The Isambard Folk Awards, named after
the fella who invented bridges, are a newcomers thang. Anyone can send
in a CD, the five best get to perform at the finals; the judges say
how terrific the standard has been and that music isn't really a
competition anyway, and the winner gets to appear on the main stage
at the festival next month. All jolly nice. Fairly certain I was the only person
in the audience who wasn't in, related, or at any rate connected to,
one of the bands.
I was pretty sure I had it down to a
two horse race between Solarferance and Misshaped Pearls.
Solarferance did a sort of folk electronica, somewhere between the early Jim Moray and Duotone: that thing where the
musicians are playing acoustic instruments and then mixing them live
on stage with apple macs, so they end up accompanying themselves and
creating what soundscapes. The
process may have been taken slightly to an extreme: not only was the
good old Cutty Wren accompanied by a mortar and pestle and musical
saw, but it was also sung simultaneously in English and Welsh. (So we
now know that the Welsh for "Milder and Mulder" is "Dibber
and Dobber".) And when your act positively invites comparisons
with Mr Moray, maybe its a little courageous to attempt
Lucy Wan, without a rap artist but with a reel of sellotape. However
Nick Janeaway and Sarah Owen can actually properly sing and the wierd
sounds they produced were genuine response to the songs themselves. I
particular liked the fading reverberations of "...and what will
you do when your father gets home?" in Lucy Wan . (In real life "wait til your father gets home" is proverbially said to a naughty child who has catapulted a pebble through the
dining room window; less often to a lad who has made his sister
pregnant, chopped off her head and spoiled her pretty bodee.) Much my favourite act, partly because it wasn't like anything else and partly
because, in a funny way, it was the most traditional thing of the
evening.
But I fully expected the judges to give the prize to
Misshaped Pearls, a big seven piece world music ensemble with a
Taboresque leading lady who offered complicated instrumentation of
Latin lyrics by Ovid and finished up waxing all south American with
something which I didn't get the title of written by a Mexican nun.
Not precisely my sort of thing, but awfully polished and
professional, with a big rich sound that was arguably closer to being
actual music than the first lot.
On balance, I ruled out the opening act, Common
Tongues, who seemed to be doing very pleasant, singery songer-writery
acoustic rock; very listenable to but quite like a lot of other
things I'd heard somewhere. I also didn't think that the rather interesting Welsh five
piece Evening Chorus, who started out doing close harmony that veered
dangerously in the direction of the barbers shop, but then expanded
into long drawn out complicated multi-layered rambles, putting me
rather in mind of Alasdair Roberts at his more expansive, would get it.
"Either the clever electronic
people", I said, "Or the big world music band, with just a small chance
of the interesting Welsh five piece."
So, naturally, the judges gave it to Josienne Clarke and Ben Walker. Josienne is a lady who sings semi-traditional songs with her hands, squeezing out an awful lot of emotion and drama, as if she was personally gutted by the fact that her Donald works on the sea. Ben plays fantastically detailed tinkly-tonkly guitar, counterpointing her music rather in the manner of Mr Martin Simpson, who he lists as an influence, as does everybody else.
I can only suppose that the judges gave it to them because they were clearly the most talented people in the room. If not necessarily the cleverest or most innovative.
I am guessing that one or two of the
congregation at St Georges on Thursday night already knew what Ghandi
said when someone asked him what he thought of Western civilisation.
A lot of them had probably heard of Gerard Winstanley and the Diggers. But
when Tony Benn tells an old political story, you clap anyway. I
wasn't quite clear if we were clapping the actual passage from Soul
of Man Under Socialism which he read out, or the sacred name of Oscar Wilde, or Tony Benn, national treasure. It didn't really seem to matter.
I can't remember when Tony Benn became
a national treasure. In the 80s, the smart thing to say was that
there were only two decent politicians, Tony Benn and Enoch Powell,
the honest commie and the honest fascist. There may be something in
that, in as much as they both regarded saying what they thought as more
important than advancing their political careers. Although Benn worked pretty hard at advancing his political career, as well. If he had succeeded in replacing Dennis Healey as deputy
leader of the Labour Party in 1981, as he very nearly did, then the
whole political landscape of 21st century Britain would probably be
exactly the same.
He's very frail now: he had to be
helped onto the stage, though he stood up to speak. The idea was that he would do some political readings and tell some political anecdotes; and Roy Bailey would sing some protest songs in between. The whole thing was meant to add up to an informal history of the radical movement in England. Bailey's opening number was a powerful rant about English school history lessons, somewhere between "What Did You Learn In School?" and "1066: And All That." The songs were meant to reflect what
Benn had been talking about, so if Benn spoke about the Peasants Revolt Bailey would sing "With Ball and Tyler, Wraw and Lister, Grindcobbe and Jack Straw"; if Benn spoke about the Diggers and Bailey would (of course) sing "In 1649, to St George's Hill..." But fairly rapidly, this format broke down and Benn just talked and Bailey just sang songs. It worked just fine.
We probably already knew that his mother thought that the Bible was the story of the conflict between the kings, who had the power, and the prophets, who preached righteousness, and that he decided when he was very small which side he wanted to be on. We'd also heard the one about the women who tied teddy bears to the fence outside Greenham Common (which contained enough weapons to blow up the whole world several times over) and were sent to prison for a breach of the peace. He would wound up his section ("that's
all I have to say to you...") straight after the interval,
leaving Bailey to fill the second half by himself. It wasn't clear
if Benn was too tired to carry on, or had merely lost his place in
his notes. I think this meant that Bailey had to resort to standards
he wouldn't otherwise have sung, but he knows one or two protest
songs so this was hardly a problem. He had to work quite hard to
persuade the audience to join in. (His slow, thoughtful World Turned Upside Down is just as valid as Billy Bragg's electric one or Dick Guaghan's snarled one, but harder to sing along to. In the interval a local choir, possibly the Roving Blades, sung Ye Diggers All Stand Up without any provocation at all.) But with a bit of prodding, the Bristol culteratti were persuaded to agree that wherever workin' men
are out on strike, Joe Hill was probably at their side. Rosselson was well
represented, of course, not only "World Turned Upside Down"
but also a very touching "Palaces of Gold". (I couldn't
place the very touching ballad about the old man who lives as a
recluse because "they say that in his younger day he loved another man" but it sounded
Rosselsonian to me.) So was the aforementioned Robb Johnson: we had
the repetitive, rabble rousing "Medals Bloody Medals" and a
more thoughtful piece about Vic Williams, the soldier who became a
conscientious objector during Blair's war, which I felt summed up the political message of the evening rather well.
