Sir Arthur travels from the Newest of the Yorks making his away across various Faires and theatres across the New World before his arrival each season at the PRF (usually by the second or third week). As noted in the opening of his show, this is a wildly inappropriate performance that may include such staple recitals as “The Rancid Clams of Amsterdam,” “I Bought a Cheese and Thought of You,” “Two Sisters,” and, “Father O’Riordan Veers off Course.” Take it on Lotti's good authority, traveler, that after hearing these aforementioned poems live, even if just one time, even the least literary among us may be reduced to a fit of giggles just from seeing the list of poem titles repeated.
Truly, the more is the merrier as Ax and Lotti have repeatedly attended multiple performances of this act and are ne'er disappointed. Sir Arthur is not merely a poet, but a true performer. At their surface, these poems may seem juvenile and raunchy, but through the inclusion of historical context, literary analysis, and poetic attribution, Sir Arthur's professionalism and skill help the audience to develop a deeper appreciation for an art form that is often dismissed.
For today’s show, an early-season performance at the PRF for Sir Arthur, he is observed getting comfortable and in a groove, as evident in his comedy, improvisational crowd work, and timing. He pulls out some of the most-loved hits from his three volumes of poetry and engages with the audience. A classic feature of this show is that Sir Arthur starts each performance by warning the audience of the adult content forthcoming and encourages that whomever demonstrates the good judgement of leaving during the show (which does happen at nearly every performance), the audience applaud this person. The true genius of a skilled performer is their ability to make rehearsed interactions seem impromptu. Jokes with the audience, such as calling out someone eating a turkey leg during the recitation of an especially disgusting poem, or stopping mid- R-rated word to give a child in the audience a dollar as “hush money,” are done so effortlessly that it seems authentic. It shows the preparedness of the performance and the performer himself: a true professional.
Two of Ax's all-time favorite performances of Sir Arthur happened to be when he was surprisingly at his least prepared. The first instance was during the last show of last season. During Sir Arthur's opening, an audience member had walked across the stage (from the former bar that had once neighbored the set) and silently handed him a beer. It is widely known that performers are prohibited from drinking while performing. When those who wish want to buy a drink for a performer, they must tell and pay a bartender, who will then mark down a drink for that performer for later. (Be advised, dear fans of the great Sir Arthur Greenleaf Holmes: he prefers the "blackberry bourbon something in a can." Now back to the story:) But being the last day and having already just been caught off guard by a hilarious parent walking by with a child, Arthur broke the rule, threw his book in the air, and chugged the beer. He then proceeded with one of the most hilarious and unpredictable shows we have ever seen. (Which is why, travelers, for Sir Arthur, the more performances you see, the merrier thou will be!)
Yet despite having awoken one morning to find himself famous, Sir Arthur is truly one with the people. This is probably due to his humble beginnings (no, not the humble beginnings he tells you about in his show) walking around the Shire asking strangers if they would like to hear a poem. He is a star that has risen from the street to the stage, and his appreciation for his audience seems genuine. He is often seen throughout the day walking around and engaging fellow travelers, taking pictures and signing his books. Lotti and I cannot recommend this show enough, as it is not only the best performance at the PRF, but one of the funniest and most unique theatre shows thou will ever see.
Following the conclusion of Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, we are in desperate need of nourishment, and most importantly, booze. Luckily, the Cantina is merely a few feet across the lane from the Ball and Chain Stage. As Lady Sinatra famously once remarked to the good and noble Queen, “These boots are made for walking... Walking tacos, that is." To be truthful dear readers, we were wary of trying the walking tacos again. We had one last year and were not impressed, as we found ourselves eating a hodgepodge of dry meat and stale chips out of half a bag of Doritos like some poor ren faire racoon. Yet, now feeling bold, empowered, and a bit dangerous thanks to Sir Arthur's raunchy routine, we grab a spot in line at the Cantina. Though small, it is important to note that the Cantina is one of the few spots in the Shire that serves both alcohol AND food. Lotti and Ax order walking tacos (one vegetarian and one beef) as well as a frozen margarita and the 25th anniversary Scotch Ale. Quickly we discover that the good Queen must have made some changes, because this year it was delicious. Huzzah! Long live the Queen!
The vegetarian walking taco was a well-seasoned albeit spicier alternative to the beef version, with both featuring fresh, crisp tortilla chips, salsa verde and pico de gallo. They were fresh and all ingredients were identifiable. For $13, this is definitely a get. If thou requires additional food stylings of the south-of-the-Shire-border flavor, there is a newly added food kiosk nearby selling nachos with fresh toppings.
The Scottish ale Ax had was great. Dark and malty, it is a great alternative to the plethora of light, hoppy beers that are often featured. Also, it was nice to see this type of dark ale present at the Shire for its historical significance, the origins of which in America can surprisingly be attributed to the early Renaissance Faires in the late 1960s and early 1970s. At a time when most people were drinking mass-produced, light, pilsner-type beers, early Ren Faires typically only served authentic English- or European-style beers or drinks: ales and mead. This was often the gateway for most Americans who attended these Faires to taste the dark, English-ale style of beer that was not popular in most bars or restaurants.
For those who do not partake of ales nor beers, or those who simply want a citrusy alternative, Lotti reports that the frozen margarita is delectable! Not overly sweet nor watered down, with the right amount of tartness, the frozen margarita is another recommendation to get! At $12, the frozen, slushy variety is more than satisfactory, though the Cantina barkeep may offer to make one on the rocks for an additional $3.
With refreshments in hand, both drinks and food having been acquired from the same stand, we put the "walking tacos" to the test and begin our way toward the soothsayer known as Cosmo, where we shall seek our good fortune. Join us next week for some fortunes, fables, and storytelling with Cosmo, and perhaps some Pyrate Ship trivia in the company of our most special guest, Lady Ali of the Bish!
Bonus: Getting into Character
One of our favorite poems of all time is "The Skeleton in Armor," by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, so it only makes sense that we highlight it in a week that includes Vikings and Sir Arthur Greenleaf Holmes. Love, loss, violence, mortality: yes, these are all consequences to drinking too much at the PRF, but they are also the themes that resonate throughout this beautifully haunting poem about a Viking. Enjoy!
"The Skeleton in Armor" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1841)
“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?”
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water’s flow
Under December’s snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart’s chamber.
“I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man’s curse;
For this I sought thee.
“Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic’s strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the gerfalcon;
And, with my skates fast-bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.
“Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf’s bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.
“But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair’s crew,
O’er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
“Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk’s tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Filled to o’erflowing.
“Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.
“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest’s shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
“Bright in her father’s hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter’s hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.
“While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
“She was a Prince’s child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew’s flight,
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
“Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen!
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armed hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
“Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.
“And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail,
‘Death without quarter!’
Mid-ships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water!
“As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden, —
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.
“Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o’er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady’s bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking seaward.
“There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden’s tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne’er shall the sun arise
On such another!
“Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
Oh, death was grateful!
“Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!”
Thus the tale ended
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