LET'S RESTORE CELESTIAL LIGHT TO MEADOW, GROVE, STREAM, THE EARTH AND EVERY COMMON THING

For them that must obey authority

That they do not respect in any degree

Who despise their jobs, their destinies

Speak jealously of them that are free

Cultivate their flowers to be

Nothing more than something

They invest in....

David Cameron is going to restore discipline in schools.

"Restore." Fine word, "restore".

You might think that the "conservative" party would be the "leave things as they are" party; the "if it ain't broke don't fix it" party; the "even if it is broke it's got such a complex mechanism that fiddling with it will probably only make it worse" party.

But Cameron's Conservatives think that everything is broken, especially Britain, so everything has to be fixed. The "conservative" party is now the party of change. Time for a change, we can't go on like this, that black chappie in America kept banging on about change, and everyone liked him, for a few weeks, at least.

"Restore." There was a time when we had this thing called "discipline". Now, we do not have this thing called "discipline". Vote for us, and we will have this thing called "discipline" again. Vote Tory. Vote nostalgia. Vote golden age.

Even if you buy the idea that schools aren't as good as they used to be, then to talk about restoring "discipline" makes exactly the same amount of sense as talking about restoring "weather". Oh, we used to have so much more weather in the old days! But then the pinko liberals came along, and we don't have weather any more! But elect us, and we'll have just as much weather as we used to have in the old days! If school A gives every child who gets through the gates before 8.55 a jelly baby, and school B keeps every child who come through the gates after 9.01 in at playtime, then school A does not have more discipline than school B, any more than there is more weather on snowy days than on sunny days. School A and School B have different kinds of discipline, and -- depending on your philosophical prejudices -- you may prefer one kind to the other. If you shared my philosophical prejudices -- which are the right and correct philosophical prejudices -- then you would prefer School C which lets the kids arrive at whatever time they like doesn't have any punishments of any kind, makes everyone bathe naked in the brook and gets closed down after a ferocious lion and a mob of medieval knights rampages through it. But I rather doubt that my philosophical prejudices ought to be imposed on everybody by central government fiat. I rather think that parents, teachers and school governors should sort them out for themselves.

So how is Dave going to restore the lost golden age when children were well-behaved, summers were longer, women were braver and soldiers were more beautiful?

1: If a child is naughty, Teacher may say "I am going to keep you in after school tomorrow evening." Dave thinks that Teacher ought to be able to say "I am going to keep you in after school this evening."

2: If a child is very naughty indeed, Teacher may kick him out of school. But if his parents think that this was unfair, they can ask to have the incident looked at again by special "getting kicked out of school" tribunals, who may decide that Teacher over-reacted and let the child go back to school. Dave thinks it would be better if Teacher's decision were final.

3: Nearly all schools make children wear clothes of the same colour and with a badge of some sort on them. Dave thinks that the schools which don't do this kind of thing ought to start. Some schools give older pupils some responsibility to supervise younger ones. Dave thinks this is a good idea.

4: Teacher is worried that if he searches a child to see if he has brought bangers, catapults, pea shooters, flick knives or crack cocaine to school (or if he physically separates two children who are having a scuffle in the playground) he may be be accused of being a paedo by the child's parents, the News of the World, or the Strasburg Court of Human Rights. Dave thinks he shouldn't be.

These ideas appear to be

a: entirely non-controversial

b: trivial

c: non ideological and

d: not likely to do very much harm or very much good

It is actually quite cute that poshboy thinks that in the oikish state schools of broken Britain, feral drug crazed hoodies hold everyone to ransom with knives and guns -- but that if we made a rule that they had to wear blazers with the school motto on them they would

a: start wearing the damn blazers and

b: stop murdering each other.

I would have thought that point 3 was just the kind of "big government" micromanagement that Dave disapproves of. Some schools seem to do quite well with a uniforms and prefects ethos, and others to do equally well with counselling and soft furniture. Point 4 is tilting at windmills: the notion that a teacher can't pull two fighting boys apart because of newman rites and plitickle krectness is, I suspect, a fantasy, like the fantasy (which Gordon believes in) about schools abolishing football and netball because they are too competitive, or the fantasy (which Dave believe in) that teachers are not allowed to put sticking plaster on a grazed knee without filling out complex risk assessment paperwork.