The enemy ain't
the other side wherever they draw the line The enemy is the ruling
class who draw the bloody line
I've been at revivalist meetings. They
usually involve a good looking but learned preacher talking for an
hour and half about the second chapter of Nehemiah, with references
to the original Greek. And I'm not sure why everyone complains about
preaching to the choir. The choir aren't necessarily particularly
religious, they just joined up because they like singing. Benn's beliefs become progressively narrow as he gets older: he reads
from Utopia and the writings of the Diggers about how there should be no private property
and how everyone should share everything and how real wealth would be not having to worry about the future because the state will
take such good care of you when you get old. He gets a big laugh by saying that crazy ideas like
giving women the vote were once dismissed as "Utopian". He assures us that Cromwell solved the house of Lords by making a law
that said "The House of Lords shall no longer meet, either here
or anywhere else". Everyone agreed that war was a jolly bad thing. Nelson Mandela was included on the list of non-violent protesters. I don't know if everyone in the audience was really a pacifist communist. I don't know how Oliver Cromwell would have got to to abolish the house of lords and the royal family if he'd been a pacifist. I don't know if there is really any hypocrisy involved in swearing allegiance to the Queen and then trying, democratically, to replace her with an elected head of state. I'm not sure that the army is the best career to go for if you are a conscientious objector. It didn't actually seem to matter terribly.
Benn was pleased that the concert was taking place in a former church
because the progressive movement has been bound up with religion from
the very beginning; whether we are talking John Ball and the peasants' revolt, the conscientious objectors who felt that they couldn't be
warriors and followers of the Prince of Peace and the Diggers who
talked about a creator-of-reason rather than the traditional
Christian God. But this doesn't prevent Bailey finishing the evening
by belting out the violently anti-religious (and very good) "I ain't afraid of
your Yahweh, I ain't afraid of your Allah, I ain't afraid of your
Jesus" to thunderous applause.
In his last illness, a male nurse told
Bernard Shaw that he had to get better because he was a national
institution. "You mean an ancient monument" snapped Shaw. Well, quite.
St Patricks night in the Cellar
Upstairs Folk Club, hidden away in a back street near glamourous
Euston Station, was a bit special. I was there because I wanted to hear Mr Ron Kavana who regular readers will remember won
the Monty Award for Best Gig of the Year in 2010. Irish guy
with guitar. He sings traditional Irish songs: ("the Night the Goat Got Loose on Grand Parade") and traditional Irish songs he wrote himself ("Reconciliation") and modern old fashioned protest songs. ("We laid the last old soldier to rest today / a lingering relic of the older way")
There don't seem to be too many opportunities to catch him live: he describes himself as having "gone amateur" and complains at some length about the pricing policies of the CD sellers: there was no point in him selling copies of his new collection of Irish folk music, or his epic musical history of Ireland, because Amazon and HMV are selling them to the punters for less than he could get them wholesale. Not quite as intimate a gig as
the one in the Bristol pub; possibly the St
Patrick Nights atmosphere didn't lend itself perfectly to his
intimate, meditative, interpretative singing-around-the-songs style
of delivery. He suggested that the audience join in with Mountains of
Morne in whatever key, rhythm or tune we liked. Some members of the
audience took this a little literally and decamped to the bar when
they were politely asked by the regulars not to drown out the act.
There appeared to
be some controversy about whether, as Ron thinks, the stanza which
says
I've seen England's king from the top of a bus And I've never known him, but he means to know us. And tho' by the Saxon we once were oppressed, Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest.
is the heart of the song shamefully
omitted by some performers; or whether in fact he has discovered or
interpolated a treacherous new verse. Obviously, I've never been oppressed by Oliver Cromwell and shouldn't have an opinion, but it looks to me as if the whole song, with or without the "bus" verse is about assimilation: Paddy tells Mary that this London is a funny old place, but he's not actually planning on going home any time soon.
But very much the star of the evening,
from my point of view, was the actual club: an old-fashioned folk
club of the sort that I didn't think existed any more. Upstairs in a pub; a little room that
had that complete lack of atmosphere normally associated with church
halls. Very friendly: lots of people chatted to me. Give or take a loud lady, lots of
appropriate singing along with the act. And, before each of Mr
Kavana's sets an open mic in which regulars at the club got up to
sing. Every one of whom was worth listening to, and several of whom you would
have happily paid to hear. Didn't get any names down, unfortunately: there was a dotty fellow who did comic readings of cod Oirish poetry; a couple who did traditional Irish songs; and a fellow who sang "Price of My Pig". But the thing which really blew my head off were the two old time fiddle sets -- that very delicate, understated, polka style violin -- performed by a a very elderly gentleman with the remains of an American accent. He turned out to be (I had to come home and check, but I'm right) Tom Paley, usually referred to as "the legendary" whose been active in traditional American music since the 50s and once performed with Woody Guthrie. It really isn't every club where you
get a bona fide legend playing support.
At the end of Ron's set there was still raucous Paddy's Night noise coming from the downstairs bar, so he wave persuaded back onto the stage to do his famous Midnight on the Water (recorded by the Watersons among others) his meta-song incorporating the traditional American waltz tune. Mr Paley couldn't get his fiddle tuned in time to join in; but someone spontaneously accompanied him on a musical saw.
I
don't think the existence of this club is quite enough to make me relocate to London. I see they have one Leon Rosselson (who he? ed) playing there in
June.
It doesn't come back, but it sings about how it's going to some day.
He comes out onto the stage; peers out
into the audience; says "Hello!"; pauses to re-tune his
guitar. And straight into "Come, listen to my story, lads, and
hear me tell my tale, how OVER the seas from ENG-LAND, I was
condemned to sail". And we're off on another mixture of long,
long ballads, give away comic songs, and "The Fall of Paris".
At one level, he's a showman, of course he is – the walking onto
the stage at the opening of the second set and reciting a Victorian
music hall monologue (this time "Me Mother Doesn't Known I'm On
the Stage") has been honed over many decades of gigging, of
finding out what works and what doesn't. He always opens with Jim
Jones because he's found that Jim Jones is the perfect song to open
on. But it's still the naturalness which floors me; that sense that he'd be
singing these songs even if the audience hadn't turned up.
He does the one about the Blind Harper
who stole the kings favourite horse, which is one of three he
regularly claims as his favourite; he does Patrick Spens which he
says has only recently come back into his repetoire. Everyone jokes
about folk songs which go on for ever and ever; but in fact, songs
like Sir Patrick really, really gain from being song in full. It takes 25 verses. (Martin Simpson rattles
through in a dozen or so.) Because it's a story, and leaving in all the verses
makes it clear and easy to follow; we're in no doubt about why the
King needs Patrick to set sail in such a hurry, nor why he has to
come back in an equal rush.
He winds up with the best double-whammy
you could hope for; the epic Prince Heathen and the silly Feathery
Wife; both, in different ways, about love: the evil domineering
love of the satanic nobleman for lady Margaret; the devoted love of
the nagging wife who comes up with the ruse to free the farmer from
his faustian bargain.
I spent some time in this forum earlier in the year trying to answer the question "What is a folk-song, anyway?" Carthy's Prince Heathen could stand as a test-case. It's Carthy
who matched the words to the incongruously jolly tune; its also Carthy
who adapted Child Ballad 104 (I looked it up) into modern English.
The Child version has the refrain:
"O bonny may, winna ye greet now?" "Ye heathenish dog, nae yet for you."
which Carthy freely turns into
"O lady will you weep for me? Lady tell me true" "Ah, never yet ye heathen dog, and never shall for you!"
