Saturday
“Well, if we like songs where you shout out rude words….”
Sidney Carter was obviously the influential modern hymn writer, but he only knew one tune. Lord of the Dance is a bit overtly religious for folk sing arounds, but everyone sings John Ball. (“I’ll crow like a cock I’ll carol like a lark in the light that is coming in the morning.”)) When everyone has had s drink or two, people can lose their focus on whether Adam delve or Eve span, and start putting slightly too much emphasis on the words “cock” and “coming”.
We are in a small marquee adjacent to the Bulverton, which is a very big marquee. I have just listened to The Sea Song Sessions, a super group consistIng of Jon Boden and Seth Lakeman and Jack Rutter and Ben Nicolls and Emily Portman. There is about to be a celidah (which is Latin for square dance). In the small marquee there is a camp fire and a song session. Everything from John Barleycorn to Yellow Submarine.
I have failed in my plan to listen to music not stop for twelve hours. But only because the venues have changed: the small acoustic acts are now in the Girl Guide hut. Really. Steward has to keep explaining that , no, there aren’t any men’s toilets. The traddy folk concerts are now in the Harbour Hotel. They are about 25 minutes apart, so going straight from one to the other is no longer feasible.
Still: 11:30, Guide Hut, Macdara Yeats (pronounced Dara.) Young Dublin man with huge deep voice singing Dublin versions of Irish Songs. Everyone knows The Cruel Mother (down by willow sidey-oh). In the Irish street version she is not visited by the ghost of her babies, but by a policeman. Who takes her off and hangs her. “The moral of this story is, don’t stab your baby.”
1:15, Guide Hut, Thomas McCarthy, Irish traveller singer, so traditional he falls off the edge. Long, long chats about Traveller history — Irish travellers are the indigenous population, and used to be greeted in villages as honoured guests. Anti gypsy racism was created by the blue shirts in the 30s. Yeats was a Nazi sympathiser. The pope said that if the travellers wanted to be accepted they should stop being thieves and rogues. He sings with his throat and his nose, a world-old drone. I probably couldn’t sustain prolonged exposure.
3.00 The Harbour. The Goblin Band are the most exciting traditional folk band on the circuit. They are young, queer, and dress like hobbits. They play fiddles and hurdy gurdies and huge recorders and concertinas. They do a traditional folk repertoire. It is hard to put my finger on what is fresh about them. Apart from a sustained fiddle improvisation half way through Tom Pearse, there is no overt jiggery pokery. Martin Carthy, in the front row, was visibly moved by I Like To Rise When The Sun She Rises.
Carthy himself did the second half. He is the same age as Bob Dylan now. His gigs run off the love the audience have for him. I hope I am still doing what I love when I am 83. No one sings a better Patrick Spens.
Realising I wasn’t going to get to the second hour of the ballad session, I proceeded up the big hill to the Bulverton for the Sea Song Session super group. A man who remembers Strawhead also remembered that I was a Grace Petrie fan and confided that we probably didn’t see eye to eye politically.
And thence to the small tent for the after hours campfire sing around. Robin the Hat from the Bristol shanties is singing Shallow Brown when I arrive. We rapidly get to crowing like a COCK in the light that is COMING in the morning. So I take t he plunge with a traditional English song collected by Ronald Barker in 1977.
to take the air and listen to
the twittering of the birds all day
the bumble bees at play.
Rather too much dark stout: the more everyone else drinks, the better I sound. I possibly Ben Kenobi and Sloop John A as well. Broke up with The Partying Glass at about 1am. Two folk gods are still dancing in the main tent.
Pasties - 1
Beer - 4
Barrats Privateers -1
Tom Cobley -1
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