Point 1 is more fun. I was at school in the idyllic days before "discipline" had been un-restored and when every episode of Doctor Who was scientifically accurate. We certainly had a rule that said you couldn't be given a detention without 24 hours notice, although it was more honoured in the breach than the observance. (Our psychotic headmaster reasoned you must have known that you were planning to be naughty when you set out for school in the morning, and should therefore have informed your mother of this over breakfast, and therefore had had your 24 hours notice.) But nowadays, few children live within walking distance of their school ("greater choice"); and no family can pay the mortgage without two parents in full time work ("joy as house prices go up for the tenth month in a row"); and few families are prepared to allow children to travel to school unaccompanied ("if you take your eye off him for one second he'll be eaten by the big bad venables"). So it would seem that Nanny does need 24 hours notice if Johnny is going to be late home, so she can rearrange the Chauffeur's schedule. Carers do need to know if their kids are going to be home at 4 o'clock or 5 o'clock.

Dave goes on and on and on about the child who was expelled from school for attacking someone with a knife, but reinstated by an appeals panel. I bet there were two sides to the story. It may even turn out that it's the kind of story that isn't literally true, in the same way that the banning of conkers and sticking plaster and netball and the Hitler Diaries were not literally true. But surely most people would agree that children and their parents have some kinds of rights? If it's reasonable for parents to fight and plead and appeal and campaign and move house in order to get their kid into "the best" state school then surely they've got some right of appeal if that kid is chucked out of the school they fought so hard to get him into?

Parents have a theoretical right to choose "the best" state school for their child; but state schools do not have the right to select pupils based on ability. (Except in Kent. Obviously.) This has made some people suspicious that some headmasters are using their right to expel (or "exclude") pupils, not so much as a punishment, but more as a sort of back door selection procedure: Jimmy got kicked out of school, not because he drew a dirty picture on the walls of the girls toilet, but because he's not very bright, speaks with a common accent, doesn't come from the right side of town and was going to get the sort of exam results that would bring our Average Grades right down. So some sort of appeals procedure would seem necessary on the ground of natural justice. It's all very well for Dave to say that headteachers should be captains of their own ship, but we don't want them sending the whole school off on a fruitless personal quest to exact revenge on the white whale, do we? Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Ask Tony.

This is, incidentally, why we could never go back to the good old caning days, however much contributors to the Daily Mail's comment section might salivate at the idea. You could probably still whip up some support for the idea of mild physical violence being part of the learning process. But since the 1980s, we've become very much less tolerant of arbitrary authority; and much more concerned about fairness and transparency. School punishments are summary punishments almost by definition -- and while we're probably prepared to put up with a miscarriage of justice which results in the offender spending a few minutes in the naughty corner, I don't think we're any longer be prepared to say that if Teacher decides to hit Johnny then Johnny should just accept it and be hit even if he didn't do anything wrong because Teacher is Teacher and therefore always right even when he isn't.

And this, I suspect, is what Dave really means by "discipline". He doesn't mean the various tricks of the trade that teachers use to secure an orderly classroom where they can teach a good lesson. He means the idea that in the Olden Days, we did what Teacher or Headmaster said up to and including letting them hurt us -- just because they were Teachers and Headmasters. Arbitrary authority. Knowing your place. You can see why someone who aspires to run the country would like the idea.

It may be even nastier than that. When they heard the news that call-me-Dave was going to restore discipline and go back to calling Snickers Marathon, the Nasty Mail ran an unfunny cartoon in which a teacher was installing all manner of ghoulish torture devices – the stocks, a rack, an iron maiden – in his office. Now, Nasty Mail readers don't actually think that naughty children ought to have spikes driven through their eyes. At least, I assume they don't. Had the cartoon appeared in the Guardian, the message would have been "Careful! Restoration of 'discipline' could so easily become a pretext for cruelty!" But Mac was clearly saying to Mail readers "Don't get your hopes up! This talk of 'discipline' won't go nearly as far as it ought to."

Two days later, the Nasty Mail dedicated it's front page to a story about a teacher who had, and I'm not making this up, beaten a child about the head with a heavy piece of weight training equipment, shouting "Die! Die! Die!" (This was deemed to be a bigger news item than the third and final Prime Ministerial debate, in which most people thought Dave had performed rather well.) Instead of locking him up and throwing away the key, which is what the Mail usually advises in these kinds of cases, the jury had decided to "free" the teacher concerned, which both the judge and the Nasty Mail described as a common sense decision.