Sometimes he's fairly close to the original:
"A drink, a drink, frae Prince Heathen's hand, Though it were frae yon cauld well strong!" "O neer a drap, Prince Heathen," said one, Till ye row up your bonny young son."
becomes
"A drink! A drink! The young girl cried All from Prince Heathen's hand!" "Oh never a drop Prince Heathen cried Til you wrap up your son!"
But sometimes, he's bringing his own imagination to the printed text:
He's taen her out upon the green, Where she saw women never ane, But only him and 's merry young men, Till she brought hame a bonny young son.
Becomes the horribly brutal:
So he's laid her all on the green And his merry men stood around And how they laughed and how they mocked, As she brought forth a son
But it's recognisably the same story; except, of course, that he's changed the ending: Carthy rightly feels that after the Princess has kidnapped lady Margaret, wiped out her entire family, raped her, and imprisoned her in a dungeon, its unacceptable for Anon to imply that, in the end, his heart was softened and they lived happily every after. Traditional song or new song? For all we know, the anonymous source who submitted the "traditional" version to Mr Child might have interpreted and earlier version just as freely.
A lot of Martin's identiy as a folk-singer continues to depend on the idea of source-singers: for every song reconstructed or re-invented out of a printed source, there is one that he got from an old recording on a wax cylinder. His My Bonny Boy is Young But He's Growing comes off a recording Vaughan Williams made of a pub landlord in 1907. He kisses his fingers to show how beautiful the long dead singer's voice was. (*)
"These songs are the real crown jewels" he says before Prince Heathen "And this is one of the jewels in the crown." His own acoustic guitar is "in hospital" but his guitar maker has leant him a beautiful instrument to use in the interim. At the end of the song, he allows the guitar to take the bow and acknowledge the applause.
(*) You can listen to it here, through the wonders of the internet. In places it sounds uncannily (even disturbingly) like Mr Carthy's version.
Just occasionally, I wonder if I might give up on the whole the geek thing; that maybe it wouldn't be the end of the world if there was a folk gig in Bristol and I wasn't there. And then there is an evening like tonight, and I remember why I started to listen to this stuff to begin with.
Robb Johnson's gig at the was literally like nothing I've ever been to before. He was going to wind up his set with a sentimental song about talking to a fox on his way home from the pub. (The fox says its heading for the street where he grew up, where he used to pick blackberries; but there's a supermarket there now "and none of the fruit tastes of anything at all.") But someone from the audience calls out a title, so he sings that as well, so instead of lyricism we end the night in chanting: "We hate the Tories! We hate the Tories! Yeah Yeah Yeah! And Tony Blair! Same difference there!" Except, of course, that he comes straight back onto the stage and encores with "Be Reasonable (Demand The Impossible Now)" It's a small audience, but they all seem to be fans, or friends, or his. So everybody except me knows all the songs:
No master, no landlord, no flag, no guru, No gauleiter, no commissar, Just justice and poetry with jam on it too, When they ask 'who's in charge here?' We'll all say....
"WE ARE!" calls out the audience as one. But even this isn't the end...he can't leaves the stage, and the finally finishes on The Siege of Madrid, and heartfelt mediation about the fall of fascism. Two guys stood up at the back, arm in arm, and started singing along to the whole thing, making clenched fists at the appropriate moments. ("Each child born is born an anarchist") I've have never, repeat, never felt a more corporate communal feeling at a folk gig, or indeed performance of any kind...never had the sense that everyone in the audience wants to get up and shake each others hands because we've just shared such a great....thing.
How to describe him? There's an element of Billy Bragg in the deliberately naive tub-thumping socialism; folk with a fairly large dollop of punk sensibility behind it. But it's lyrical as well; "be reasonable" is much prettier than it really needs to be. He can do satire: possibly the highlight of the night was a ranting, comedic, diatribe against the press corruption, ending up in a grotesque parody of Rupert Murdoch: "We're sorry...we're sorry...we're sorry we got caught"...which leads directly into a straightforwardly chilling rant about the summer's rioting:
Cops shot Mark Duggan on Thursday night When his family asked why, they wouldn't say a word When they still said nothing Saturday night Tottenham burned
There's a pastoralism to it: it seems that once we've overthrown the state and a lot of our time is going to be spent drinking tea and sitting in fields. We start in fully grown up agitprop mode -- ("they cut all the benefits, close all our libraries") but just when you start to think that maybe a whole evening of being harangued is going to get tiring, he starts to talk with great affection and wit about his pupils (he is, of all things, a primary school teacher) but there's still a socialist moral to be drawn from a series of perfectly observed vignettes about his kids. ("Little people, big ideas.")
I don't endorse all his politics. I think maybe its okay to send Christmas presents to soldier, even if we think that the war in Afghanistan was a catastrophic misjudgement. I don't think we middle class folkies would really be that happy in the anarchist New Jerusalem. I think that bankers might be slightly easy hate figures, although I did like the idea of a lot of city wide-boys getting trapped in a pub basement at the same time as the Copiapo disaster. (People come from all over the country with whatever bricks and rubble they can spare to make sure they don't escape.) But as I've said before, I think "agreeing" with a song is a category mistake. You don't have to agree with all his politics to agree with what he is doing: creating a communal outpouring of joy based around the idea that things could, maybe, be different from how they are.
In the movie "A Mighty Wind"
the bland Weaver-esque Main Street Singers take to the stage at a big
folk benefit gig and immediately ask the audience: "Does anyone
want to hear some folk
music?" In the same movie, the more-authentic-than-thou
Folksmen find themselves arguing that The Star Spangled Banner and Purple Haze are
examples of folk music. Anyone who's ever been to a concert felt a cringe of recognition.
Folk singers are indeed pretty self-conscious about
being folk singers. It
isn't just Steve Knightley howling "we need roots":
it's Jim Moray charmingly asking
the audience if they know what a Child Ballad is, and Chris Wood
paying tribute to "Anon" as the greatest songwriter who
ever lived. It sometimes feels as if folk music is the main thing which folk music is about.
So
what is folk music? Mark Slobin is an academic. He studies something
called ethnomusicology and he doesn't know. It would be fair to say
that much of what he is interested in -- Hungarian marraige
ceremonies and the state appropriation of peasant music in the old
Soviet nations -- wouldn't be recognised as folk music by the average English or American concert goer. The only modern English
singer who appears in his index is Kate Rusby. Bob Dylan is mentioned
in passing
He
does think there is such a thing as folk music and that we know it
when we see it. But he throws up his hands in despair when looking
for a definition. The nearest he gets is a quote from One Of Those
Sociologists who had did a research project in which he talked to
every folk group, god help him, in Milton Keynes. "There
can be no real definition of folk music, beyond saying that it was
the kind of music played by those who called themselves folk
performers" he concludes.
That's actually a good deal more
helpful than it sounds. It's like "Science Fiction". You
can define it so widely that Jane Eyre is sci-fi (it involves
telepathy) or so narrowly that Star Trek is not (warp drive? warp
bollocks, more like) but we know which would be more likely to be
discussed at a sci-fi convention.
