#mandolinist

[worldofreds]

Eva..

Gifted musician... She looks, plays and sings like an angel....

(Insta @ladymooncries)

Insta @ladymooncries, get mesmerized bij her play and angelic voice

[adamrsweet]

I call this picture "Classical Mandolin Player." It features a solo classical mandolin player seated on a chair in the middle of a formal stage setting reminiscent of Carnegie Hall. The player has a beautiful smile, adding to the elegance of the scene. #mandolin #mandolinplayer #classicalmusic #classicalmandolin #soloist #concerthall #audience #stage #carnegiehall #elegance #music #musician

Snag your own copy of Adam Sweet's unique art! 🎨 Choose digital download (watermark optional) or grab it framed. Just DM your pick! 🖼️ See more at http://linktr.ee/adamrsweet. #ArtSale #DigitalArt #CustomDesigns #Illustrations @adamrsweet_

[jeffcbliss]

Nancy Wilson of Heart - Acrisure Arena; Palm Desert, CA (12-28-23). @NancyWilson @officialheart

Photo: Jeff Bliss

[17panicattacksinatrenchcoat]

writemas day 12+13!

writemas is a holiday themed writing challenge by the lovely @agirlandherquill if anyone is interested in joining!

...i'm back from my overextended writemas hiatus! i'm gonna try to complete as many days as I can because this is really fun and I don't want to fall behind again.

this time I used prompts from the past two days cause I missed so many lol. this scene had been floating around in my head for the awhile and I wanted to put it to words. it's the mandolinist from day 4 again since I liked them so much. I wanted to give them a happy ending

no content warnings I think? just some mild mentions of war like there was in the last one

prompts: the hesitation of touch the heat of a stare the ache of longing

The Mandolinist, Part Two

Seneraded by the drumbeat of rain hitting the rooftop of the tenement building, the mandolinist turns their key in the door and enters the foyer of the room they share with their beloved. The room is dim and hot; the kerosene lamps are unlit and the fireplace emenates the only light. They shut the door and prop their mandolin against the wall in its case. Water rivulets down their short crop of curls, glints on their harsh cheekbones. "That's some storm," Cora says, setting her book down and rising from her armchair. She never wants the lights on at night and has taught herself to read without their presence. "Soaked right through, are you?" The mandolinist snorts and shucks off their rain-sodden cloak. They chuck it in front of the fire to dry and drop themself onto the tattered Chesterfield that, years ago, they had scrounged off the streets in the wealthier district and hauled back to the tenement. "You look like you've had one hell of a day." "I'm fine. It's just the weather. I loathe it when the year is drawing to a close, and night falls so early. Everything is so cold." Cora sips from her flask of brandy and takes a seat beside them. Hesitantly, she draws her hand over their arm. They are an strange pair on the street: the quiet and guarded mandolinist. And then their beloved who has a sparrow's build: slight and quick. Loud, the proprietor of the type of boisterous laugh that turns heads in a pub. Long pale hair piled high atop her head and tied up with a kerchief. Her hands are always moving, a blur. In her better days she was a pickpocket. She always walks about with her coat unbuttoned, even on the coldest days. So open. Blind to the world's dangers. They feel her eyes on them, so they bury their face in her neck and inhale her sea-like smell: sweat and brine from a long day's work at the docks. They watch the fire lick at the logs. The world is velvet-dark and soft. None of this feels real, and sometimes they have to remind themself that it is. A part of them remains quagmired in the wreckage of the previous decade. When they wake in the wee hours of the morning, they reach to their bedside table for a gun that they melted down five years ago. In the dark, they forget where they are and they need Cora to tell them. And so she puts a name to each of the mandolinist's belongings, the things that anchor them in this world. Their voice, their rare laugh, their passion for their instrument. That smell of salt is not from fresh blood but the layer of sea that clings to Cora's body. That patter above them is not the incessant firing of artillery but only the gentle rain. Each day it gets a little easier.

a huge thank you also to my writer mutual @kitty-is-writing ! while I was procrastinating writemas I kept seeing your stories each day and they inspired me to work on mine again. great job so far

[esteemed-excellency]

Rewriting my previous tags because they deserve their own post: Hiram's parabolan base is somewhere in the Edict of Towers.

The mirrors from Is Someone There? and the battlements from A Game of Chess fit perfectly into the overall picture, and the pseudo-medieval aesthetic of the Red Court has the same eerie vibe. The place is isolated and empty so Hiram has plenty of privacy to scheme and conduct research and think about the Chessboard. Ideal lair.

Plus, Hell is just around the corner if the Deviless comes to visit <3

[multifandomhoodies]

if it doesn't have a mandolin or a fiddle or a banjo I DONT WANT IT. also bruce.

