T is for Tartanic, see it's a pun, 'cause, you know, kilts
I'm a Renn Rat. I am an unabashed, unapologetic, Renaissance Faire Junkie. I have totes and totes and hangers and hangers of garb. I bring my own mug. I know every song at the pub sing and most of the entertainers know me by name. . because I've bought all of their stuff. I know what rows not to sit in in the mud show, and what the little mice you see peeking out of bodices mean. I have a pair of Son of San's . You get it. This group is a gem that I found sitting on a bale of straw on a day that no amount of stripey thigh socks filled with ice was gonna cool me down. I went to see their show because it was relatively shady over there. And I could sit, at least the knees splayed, leaning back kind of sitting that you do when steel boning meets heat exhaustion. At first, they were tuning and the belly dancers were warming up. and I was unimpressed. Then this had been going on for a while and the girls were apologizing and people were leaving. I didn't because I was still tired and my husband had brought me a Queen's Tea and I was just fine where I was thank you. And pretty soon this bandy-legged, broad as he is tall (not fat, broad), bearded dude shows up carrying a drum as tall as he was. And then all hell broke loose. I've never heard anything like them. I mean, I've heard music LIKE them, but nothing of this caliber. They were amazing. Hard-hitting and intense and a whole lot of fun. So, here below is one of their songs. Below THAT is their cover of Crazy Train, because if you haven't heard heavy metal on bagpipes you just haven't lived.