Last week I went to the Frome Folk
Festival. I listened to songs which poor people really did listen to in the days before the gramophone (e.g Spiers and Boden singing All Along And Down A Lee) and songs that were more or less sophisticated pastiches of
that kind of thing (e.g Steve Knightley's Transported). But I also heard
modern compositions by young men with guitars who wanted to explain in
some detail how they felt about the girl who had dumped them; and a
band playing middle eastern instrumental numbers on instruments I
didn’t recognise. And lots of Morris Dancing. One sort of see why
they all go together, where, say, a Beatles cover band wouldn't have
done, but what did they actually have in common? Slobin cites another
academic who says rather desperately "Acoustic instruments
that can be heard by everyone within earshot, a certain musical
simplicty and acccessible thoughtful understandable lyrics are the
most commonly quoted reasons for an interest in contemporary folk
music"
Not that specific definitions aren’t
possible: when I interviewed a couple of local promoters last year, I
was told in no uncertain terms that folk music was lyrics-based
song-writing using open tunings and avoiding blues changes. Very
true, no doubt, but not the kind of definition which would interest
your average ethnomusicologist. .
Slobin is very interested in the
trajectories of individual songs: where they come from; where they go; what they are for. Twinkle Twinkle
Little Star is almost his archetypal folk song: everyone knows it;
no-one knows or cares who wrote it; but it gets passed on from
parents to children because it can be used as a singing game or a
lullaby. Indeed, I think “song with a use” might be a possible
definition of what Slobin means by folk music. A song's use might be to encourage everyone on a chain gang to dig in time with each other; or to encourage your team to score goals, or to calm down a stroppy baby. He claims that a
western ologist once played a piece of popular American music to a
Native American and asked him what he thought of it. The Navajo said
that he couldn’t say if he liked it or not until he knew what it
was good for. A lot of people in the book seem to produce these kinds
of gnomic aphorisms. "You and your dried words...The meaning
of my words is in the moisture of my breath which carries them"
"To you, they are words: to me, they are voices in the forest."
I suppose traditional peoples really do speak like that. But is seems
suspiciously close to how hippies and folkies would like
them to speak.
For something to really be
folk music, as opposed to performance art which some professional
musician has given that label, it needs to be circulating without an
author "out there" in the musical culture. Playground
rhymes and football chants are about the closest we can get,
nowadays, and they hardly count as “music” by most people’s
definition. (You wouldn't buy them on a CD or listen to them at a
concert, would you?) Didn't the Opies find that, when they asked
children to sing them songs, they literally didn't understand what
they were being asked for? The whole idea of music turns out to be
another one of those pesky Western constructs. Slobin thinks that a Muslim might
literally not understand that we regard the call to prayer and the
songs a mother sings to her baby as two examples of the same kind of
thing.
Football
songs or a playground chants are anonymous: silly words just get stuck onto classical
tunes, pop tunes, and very often hymns. But then, a great number of Woody Guthrie's songs were simply new words to old tunes: in some cases, he didn't do much more than take a hymn and substitute the word "union" for the word "Jesus". American folk's most holy martyr, Joe Hill, was writing what a science fiction fan would easily identify as "filk". Slobin talks about a process of “folklorization” whereby something which had a
known author is passed from listener to listener, possibly changing
in the process, and thus enters the musical culture. A pop song or an
advertising jingle can easily become "folklorized" in this
way; swapping songs on YouTube might even be a modern version of
folklorization.
Slobin
is skeptical about the existence of a dying oral folk tradition in
rural England and the American south which Cecil Sharp and John Lomax
fortuitously preserved. Barbara Allen may be the most frequently
collected Anglo American song (that is: many different
collectors have heard different people singing different versions of
it in different places) but it had been very frequently written down
and published before the
big revival. (*) The people who sang it to Cecil Sharp might very well have learned it from songbooks or even early gramophone records. He demonstrates that John Lomax learned the the cowboy
song "I ride an old paint..." in a saloon in 1908, although
he learned it, not from a real cowboy but from another college
educated folklore student. It was published by Carl Sandburg in "The Great
American Song Bag". Aaron Copland had used it as part of his
classical ballet "Rodeo" before Woody Guthrie recorded for
Alan Lomax. Gurthrie probably learned the song from the Sandburg book. But this
is okay, says Slobin because Guthrie re-folklorized it, adding
verses about the Oakies and the dustbowl migration. This doesn't seem
to me to amount to folkorization: it sounds to me like producing a
more heavily authored version, just like turning Casey
Jones into Casey Jones The Union Scab. (The Union Scab version is definitely Joe Hill's song.) Sloban
points out that there are now lots of performances of "I Ride an Old Paint" on
Youtube, including an anoymous lady in a cowboy hat and a chinese
child with a toy organ. Which rather makes it sound as if
“folklorization" just means “the song has been sung by lots of
different people over the years”
Which
isn't, come to think of it, a terrible definition. I
would guess that there are more extant recordings of Yesterday than there are of the Two Sisters; but each new version
of Yesterday consciously depends on the late Paul McCartney's
version of the song, and indeed, of George Martin's recording of him singing it; but
no single version of the Two Sisters depends on any other or supersedes any other. The song
is just out there and anyone can have a go at it.
I enjoyed the
sections about "Celtic" music and didgerydoos. It isn't
quite clear what Celtic music actually has to do with the Celts; it
isn't even clear what the different kinds of music which call
themselves Celtic have to do with each other: "no one has
identified traditional structural, meldodic or rhyhtmic elements that
can be isolated as Celtic". But it does seem as if Irish
people and Welsh people positively started to play what they at any
rate believed to be old songs because their languages were a lost
cause and their songs were something they could cling to and use to
represent what was theirs. (English teachers, as Welsh people never tire
of reminding us, used to beat children who they caught speaking Welsh
in school; they found it rather harder to stop their parents singing old Welsh songs at home). Modern music with the label "Celtic" is made by
professionals, played at concerts, sold on records. "It only
exists after it has been produced and marketed: It has not existence
outside of its commodity form." So how is it folk music?
Because, er, it doesn't sell too well, so the publishers market it on
their folk labels.
Lots of Irish and
Cornish people went to Australia, so Australian folk music can be
quite a lot like Irish music, and therefore distantly connected to
the Celtic thang, but apparently some Ozzie groups have transmogrified into, god help us, “folk rock bush bands” which incorporate the
didgerydoo but apparently not the wobbleboard. The didgerydoo doesn't
seem to have been that big a deal for the First Peoples; it was a
hollowed out log that that you blew down in certain religious
ceremonies, but it has become a signifier for Australian-ness and in
particular for the idea that the Aborigines were specially spiritual
and in touch with nature and stuff. It has a distinct sound, of
course (Jim Moray uses it in Leaving Australia and Christ
Ricketts in Bound For South Australia) but Slobin thinks
that it is the idea of the instrument -- what it symbolizes --
that has caused a separate musical sub-culture to grow up around it.
"Turned into a myth, the aboriginal's cultural essence
distills into a single object made from a log". The sound of
the didgerydoois thought by fans to be bound up with the Native Australians respect for
the environment, and fans think that just listening to it will help
you "reconnect with nature, earth energy and each other". They don’t seem to be playing traditional Native Australian tunes:
it's the instrument itself which is special.