[mellifiedman]

Playing the mandolin is great if you want a guitar that is also a violin that also has 8 strings, a couple of which are seemingly untuneable and 2-4 of which will snap loudly and painfully against your wrist every couple of months

[1264doghouse]

1923 meeting of the American Guild of Banjoists, Mandolinists and Guitarists, which was held at the Raleigh Hotel in Washington, DC. On the opening day of the convention, April 22, 1923, the delegates were received at the White House by President Warren G. Harding. Margaret Lichti, Ethel Johnstone, Jimmy “Jazz” Johnstone, C. A. Templeman & Lloyd Loar. Library of Congress.

[sparingiscaring]

A Masterwork and a Muse

Written for the Secret Swap for the @fallenlondonficswap, I had the honor of writing for @violant-apologia! As soon as I saw your preferences, I had a very specific idea in mind - I hope you like it!

Featuring: Correspondence and Grand Devils Word Count: 1981 Content Warning: Body Horror, (Implied) Death

You know what would happen should this inspiration come to a lesser human, but you are different. That is why your Muse has chosen you, is it not? Because you, and you alone, were the one bright mind among the common rabble to understand the story she was singing to you.

You intend to create your own song to sing in return.

The Veteran Privy Counsellor is looking expectantly at you, as he always does when you enter the Palace and declare your intention to start on your latest masterwork. In his hands is a glass of port, a shaky sound to underscore your conversation- not with nerves, as you’ve well learned by now, but with a dangerous thrill. And with that excitement in his voice, he asks exactly what you would expect him to. 

“What’s your next project?”

You are to stage an opera, of course! But not one like that which had seen you banished to the Tomb Colonies- no, an opera of a different sort. The kind of opera the Directing Dramatist and the Comic Composer had been staging in the few theaters renovated in the wake of the fall that had not been overtaken by bohemians- the style of Offenbach in France, with laughter intended as a response, as lovers sang and dancers twirled behind them. You’ve managed to obtain your fair share of stolen scripts and stage directions from Surface runners and bribed Neathy performers in preparation for this glorious moment, especially since the carpet quarrel had broken apart the only troupe performing the likes of this here. 

You had assured your Muse as much, of course. No one present in the Court of the Traitor Empress would dare miss something so unique as this.

 Mad thoughts of forgiveness do not grace your mind. You are to be sent to the Tomb Colonies as soon as the curtain closes on the one-act Opera, of course- and the Counsellor’s mustache twitches in anticipation at the news- but for a much different reason than your last opera. Your inspiration is wholly, or mostly, entirely distinct from that old news. This is to be your new magnum opus. The orchestra will be legendary with the instruments they will play, with the songs their instruments will sing, and the dancers will be a draw all their own. After all, it’s not every day that a troupe of dancing devils should enter Court for the performance of the Empress’s life, with song and dance invading her silent control! 

Weeks of composing, writing, editing. Auditions last well into the next month and last for hours each day, as you hand-pick only the finest of each instrument, the finest of each musician, and fill your orchestra with one of every sound you could ever need. You take no notice of the looks of the participants, even as you hear the murmurs of a rumored Rubbery Piper in your opera following you at a salon. You stifle a laugh- it appears they won’t be prepared for the sound or sight of your Rubbery Mandolinist, then, with the notes like no other they can play. Or your Clay Drummer, who makes the hearts of all who hear him beat with every pounding of his drums, beat and threaten to burst with every percussive beat. Or the Rattus Faber troupe, who could almost rival your dancers with how they dart across the keys in synchronized harmony.

And oh, your dancers.

They are as elegant as your inspiration had said they would be. Every step, every drag, every trailing leg sweeping in a brilliant shape, it is mesmerizing to watch, yellow eyes daring you to trace their pattern. The Dancers need no supervision from you, and need no practice. They know the motions, the movement, the story you intend to tell with every shape they may take, and they are eager to help you bring your masterwork to life. You had originally intended to introduce the Orchestra to the Dancers halfway through practices, for better cohesion, but the display the Devils put on for you settles it; you’ll wait until opening night to bring the musical performers together with the physical. It is easy to wave off the questions, after all- wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise of the main draw now, would we? 

Your leads question you, of course, as any pair of pompous brats who’s artistry is paid for with allowances would. They question the costumes, the sections of stage they are banned from stepping foot on, the shoes- oh, how the Acclaimed Actress seems to be talented at nothing besides endless complaining about the weight of her shoes. She’s not even dancing in the opera, and she complains? No matter- she can deal with the shoes, as long as she remembers her lines and sings her number and stays in her section of the stage. You’ve promised perfection, and your Muse will not allow anything less. She will not ruin your masterwork.

The Orchestra does not disappoint. They are perfect, of course, because you have only selected the best. Those who complain about the costumes your dressmakers and tailors have crafted for them are silenced with a withering glare, as one should be when you glance in their direction, and fight no more on the issue. You’ve taken great care to ensure the outfits should not interfere with their playing, after all. Your Muse would not have it- and it would be counterintuitive to keep the Rubbery Mandolinist from their picks, or the Clay Drummer from his drums, after all. 