Now, the Mail headline writers don't do "nuance" very well. What the judge felt was "a common sense" decision was convicting the Teacher of the very serious crime of "causing grievous bodily harm", but acquitting him of the very, very serious crime of "causing grievous bodily harm with intent." (That is: it was a criminal attack, but not a pre-meditated criminal attack.) He was "freed", not in the sense that the judge thought that breaking children's heads was not a serious offence; but in the sense that he felt that "time served" was sufficient punishment for the serious criminal offence he'd been convicted of. He also took into account the teacher's state of mind when he "went postal". It has to be said that the Nasty Mail isn't usually sympathetic to the idea of criminals getting lenient sentences because they are poorly rather than bad. They usually explain that we've gone soft on crime, political correctness gone mad, rebalance justice in favour of the victim, what about our human rights, bring back the rope, string em up. It is hard to avoid the sense that in this case they were beatifying the attacker and demonizing the victim because the one was a teacher and the other a pupil: in the good old days, when a teacher wanted to crack your skull open, you took it like a man and laughed about it with your mates in the playground afterwards. Of course a fundamentally decent teacher will, sooner or later, physically maim a pupil who has been told off several times in the last term, who is pretending to sword fight with a ruler and who uttered a word beginning with F that no Nasty Mail readers, and certainly no teacher in a comprehensive school, has ever heard uttered before. In the face of such overwhelming evil, how many of us wouldn't reach for the dumbbell?

Simon Heffer, writing in the Nasty Telegraph, made the point extremely succinctly:

Give tormented teachers the right to fight back...

Finally flipped and hit a particularly revolting offender....

The sorts of children who behave so badly often have parents who are little better than animals...

And that's the point, isn't it? We aren't talking about human beings who occasionally need to be re-orientated towards the straight and narrow with a clip round the ear or a whack on the backside. We aren't talking about being firm with young men so they grow up to be warriors and bankers. We are talking about a war situation; a war between Us, readers of the Nasty Mail and the Nasty Telegraph, and Them, the Chavs, the Oiks, the underclass, literally bestial, sub-human, feral, little better than animals. In the war against the sub-humans, it is perfectly reasonable for a teacher to want to indulge in violent retaliation. Mr Harvey's only offence was that he struck one of the morlocks rather too hard.

What Cameron proposes are some minor bureaucratic changes to the regulations about keeping naughty boys in at play time. (It's pathetic: really, really, pathetic.) But when he writes the word "discipline" in three foot high letters on poster hoardings, he intends his followers to hear: "the absolute, arbitrary power of teacher to use whatever means necessary in the war between you, your children, and the sub humans."

*

Everyone on the amusing comedy Prime Ministers debate agreed that Immigration was a bad thing, a problem, a thing that we need a solution to. And I'm shouting at the TV: "No! Immigration is a Good Thing! I live near St Pauls, I lived in Tooting Bec, I like the fact that that the Hindu Temple and the Salvation Army citadel are on the same street, I like the fact that I see women in Bristol wearing exotic Somali headwear, I am no more freaked by the lady who wears specs over her hijab than I am by the man with a pierced tongue or the guy in the gym with a tatoo on his arse – it seems weird to me but some of the stuff I do probably seems weird to them, it's really, really great that everyones different and I really, postively, genuinely, love it when I hear kids talking a mixture of British Asian and Brizzle ("where's Rashid to, innit?").

And everyone on the amusing comedy Prime Minister's Debate nodded sagely and said yes, discipline, discipline, that's what yes we need (they've all developed yes Tony's habit of putting the word "yes" in the middle of sentences) and I'm yes shouting at the TV, "No, we want less discipline, less rules, less arbitrary authority, less schooling, hardly any punishments, hardly any violence, hardly any coercion, happy kids, less literacy hours, less numeracy hours, no football unless you like football, more free time to read comic books."

And everyone on the amusing comedy Prime Minister's Debate agreed that in the middle of yes a really bad recession you had to coerce the unemployed into going to yes work because when shops and business are closing (Mrs yes Thatcher already closed all the factories, and, incidentally, David, she was the one who stopped teachers from hitting children) when shops are closing and people are being laid off then of course the main reason people are unemployed is because they are lazy and don't want to work. On your effing bike.

I am not a hard working family. I'm a lazy singleton. I don't believe in discipline. I like foreigners. I don't want anyone to be tough on criminals. I don't want to be tough on the unemployed. I don't want to be tough on anybody, and I certainly don't want anybody to tough on me. I want to vote for the Nice Party, but there isn't one. I am on no-one's side, because no-one is on my side.