This reminded me of
Joseph Campbell’s odd idea that free floating things called "myths",
shorn of their cultural context can return your mind to a blissful,
telegraph-wire free utopia. But it's also maybe not too far from
Steve Knightley's idea that our stories and our songs will connect
us with our roots, with all questions about who “we” are taken
for granted.
Ursula Le Guin famously said that she wrote science fiction because science fiction was what her publisher called the kind of thing she wrote: but folk music is a label which certain professional musicians wish to apply to the kind of thing they sing. Martin Carthy's Prince Heathen and Jim Moray's Lord Douglas are not part of any process of folklorization: they are the result of the conscious study of multiple written versions. (But I suppose that some folkies may sing Prince Heathen in Carthy's version and believe that they are singing something unchanged since the Olden Days.) Reading this book made me wonder if it's the label which is important, symbolizing something about the Olden Days for certain middle class English people in the way that the didgerydoo does for certain Australian hippies?
Chris Wood says that when he sings a song, he feels the ghost of the person who taught it to him standing behind him: but that person learned the song from someone else, so there is a long chain of ghosts standing behind him. You only really become a folk singer, he says, when you understand that one day you will be one of the ghosts. I don't think it matters very much whether that chain of ghosts is real or imaginary, any more than it really matters what aborigines did with their didgerydoos before white people arrived on their island. What matters is the idea.
(*) The haunting version of the song performed as part of the Cecil Sharp project doesn't sound as if it has been carefully honed by Anon to fit the needs of a new continent; it sound more like a product of misremembering and mishearing: "Sweet William died on a Saturday night, and Barbara on a Sunday; the old woman died for the love of both, she died on Easter Monday" sounds like a something out of a playground chant: the old woman has found her way into the story simply to provide a rhyme.
Dear God, I had forgotten how unpleasant mainstream audiences were. These aren't people who drifted in off the street; the tickets were hard to get; Laura’s last gig in Bristol sold out overnight: people must, like us, have leapt onto the website first thing in the morning to nab tickets while they were available. Maybe all the truefans had headed for the, er, mosh, and we foolish ones who had taken the front row of seating were surrounded by people who didn't really want to be there in the first place.
Yeah, I'm a grumpy old man and everything, I've read serious critics (well, Jule Burchill) arguing that only a total saddos listen to music: it’s there to subliminally affect your mood while you are doing something else like washing dishes or having sex. Someone on Facebook was surprised to be asked to shut up when he talked over the music at a Billy Bragg concert, and concluded that he’d wandered into some weird religious cult. Which is a fair point, actually.
So, they talked, all through the first support act, Pete Roe, a local singer with a guitar and a flat cap and some decent singery songerwritery tunes. They talked all the way through the second support, Timbre Timbre, who I concede was one of the most hopelessly misjudged performances I've ever seen, droning barely audible cod blues at an audience who were leaving in large numbers. They talked about Aunty Angela's lumbago, and about who that cute boy was who keeps showing up in the office canteen.
Maybe I've misread this: I'm used to concerts where the support is "someone who the main band like and want to give some exposure to" or "a local act the promoter thinks is quite good": maybe young people regard them on a level with the adverts before the movie. But they talked, gesticulating and raising their voices to be heard above the PA, actually seeming to have some kind of full scale domestic dispute, through the main act. Quite astonishing. Folkbuddy 1 (*) actually resorted to the old “don’t bother, he’s not worth it" gambit when I leaned forward, quite politiely, and said words to the effect of “Oh, please, be nice, he’s doing his best.” I’m a librarian. I tell people to be quiet for a living. A customer threatened to kill me the other day. What was the question again?
So, anyway, Laura Marling. I believe I understand why Laura has become A Phenomenon. There literally isn't anyone like her. She sounds like a young woman of about nineteen possessed by the spirit of the 70-year-old Bob Dylan: world weary, rambling, occupying some space between blues and folk-Americana, long, structureless narratives that you can’t make sense out of suddenly giving way to beautiful little melodic hooks; a sound that buzzes like a bumblebee on a hot day; a sometimes preposterous naivity – ("there's a house across the river but alas I cannot swim" could be taken for a child's skipping rhyme) with a horrible maturity behind it. There’s also a hint of the Kimya Dawson type baby-voiced antifolk patter in some of the poetry. The fact that she’s awfully English but singing in a more or less American idiom and sometimes accent makes her all the more unpinable down. I could list the brilliant songs on the fingers of one hand (Alas I Cannot Swim, Give Me To A Rambling Man, I Only Love England When Covered In Snow, It’s Not Like I Believe In Everylasting Love) and there are an awful lot of songs which are likeable only in so far as thy somewhat remind you of the good ones. But that's still more classic songs than many people manage in a career.
I thought that the purely or mostly acoustic numbers came through pretty well tonight, despite the audience; but I am not convinced by the addition of a band, which appeared to entirely drown out out the Suzanne Vega type recitative. She doesn’t have much stage presence or persona, but she makes a connection with her fans through sheer niceness.(She mentions in passing that the Colston Hall was the place where she went to her first gig: a young girl in the balcony calls down "This is my first gig!" "Well maybe in a few years you’ll be up here" she calls back.) And although I am in principle pleased that she’s fighting a one man rearguard action against pointless encores. ("If you want an encore, then that was my last song.") it gives the evening a rather anti-climactic finish.
Laura Marling picking away on a guitar, singing cryptic lyrics like an infinitely old little girl, I shall listen to again, but I am not quite sure I'll have the stamina to face another one of her concerts.
We're left in no doubt as to what we've
let ourselves in for. The band rush on to the stage, and without ado,
akapella the opening track of their album: close
harmony, through the nose, copper-familly-ish; not specifically based on
any song, but sounding like "arise ye men of england" or something of that kind, except that it's about the modern world and people who want their magical 15 minutes of fame. And then, still without ado, the electric guitars and the drums blare out, and we're straight into a heavy rock take on Mr Richard Thompson's Roll Over Vaughan Williams. This is most definitely going to be folk and it's most definitely going to be rock.
The programmes says New Albion
Band but they definitely want to be thought of as simply the Albion Band with a new line up. Blair Dunlop, (guitars and vocals), is the son of Ashley Hutchings who founded the original band, but that's the only direct link, and Hutchings says that the new generation have largely gone it alone. Singer and squeezebox man Gavin Davenport actually seems to be the driving force, writing or arrange about half of the songs on the album, and acting as front-man in the live show. He has a deep, rich, northern voice where the younger Blair sings with a Moray-ish twinkle; they go excellently together. Katriona Gilmore contributes two songs, fiddle-playing and the only female voice.
The live show plays right through the album, but peppers it with number from the
Albion Bands back catalogue. "You will be able to see that the guitar arrangement is based on the monster rock stylings of.... Martin Carthy" explains Gavin at one point; and yes, as a matter of fact, without being
either parody or pastiche, you could see a lot of Carthy in Ben Trott (lead guitar's) performance of "I was a young man, I was a rover." (Carthy did indeed appear on one album in 1973. I recall that Phil Beer once remarked during a solo gig that, statistically speaking, two out of three members of the audience would one day be members of the Albion Band.)