The Piper from her Pipe. The Singer from its Song. Traitorous, to separate them. Traitorous.

Traitors.

The opening night, the audience is full. There is not an empty seat in the entire room. You can see the Traitor Empress up in her balcony box, behind the veil that encased her and the Consort, heads bowed and faces blurred. You’d sent an invite to all of her children - that must be the Captivating Princess, standing in the back, the figure inherently drawing your eyes to her and making the hair on the back of your neck rise. She’d been the only one to accept your invite - the rest had declined, as they always did. Your Muse cared not, of course, and you expected the snub. It was a shame, though. More eyes, more eyes on your masterwork, a bigger audience.

The Veteran Privy Counselor ambushes you backstage, with a trivial issue of budget, and one of the Rubbery Mandolinist’s costumes catching on fire, but you wave him off with a wave of the hand and a roll of your eyes, your eyes. Seems a dressmaker had overstated their competency with the stitch pattern you’d provided for the inside of the Mandolinist’s clothing, and had failed you. Had failed your production. Of course this would happen.

Your Muse.

A single Mandolinist missing from the audience wouldn't ruin your opera. Your Orchestra will still sound, will it not? Nothing will be off, to the untrained ears of the audience. Nothing will be off, to the Traitors on the stage. Nothing. Nothing! No one will notice, aside from you. And what was the Mandolinist’s worth, even?

Immense, you know. Immense.

But no more than any others, you’re sure. No more special than the rest of the Orchestra. No more. No more.

The Dancers talk amongst themselves, in costumes provided on their own, and share glances at the Leads. The Acclaimed Actress is complaining again. Again. Her costar stands uselessly to the side, as he always does, nodding at her complaints, nodding at your refusal, nodding like there is nothing more he can do. You have half a mind to strangle him, but the Unassuming Understudy found himself in the Tomb Colonies two days ago, and had yet to make his way back, and you doubt the man standing before you had the brains required to return from the Boatman with any expediency. 

No, for the sake of the show, you must keep him. And the Actress. And you must deal with an Orchestra playing one Mandolinist shy, one man down, one less than its grandeur was at its unsung height. Something pulls a laugh from within you - you’d have to ask your muse if a Mandolinist fell first then, too. 

Your Muse isn’t in the audience. It is almost showtime.

The Veteran Privy Counsellor finds you again, but you ignore him. You ignore him, and the Actress, and the Dancers, and you look to the curtains and think about your Orchestra. The costumes, perfect, sigil-stitched with perfect thread that should just hold out long enough on the flames for this one production. The Mandolinist was unlucky. The Mandolinist was just unlucky. 

Your Muse will be proud, you’re sure. 

You step into the wings as the time comes, and call for the Leads to take their place. You do not have to call for the Dancers to take theirs. You do not have to call for the Orchestra to play their first notes. You do nothing more than step aside, step away, as the curtains rise, and when the Veteran Privy Counsellor corners you moments later, you simply offer him a glass of port, and a smile.

His glass drops when the Acclaimed Actress catches sight of the Orchestra, and screams. Your heart stops - too early, too early, and is there anything you can do? Can you stop it? This was meant to be the climax! The Leads, the Lovers, they weren’t supposed to be screaming until the Traitor Dancers, the rebels they were a part of, were to announcing the beheadings. You’d planned it so well - the audience, standing in for the royals that were never seen, motions to the Traitor Empress, to the Orchestra, to-

You wave him away as the Actor joins in with a sound that could rip flesh from bone, sipping on the deep yellow honey in your own glass as the Traitor Dancers stop in their step, and fill the stage with buzzing. You don’t dare to look - if anything went wrong in the sigil-stitching again, if a misplaced thread set the Rattus Faber troupe into anything but a temporary abomination of insectoid creatures vying for the stolen skin of the Devils, then this would be a failure in every way, in every way, and in every way. Then it would be worth nothing. Your Muse, your Muse-

No, not nothing.

You’d set the mirror aside just before the Dancers arrived. You’d found the linking mirror almost a year ago, a shortcut to your Muse. A direct line to the Parabolan prison where your Muse lay, poised like a scorpion in wait and unable to break from her shackles. You know not what she played, but you could hear the echoes of it in her body, when she invaded your dreams. You understood so little - but a story she told you, a story you kept. 

Traitors. Rebellion. Correspondence.

You had brought her here, to witness it from this mirror. To hear the story she told you, pumping knowledge like poison into your veins. 

You were to give her a better ending to her story. The Ones-Like-Princes, crawling from the Orchestra Pit, and tearing the Traitor Dances into nothing. The Leads, unspared in your frantic rewrites as the Actress complained of the lead to keep her safe from the Correspondence sigils traced into the stage by the Dancers, as she earned her fate with the rest of those who dared to think themselves worthy of overthrowing the Prince’s rule.