Vote lizard, otherwise the wrong lizard might get elected.

"By God..."

When someone says that they don't like Furriners coming over here, then I am inclined to think that they have a problem with Furriners. The exact species of Furriner changes: it may be Polish people taking our jobs or Muslim people taking our Christmas decoration or Bleck people out breeding us (you know that they say about Bleck men) and causing us to concrete over this once green and pleasant land. Me have hobby, it called breeding, white man pay for baby feeding, remember?

The Nasty Press has spent the better part of the last decade winding Voters up. There are swamps, floods and swarms of furriners coming over here until the "indigenous" people are a minority in their own land. And stopping "us" from celebrating Christmas and consuming HP sauce. And getting lots and lots of freebies. A lady on Newsnight yesterday opined "A new person comes in they get everything their houses things like that you know they get new beds new you know like everything television TV licence paid for now and again you know like and basically what do we get?"

Anyone, in any country, at any time, might say "The law about residency, naturalisation, right of entry, political asylum, and the eligibility of foreign nationals to claim welfare says 'X', I think it should say 'Y', because...."And someone else might reply "On the contrary, I think it should say 'Z'." Technically and lexically, they would be "having a debate about immigration." It's certainly true that if you transfer 100 unemployed persons from Paris to London, that's 100 less people for France to worry about, and a 100 more for England to worry about, and England might reasonably enough have words to say to France on this subject.

But that's not what "having a debate on immigration" means, because that's not what immigration means. Immigration is a shout word, a code word, a whole bundle of confused ideas bundled up in four syllables. (Where are these people handing out beds to furriners but denying them to indigenous folk?)

So Gordon meets a Voter, who is doubtless a reader of the Nasty Press. (Mr. Prescott appears to think that the Nasty Press might have put her up to it.) "You can't say anything about immigrants," she says apparently forgetting that the Nasty Press have been going on and on about little else for year. "If you say that, you're...."

If you say what, Mrs Voter? What is it that you want to say about immigrants, and what is it that you fear will happen to you if do? I suppose it's possible that Mrs Voter felt that she couldn't say that Immigrants make a real and valuable contribution to the vibrancy of our culture but feared that if she did she would be called a pinko by the Nasty Press. But I don't think that was what she had in mind. I don't think that was what she had in mind at all.

Inexplicably, Gordon Brown chooses to fight an election on terms which have been set by the Nasty Press, as if getting positive coverage from wierdo hang em flog em expatriates was possible or desirable. Maybe he really, really still believes that The Sun Backed Blair because The Sun had undergone a sudden conversion to Socialism, and is hurt and confused because lovely, lovely, Rupert has turned against him. He's not the first person to make off-record comments into a live mic. John Major described his colleagues as bastards. Tony grovelled to that nasty Texan thicko. It really, really, really, isn't news that politicians say one thing to peoples faces and another thing behind their backs. It's called "good manners". (And it really, really isn't sensible for John Prescott to say that broadcasting an off-record remark by the P.M is on the same level has hacking private phone conversations.)

The big question is this. Why does Gordon dance to Rupert's tune and spend an hour and a half apologizing? How is it that his first instinct once he starts running scared of the Libdems is to start accusing them of being "soft" -- soft (that is, liberal, progressive) on crime; soft (that is, liberal progressive) on nuclear weapons; soft (that is, liberal, progressive) on immigration? How is it that the only policy that the left wing party can think of is to look as nasty and right wing as possible?

I'm fine with him saying rude things about voters behind their back. I'm particularly fine with him saying rude things about the kind of voter who would like to say nasty things about furriners but feels she can't cos of plickle krecness. But when he gets caught out he should damn well have the decency to say that he called Mrs Voter a bigot because that's what he thought she was.

NOTE: He says that he called Mrs Voter a bigot because he had misheard something she had said. Does anyone want to look at the transcript and tell me what it was that he thought she had said?

Will Kaufman

Jazz@FutureInns Bristol

24 April

Woody Guthrie was Bob Dylan's last idol. For me he was more of an acquired taste. I picked up an album called something like The Very, Very Greatest Songs of Woody Guthrie and Several Other Rather More Obscure Ones as Well on Bob's recommendation. When I popped it on the CD player (this was before iPods) my first reaction was: "oh, a cowboy singer". I found the music and the accent slightly squeamish and embarrassing. Tastes change; Guthrie can be corny and sentimental; most anthologies insist on including things like "Put My Little Shoes Away", "A Picture From Life's Other Side" and the unforgivable "Goodnight Li'l Arlo" which don't show him in the best light. Even some of the wartime songs can seem a bit astringent by modern standards. "We'll kill the axis rattlesnake and thieves of old Nippon", indeed. Aren't folksingers meant to be about peace and love? Guthrie, of course, painted "This machine kills fascists" on his guitar. Pete Seeger preferred "This machine surrounds hatred and forces it to surrender."