We are told that Vice of the People is an album with a concept, although it isn't a concept album. The concept (and stop me if
you've heard this before) is the vacuity of celebrity culture. If
getting to know Simon Cowell is the only way you have of getting
famous, then there really isn't much hope for you as a human being, says Gavin. "Almost as bad as inhering a folk rock band from your dad"
interjects Blair. (The bands on-stage rapport is slightly self-conscious,
but still convincing.)
You can see why folkies would make
slebs their target: as Bernard Shaw might have said, martyrdom and reality TV shows are the only two ways in which
people can become famous without ability. I suppose you could say that its a
bit much for folkies to complain that the common people don't stand up and sing in pubs nowadays, and then complain when what's basically a glorified pub talent show becomes
popular TV viewing. (Susan Boyle and the folklorization of the West End Musical, anyone?) But it presents a very good hook to hang an album on: not necessarily music of folk, but very definitely music about folk. The band is really, really, really good at voicing modern
concerns in a folk idiom; and
presenting it in a combination of traditional and rock arrangements. "Thieves Song" starts with the nursery rhyme "Hark, hark the dogs do bark"
and turns it into a rant against dishonest politicians – we might
as well be robbed by poor people as by MPs. Not a terribly new
insight, as it happens, but the combination of vernacular and folkie
dialect is spot on:
"And yet you scorn the beggar man who cries out for each crust But on the pinstripe wolfshead you invest your faith and trust And put the biggest rogues of all your parliament within So don't despise the poor man though his clothes be awful thin"
Even cleverer is
the following "How Many Miles To Babylon?" also based on a
nursery rhyme. They are not the first people to whom the idea that ancient Babylon is in modern Iraq has occurred, but it's used here with considerable ingenuity. The person in the rhyme who is trying to get to Babylon and back by candlelight turns out to be a soldier from the gulf war:
"Come see there's little left of me But longing for my love And to see the child I never saw I thank the stars above Weary of the killing Ravaged by the fight I must go before the dawn Snuffs the candle light"
He is in fact a ghost and the nursery rhyme has morphed into a hauntingly contemporary "night visiting" ballad.
Unusually, I thought the stand-out tracks in the live gig were the purely instrumental sets particularly the "Skirmish Set", a collection of infectious morris tunes in which the drums and amps are kept firmly in the background and the melodeon and fiddle take centre stage. (The melodeon player is Tim Yates from our own beloved Blackbeard's Tea Party. There is, when it comes down to, only one folk band in the world, but that folk band is very big.) The songs, I can't help thinking, came out better on the CD than
live, because, as too often happens in folk rock sets, the very loud
volume made the lyrics disappear so you couldn't quite follow what was being sung about: a great shame when the group so clearly has
something to say.
The show winds up with Wake a Little Wiser, which you might see as a modern take on Ragged Heroes (with maybe a hint of the aforementioned Roy Bailey's Song of the Leaders.)
"From Wilberforce to Nightingale from Anderson to Paine Our ragged heroes built this land come sing their praise again And leave your tinpot idols out a rusting in the rain And wake a little wiser in the morning."
This is great
music; I haven't stopped playing the CD since the band wrote their names on it Polished, intelligent, fun but above all, loud.
Frome, pronounced Frome, is a picture-skew town between Bristol and Bath; small tea-rooms and quaint
terraces into which a small modern shopping centre has been unceremoniously dropped. It boasts one of the only surviving
branch railway stations from Brunell's era, and no
trains back to Bristol after 10PM at night. Up to this point in my
life, I have always found my lack of a drivers' licence to be a very
minor inconvenience. I have a very good working relationship with
Megabus and regard, to the occasional consternation of visitors,
distances of up to 70 minutes as "well within walking distance".
Having recently discovered that the main thing I wish to do with my leisure is
attend music festivals, the lack of a car becomes quite a nuisance. This weekend was, I therefore swear, the first time in my adult life
I have stayed in a hotel my by myself. A pleasant room above a pub,
with tea making facilities and a trouser press.
Only one though: since I was there for a folk festival, there should
surely have been two corbies. (1)
This was the first time there
has been a folkfest in Frome: I note that if I had turned up a week
late, there would have been a potato festival in the same venue. (2) The main venue was the cavernous
Cheese and Grain; sometimes used for shows but clearly often used for
markets. One of the acts commented that, looking out into the
audience -- some of us eating egg-and-bacon breakfasts, some of us (I
use the term "us" advisedly) in Morris dancing kit, bunting
and flags hanging from the ceiling and a big advert for an Indian
curry house on the wall -- was the most English scene you could possibly
have imagined. (3) There were also smaller gigs in
an absolute gem of a local cinema, with a proper sweet kiosk and
tip-up seats, just like cinemas used to be in the olden days; and a
small room in a masonic hall. Since my various folkbuddies had crazy
ideas about wanting to attend friends weddings and take care of
elderly relatives I was on my own. I always find that a level of
obsessive panic descends under such circumstances: if I had had
folkbuddies with me, I would have happily sat out one of the acts to
have lunch or a beer – as it was I felt I was doing something
appallingly wrong if there was a single minute of the day when I
wasn't listening to music: even if it was only the little girl with the
"I love Sam Sweeny" cardigan playing her fiddle to an empty
"open mic" cinema or escaping from the rain into the Blue
Boar pub where a lady from one of the morris groups was standing at
the bar singing my fifth favourite folksong. (The version in which the miller is hanged and the elder sister is boiled in lead.) Not to mention a man with a mandolin singing about the Yankie Clipper.
And music there was a lot of, provided
by many of the most eminent Usual Suspects – a veritable "who's
who" of modern English flok, impressive for a brand new
festival, albeit in a lower key than some: Spiers and Boden sans
Bellowhead; Jim Moray sans trio, Steve sans Phil, etc. And – I
mean this in a caring way – it was nice to see the weekend get
progressively less shambolic as it went on; as if the organisers were
(very understandably) spotting things which weren't going right and
sorting them out. The main venue, the Cheese and Grain, had a bar in
the back, which very naturally meant that there was a lot of ambient
bar noise, some times quite intrusive, during the acts. They
progressively put up notices and kept the bar lights down to minimize
this. I got the impression – knowing nothing whatsoever about this,
admittedly – that the sound engineer didn't know what was about to
hit him; having to set up for a big loud five piece like Mabon and
immediately re-jig for the very exacting guitar stylings of Chris Wood. (Or maybe the machine was experiencing machine problems. Or maybe the bands were being stroppy.)
Chris Wood was evidently getting annoyed by the P.A problems. Someone
remarked on the Sunday morning that he had "used the f-word." I
didn't have the heart to tell him that a gig in which Chris Wood
doesn't use the f-word is more comment worthy. One of his songs (the
funny tongue twisting Carthyite one about man who doesn't want to get
married yet) completely broke down; I rather suspect he finished on
John Barleycorn because it was an absolute foolproof crowd pleaser.