You were meant to show her what could still be.

No matter. No matter!

You taste honey on your lips, and see a thousand eyes staring back, see a body poised, poised, see your Muse. 

It’s better this way, isn’t it? She must agree, must understand. It was better this way! Not just a better ending, a better everything! No rebellion to even begin. No chance something so horrible could ever happen again.

She wouldn’t hate you.

She can’t hate you.

She is your Muse, and you have done right by her.

She won't hurt you.

You step into the mirror, as the Veteran Privy Counsellor storms into the corner closet you’d hidden yourself in, and close the curtain on your Masterwork.

[krispyweiss]

Song Review: Sam Bush Band - “Columbus Stockade Blues” (Live, Aug. 25, 2024)

Some may say electric bass and drums don’t belong in bluegrass. Sam Bush will counter by saying they belong in newgrass.

The mandolinist and his eponymous band - aforementioned rhythm section, banjo and acoustic guitar - back up the assertion with their version of “Columbus Stockade Blues,” captured on professional video Aug. 25 in Vermont and just released.

The song rolls like rock music, is sung like folk music and finds bluegrass instruments at the forefront, which has been Bush’s MO for decades now. And like bluegrass, newgrass never gets old.

Grade card: Sam Bush Band - “Columbus Stockade Blues” (Live - 8/25/24) - A-

10/22/24

[rehsgalleries]

Eugen von Blaas

(1843 - 1932)

The Mandolinist

Oil on canvas

24 by 32 1/8 inches

Signed

[saltedcaramelchaos]

Trick or treat :D

Treat!! (fun fact :3)

The mandolin is a small-ish string instrument with eight strings, separated into four pairs of two; pairs are tuned to the same note as each other! It was originally created as a way for violin players to practice, and is tuned to the same 4 notes as a violin (not to mention the name mando-LIN)- however, they're played by picking or strumming, like a guitar or banjo ^-^ If you're curious, Chris Thile is the best mandolinist I've ever seen, and you can probably look up some clips of him lol

[17panicattacksinatrenchcoat]

writemas day 4!

writemas is a holiday writing challenge by @agirlandherquill and is open for anyone who wants to join in!

edit: thank you to @kitty-is-writing for the tag, I saw it just now!

today my prompts were "aching" and "the chill of raindrops". I like this one a lot (it's one of my favourites so far) and I hope you like it too!

no specific content warnings that I can think of but this piece does mention war (not graphically) if you want to avoid that. let me know if I missed anything!

In the big city, a rainstorm has arrived without warning. Shoes and stockings are soaked. Runoff sluices into the sewers. In a bar crowded with refugees from the downpour, an ex-mercenary-turned-musician stands on a small stage and strums their mandolin: this is how they make their living. After the war sizzled to a close, they'd gambled away the larger part of the money they'd won from their muck work-- not on accident, either. It was not so much an addiction as a desire to scrub the blood from their hands. Short on coins and combing through the attic in search of possessions that they might have been able to pawn, they rediscovered the old mandolin and the passion they once held for it. When they took the instrument into their arms, there was something easy about the action, like entering the company of someone who was once your lover: there was an intimacy that remained between their hands and the strings, an electric magnetism. And so their new vocation was born: a career tallied in chords instead of bullets. The bar keeps out the rain and its owner stokes its fireplace with new logs every hour, but it is not enough to clear the room of the dampness from outside. Time has worn its toll on the mandolinist's body: a body does not take kindly to years of standing in the wet and the snow, nor to the repetitive motions of assembling a rifle and loading it and firing it and disassembling it and cleaning it, and assembling it all over again. The damp summons the beast of their rheumatism. Their joints have lost their elasticity. Inhabiting these aging bones is every day an uphill battle. But the mandolinist plays on, because what else is there to do?

[esteemed-excellency]

I just played the Brass Grail ES and my personal sidequest is complete: Hiram officially met all the main grand devils.

The Chandler: tragic love story + cursed light horror. His corpse is his tomb and a chapel and his prison. I'm not a big fan of the sainthood trope but I'm giving him a solid 9/10 for the aesthetic.

The Piper: Rejoice in Her Music. 10/10 for the blissful creeping dread, and for always reminding me of The Piper by ABBA.

The Drummer: In theory? Interesting concept. In practice? I'm not going through the church storyline, sorry buddy. 6/10.

The Vintner: she can have my soul anytime but we don't know much about her. 7/10.

The Mandolinist: Giant Moth. His music makes you go insane. 15/10.

The Dowager: Kaleidoscopically beautiful. But not as much as a giant moth. 8/10.

Virginia's ex: Funny guy just because he agreed to spite Virginia. 8/10.