But you can't listen to Woody Guthrie for very long without coming to see why he is revered, canonized, even deified not only by American folksingers but by singers all round the world. Everyone knows Bob Dylan's long monologue about how, in the end, you either turn to God or you turn to Woody Guthrie; but Dylan's tongue-tied introduction to the piece is, in a lot of way, more moving than the poem itself. ("But Woody...is really somethin' more than a folksinger.") I think that we British have been taught that we have to choose between patriotism on the one hand and left-wing or radical politics on the other: that the Union Jack inherently belongs to the Conservative Party (if not the BNP) and if you are a liberal it's your duty to stay in your seat during the National Anthem. What knocks me out is the way that Woody can support the trade unions, identify with the working man, hate the cops, the bankers, the lawyers and the rich men while all the time continuing to love the United States: this land is my land. I don't think that there has ever been, or ever could be, a British equivilent of Grand Coulee Dam, probably my single favourite song by any performer. There's the deep love and affinity for place and landscape alongside a triumphant enthusiasm for the wonders of modern industry; like a good Marxist, he treats the farmers and the factory workers as the real heroes, but puts all that alongside a deep affection for good old Uncle Sam and his battle against the Nazis -- and wraps it all up in a catchy old tune about a steam train. "Now in Washington and Oregon you can hear the factories hum / Making chrome and making manganese and light aluminum / And there roars the flying fortress now to fight for Uncle Sam / Spawned upon the King Columbia by the big Grand Coulee Dam."

Will Kaufman's is both an academic (Professor of American culture at the University of Central Lancashire) and a mean guitarist and singer. He describes his show "Hard Times and Hard Travellin' " as a "live documentary". There's a slide show; there's a lot of talk about Guthrie's life story; and there's also a lot of singing. Kaufman concentrates on the early part of Woody Guthrie's career – the time of the depression and the dust bowl migration, finishing with the composition of "This Land" in 1940. He provides a lot of historical back-story: the opening section about Coolidge, Hoover and Roosevelt and their varying degrees of culpability and attempts to cope with the Great Depression was invaluable for those of us whose teachers inexplicably skipped the chapter on early 20th century American history. He has a relaxed style; with well rehearsed one-liners and a deep knowledge of the subject. He's slightly apologetic about talking about American political history on Saturday night in a jazz club, but although I learned a great deal, I never felt that I was being lectured at. A lot of the time, he feels more like a story-teller than an academic speaker.

He spends a good deal of time on the appalling story (new to me) of Joe Hill, the radical song writer who was framed for murder and executed because of his revolutionary views, and performs a powerful rendition of The Preacher and the Slave ("Pie in the Sky"), Hill's most famous song. Sung in it's original form, it's an absolutely vicious bit of political satire, which Kaufman argues was a model for a lot of Woody Guthrie's political music: humour, catchy tunes, and instantly memorable political slogans.

I had entirely failed to realise how many of Woody Guthrie's songs were responses to or direct parodies of the popular music of his day. The great migrant anthem, "I ain't got no home in this world any more" is (obviously, now I come to think about it) a parody of pious hymns which tell the faithful that "this world is not my home / I'm only passing through". I've heard "If you ain't got the do-re-mi" a hundred times without understanding the specific context. (The California police and thrown up an entirely unconstitutional road block along the state line, and were ruling that any migrant who didn't have at least $50 was unemployable, and turning them back.)

Rather sensibly, Kaufman makes no attempt to impersonate Woody Guthrie: he's singing his own versions of the songs. I perhaps didn't agree with all his renditions – I'll stick with Guthrie's own jaunty, melodic version of Do-Re-Me over Kaufman's more bluesy version. But a lot of his songs are absolute eye-openers. He does a trio of songs about outlaws, finishing with a brilliant, finger picking banjo version of Guthrie's great ballad of Jesus Christ – complete with a rather pointed attempt to make the word "coward" rhyme with "Iscariot". It's a fine old melody, of course, but Kaufman really conveys the fire in Guthrie's Marxist Jesus. The story finishes, as it has to, with "This Land Is Your Land" – except that Kaufman chooses to sing the words from Guthrie's original manuscript, when the refrain was "God Blessed America For Me" -- a riposte to Irving Berlin's syrupy "God Bless America" -- an angry, ironic protest song. It's an astonishing, in-you-face restoration of a too-familiar piece; quite worth the price of admission by itself.