But who is going to complain about having to listen to Chris Wood singing John Barleycorn? The compère was at least acknowledging that the PA had been a problem on the last day; it actually seemed to be much improved at the end of the weekend and will presumably be thoroughly sorted next year.
The other thing they'll get better next
time around is the programme, which listed names and times but no
other information, leaving those of us who still don't know
everything about music at a bit of loss to know whether "Fallen
Tide" or "Hips and Haws" was more likely to be the
kind of thing we would enjoy. (And no use of the interwebs, even
though lots of us can haz smart phones nowadays: what price a
fromefolkfest hashtag to tell us that such-and-such a set has been
cancelled and so-and-so are starting late?) So my listening was a bit random and I probably missed some good stuff.
I'd never heard Belshazzars Feast
before: a duo consisting of the One From Bellowhead Who Is Niether
Spiers Nor Boden and A Man With a Beard. This is quite definitely the
best fiddle + squeezebox comedy duo you will ever heard. It really does come across as musical stand-up comedy: sequences in which Paul leads and Paul appears to follow with the wrong
notes; sequences in which the audience is asked to sing along with
tunes which keep changing; songs with silly words. It takes a very
high level of musicianship to pull this kind of thing off. I don't
know how long it would stay funny for – I don't think I'd
necessarily want an album – but this set was brilliant.
Jim Moray did a characteristically
splendid acoustic set, complete with "a song about a sinister
woodland elf rapist" (Hind Ettin) and an "invisible child
murderer who can walk through walls" (Long Lankin.) Also "If
It's True What They Say", on piano, from the Orpheus folk
operetta, off the new album, in which he veers convincingly into "My
Way" territory, having a fully fledged dramatic emotional crises
at the keyboard. And he wound up with one he said he hadn't song
before, the old American ballad "Peg and Awl". It really is very
impressive the way he turns his hands from the traditional song to
the power ballad to the folkie sing-a-long to the sweeping
semi-classical piano accompaniment. I think I'm starting to like his
stripped down acoustic act almost as much as the fully fledged electronica he's made his name with.
Pilgrims Way get better every time I
hear them. (Bristol's Best Known Citizen Folk Journalist suggests
that they need to pay more attention to building a set rather than
just playing some songs.) There's an increasingly long list of "good
ones" while waiting for their eponymous signature song –
Handweaver and the Factory Maid, Tarry Trousers, and Light Hussar
are all first rate.
Greatly enjoyed Sean Lakeman and
Kathryn Roberts. I've been trying to work out what "Carrie
Love", the unbearable account of a miner during the 1980s NUM
strikes, reminds me of. It's completely original; but it somehow
sounds like June Tabor interpreting Bill Caddick, without being much like either of them. Really deserves to be much better
known.
Spiers and Boden did a Spiers and Boden
set, frankly, but you can never have too many Prickley Bushes and Spotted Pigs. I like the way they now finish up
with New York Girls, but it does rather rub in the fact that
Bellowhead now informs Spiers and Boden rather than vice versa.
Earlier in the weekend, one of the acts whose name has erased itself
from my notebook tried to get the audience singing along with one of his songs. The left
hand side were to be singing a different tune from right hand side; everyone was supposed to be clapping on the off-beat. Total disaster. You can't help but admire
Boden's expertise in getting this kind of thing to work. "Volume is more
important than accuracy here...good. And don't worry too much about
the consonants, just do the vowels...."
Steve Knightley wound up the weekend.
No-one, as I have mentioned, works a crowd like Steve Kightley. Phil
without Steve is a completely different act: Steve without Phil is,
well, pretty much Steve without Phil. (This evening he went as far as
delivering some of his one-liners to the spot where Phil would have
been.) He did take the opportunity to do slightly more restrained versions of some of his numbers. I don't
quite think that the thumping angry A.I.G quite works as a slowed
down Dylanesque guitar piece, but it was worth a try; on the other
hand the Galway Farmer is in its natural environment as an unaccompanied piece of story telling. There's real complexity and
multiple levels to his song-writing: he opened with a piece about
drugs and drug pushing that I hadn't heard before: the dealer
travelling round the M25 selling heroin is a "poppy seller"
like the British Legion charity sellers on Remembrance Day; the heroin comes from the poppy farms in Afghanistan, where soldiers are still being killed, like in Flanders Fields, which is where the poppy metaphor got started....But it's all worn lightly, and
one feels one has heard a story, not a leading article pro or against
the warren drugs. "Transported" is basically just a good old funny "trick" song about the modern sheep thieves who pull the wool over the police's eyes. Steve plays the audience for all they're worth in the refrain
There's no transportation down under
No gallows in the old county gaol
At best in the morning we're fined with a warning
At worst in the evening we're back out on bail...
But I loved the way he followed it up with the contrasting traditional and depressing Oakham Poachers. ("Oh it never happened before / Three brothers hanged together / For the doing of one crime.) I
thought the only off note was winding up with a medley of Cousin Jack
and Country Life; not that the two songs don't work
as a medley and not that the audience didn't mournfully join in with the
"aaa-aaa-aaa" bit. But honestly. "No schools / No
homes / No shops / No pubs / What went wrong? What went wrong?"
It's a bit of a downer to finish a set, let alone a festival on. I
accidentally heard him doing more or less the same set in Bristol a
week or two later, and he very sensibly added the sing-a-long Aunt
Maria from the Cecil Sharp Project, which also has a very serious
point, but is a much more up beat song with which to finish an evening.
Highlight of the weekend, in many ways
was Luke Jackson, introduced by the aforementioned Steve Knightley, if only because I had never heard, or heard of, him before. Luke is, I think, seventeen. He has a powerful, deep voice and can pull off
bluesy Americana like Poor Wayfarin' Stranger as well as anyone; but
he also writes his own songs.
Now, nearly every third support act you hear is
a singer-song-writer. They all have exactly the same floppy hair and self-effacing stage manner; they are all pretty good at guitar picking; and they all sing the same agonized monologues about having been dumped by the same girl, set in the same flat at the same time of day (4AM.) God often becomes involved in the proceedings, although the singers mood isn't improved by having to admit that he doesn't actually believe in God. Luke Jackson is not like this.
Luke Jackson writes honest, hugely affecting songs about his actual
life. "Kiss us at the door and wish us luck" he sings to his parents. "' 'Cos everyone grows up."
Oh. My. God. That's actual proper poetry. There
is something enormously affecting about the way in which his big deep
singing voice sometimes gives way to a spoken phrase which sounds terribly immature and teenage. When a man in his forties talks
about "childhood" (4) it can come across as romantic bullshit; when Luke
Jackson talks about taking his dog for a walk in the park and hanging
out with his friends and adds "seems as if my childhood songs
have been song" he's not talking about those blue remembered
hills. He's talking about last year. (Two years ago at Trowbridge he was singing about the school bus, I'm told.)
I was born in the countryside
But I spend my day in town
Waste the whole morning sleeping in
And then just wander round...
But who are you to judge me?
Who are you? Let me be.
You or I might have had those kind of sentiments when we were 17. We might even have written them down in that kind of poetry. But you are or I didn't have a killer voice, an impressive guitar style and Steve Knightley as a mentor. Frankly, I've got no right to be listening to his
album. It ought to be being passed around every sixth form in the country as a big secret that the old people won't really understand. His Youtube stream is instructive, as well: he
covers a lot of songs which are frankly much to big for him – it
clearly isn't 25 years or
more since he did anything at all – which seems to be exactly
the right kind of mistake for a person of his age to be making. And
actually, his version of Blowin' in the Wind is rather brilliant: note the way he combines elements of Young Bob's version of the song with elements of Old Bob.
So, essentially: roll on next year's Frome, and see you all at the Brizzle fest in May.
(1) Sam Dodsworth, all rights reserved. You will, Oscar, you will.
(2) Oooo that's mean. Local gardeners getting together to sell or exchange seed. Perfectly sensible.
(3) Sensitive readers, freaked out by my reference to the toxic brand "England" are given due warning that by the end of the weekend I may well find myself listening to Mr Steve Knightley.
(4) Say with reference to old comic books and space movies
Well, that’s a thing I never expected to see. Chumbawamba in panto.
Okay, it isn’t actually a pantomime. It’s a political riff on Victorian musical comedies. For all of us who grew up in the 70s and were sometimes allowed to stay up past our bedtimes, Leeds City Varieties is synonymous with Music Hall (“Mr Larry Grayson, the entire and indefatigable orchestra, but this time, chiefly, yourselves”). But the real thing was apparently a good deal ruder and less well behaved than the Edwardian world conjured by The Good Old Days, and Boff Whalley’s programme notes say that he wanted to salvage Music Hall from that genteel image. We are told that analogies be drawn between Victorian times, when bankers had bankrupt the country and Etonian politicians were leading us into pointless wars, and modern times, when, er...
Well, analogy would be overstating it somewhat. The company marches through the gallery, down the stairs, through the foyer, up to the aisle and onto the stage singing:
"We’re all in this together! As equals we will brave this stormy sea! I will be the Captain, and you can work the oars In our Big Society!"
I think we all get the point.
The set up is a little like an episode of the Muppet Show, alternating between songs and turns in front of the curtain and soap opera and back-biting back stage. It all feels rather like a college revue into which one of the best live acts in the country, a famous comedian and a first rate theater company have somehow fallen. "Panto" will do.
The role of the Big Society Band is taken by the Chumbas themselves, sans Lou, but with Harry Hamer (the band’s regular drummer before they went all folkie). Harry also has a big acting role as the hopeless conjurer Magic Barry; Phil Moody (the one with the accordion and the percussive tie) has a small one as the hypocritical journalist (the man from the Double Standard) who wants to close the theatre down for using the word “bollocks”. Jude, laying aside her trumpet in favour of a euphonium, spends most of the acted sections sitting at the back of the stage knitting. The other acting parts are played by members of the Red Ladder theatre company, along with Phil Jupitus (a.ka.“that man off the telly”) who can, of course, also sing.
Anything the songs may have lacked in subtlety is more than made up for in gusto, enthusiasm and bloody good tunes. Beatrice (Kyla Goodey) does a Marie Lloyd style tribute to the police doing any number of filthy things with a truncheon, while delivering lyrics along the lines of
"Spare a thought for the dear old boys in blue What the prisoner has sworn, well its not true Yes the head of the accused Acquired a most alarming bruise I blame the station wall that he chance to walk into"
Phil Jupitus steals the show with his turn as the entirely non-specific public schoolboy turned prime minister. He can not only sing and deliver jokes, but has a lovely knack for throwing comedy tantrums on the stage. (“Claimants and shirkers / Manual workers / We’ll hang em by the old school tie”) The entire company winds up act one doing “It’s the same the ‘ole world over, it’s the poor wot get the blame”, with new words about an MP who is let off for fiddling his expenses because he knows the judge, while a pauper is hanged for stealing bread and water.
Subtle is not the word. But I suppose it never was.
The backstage plot is a good deal less convincing than the musical turns. We have Beatrice, the suffragette, assuring us (you’ll like this) that everything will be better when we have a woman as prime minister; and Eve, the conjurer’s partner, trying on lots of different religions until she discovers (stop me if you’ve heard this before) that she’s happier thinking for herself. (“I thought you were a Presbyterian?” “No, that was this morning.”) One feels that Boff has taken to heart the old “Well, you wouldn’t dare say that about Muslim, would you?” line and is attempting to poke fun at everyone equally. (“Don’t you know you’ll have to give up sex?” “Oh...I thought they said ‘celebrate’.”) Poor Barry has a magic wardrobe which repeatedly fails to make volunteers from the audience vanish. The Master of Ceremonies had a horrible time at school because his best friend was an invisible monkey. (“It’s a cold hard world Marcel / Nobody cares or understands / A place where a man and his monkey / Can’t walk openly hand in hand.”)
If I were the sort of person who was inclined to over think things, I would say that it’s hardly fair to satirize Eve's endless quest for spirituality and then to tell the MC that it’s okay to be friends with Marcel after all. (“Sometimes / You have to step out into space / Sometimes / To an unexpected place / Sometimes / You have to take a leap of faith.”) But I suspect that this isn’t the kind of show you are meant to think about very much at all. But it is the kind of show in which Boff himself takes the role of the invisible monkey. Who turns out to live in a magic kingdom. Entered through a portal in Magic Barry's wardrobe. Obviously. It may be trying quite hard to make you like it, but it's very hard not to. We need no encouragement at all to sway along to the last chorus of :
"We’re not in this together! Cos I can plainly see There’s rules for the toffs and the better offs And different rules for me..."
One can quite see why Boff would want to embrace music hall. Chumbawamba are about an endless quest for voice-of-the-people authenticity; making records with Coope, Boyes and Simpson and quoting Carthy and in almost the same breath suggesting that the whole idea of of folk music is a bit of a con. Lots of people have spotted that the aforementioned Cecil Sharp was "preserving" folk music at exactly the moment when actual folk had stopped singing songs about princesses sewing silken seams and decided that they preferred ones about the lady gardener who sits among the cabbages and peas. (Which, as everyone knows, was later changed to "she sits among the lettuces and leaks".)
I’ve been listening my way through Chumbawamba’s back catalogue. Surprising, with all the electro dance beats and punk shouting, how much they sounded like Chumbawamba, or put another way, how much of the punk sound survives in the acapella folk collective. Strange to listen to the ghost of rages past: who now remembers what the Alton Bill was, or what Paul McCartney did to upset them? In a way, I wish Nick Clegg could be subjected to that kind of fury. But the strategy of just poking fun at these ridiculous people is perhaps just as valid, more effective, and certainly more fun.
Phil Jupitus does a ventriloquists act in his “David Cameron” persona, with Nick Clegg as his puppet. "I like him sitting on my knee" says Dave "I like it best when he pisses down my leg. Feels nice and warm. I call it getting a Nick Leg." And then, to audience, "Nick Leg, you see. Nick Leg. Because his name's Nick Clegg".