During a brief Q & A I asked if Guthrie was likely to have read The Grapes of Wrath – Kaufman had said that he spent more time in libraries and was better educated than he liked to pretend. The answer is that no-one really knows, but I was rewarded with a performance of the long and brilliant Ballad of Tom Joad, which summarizes Steinbeck's novel (or, arguably, John Ford's movie) in a dozen verses. "Wherever little children are hungry and starve / Wherever people ain't free / Wherever people are fightin' for their rights / That's where I'm gonna be, ma / That's where I'm gonna be."

Quite an evening. Prof. Kaufman seems to do this show all round the country (and there's a second part specifically about Guthrie as an anti-racist campaigner). If you get a chance to hear it, grab the opportunity with both hands.

A paradox, a paradox, a most ingenious paradox

In Episode 1, the Doctor lost his sonic screwdriver, but the TARDIS made him a new one, with a different design.

But, but, but, in Silence in the Library, it turned out the Doctor had given / will give the screwdriver to Mrs. Who at some point in the future (and it was the same screwdrive, and had the emergency backup of Mrs. Who on it, and everything.)

Today is the feast of St George, patron saint of Boy Scouts, Portugal, and People With Skin Diseases

....please stand for the National Anthem:

P.S Happy birthday birthday Will.

Olden Days

Martin Simpson

Folk House, Bristol

3 April

You know that bit, just before the last song of the first set, when the performer mentions that there are copies of his latest CD on sale at the front? Tonight, Martin Simpson used that space to point out that we are all agreed that all the politicians on all sides have, this time around, been more corrupt, useless and dishonest than ever before, that it is incredibly tempting to say that they are all the same, but that people died to get us the right to vote, and that if we don't use our votes on May 6th there is a real danger that the BNP will get in.

I don't necessarily share all their politics or all their religious views. But over the last few weeks I've increasingly felt that old guys with guitars in poky little venues are the only people left who talk my language.

There is a rumour going around that the BBC are going to rename the Radio 3 Folk Awards "The Martin Simpson Awards". This year he was nominated for Best Singer, Best Musician, Best Song (twice), Best Traditional Song and Best Album.

Quite unaccountably, the actual prize for best song went to Show of Hands' obvious bit of ranting about not liking politicians and bankers very much, rather than to "One Day", Mr Simpson's hauntingly delicate song of grief and healing. Simpson's songs have an absolute knack of changing direction half-way through: almost like a well wrought joke, except that the result is tears, rather than laughter. His most famous song "Never Any Good" (winner, Best Song, 2008) appears to spend six stanzas writing his his father off as a wastrel, before suddenly revealing how much he owes to him in the final stanza. (Come to think of it, the lyric doesn't identify who the song is about until the penultimate verse, where it is revealed almost in passing: "If you had been a practical man / You would have been forewarned / You would have seen that it never would work / And I would have never been born".) "One Day" takes this a stage further. As he explains it, his friend Martin Taylor wrote the opening, heart-breaking stanza's about the suicide of his son Stewart. Taylor wrote "You rode like a king and you sung like an angel / but it brought you no pleasure, it brought you no joy" and Simpson turns the song round with the inspirational "One day I'll hear hoof beats and not grieve for the rider / and the songs that you sung will bring peace and not pain." He absolutely proves the old rule that the most specific is also the most universal: a song full of reference to gypsy customs and snatches of Romany language, it will speak to anyone who has ever lost a loved one.

Although the new album is called "True Stories", Simpson isn't really a story teller in the way that Chris Wood and Martin Carthy are: these are songs expressing feelings and (very often) places.

I think this gig was the first time I've properly understood what it is he does with his guitar: over and over again his hands are playing a different tune to the one his mouth is singing. Counter-melody is probably the polite term. Which is, I imagine, physically very difficult to do. He doesn't have the world's greatest singing voice: the complexity of the guitar and voice arrangement is greater than the sum of its parts. Louise said that it often sounds as if there are two guitarists playing together.

The set contains a good mix of his American bluesy material English traddy stuff and his own songs. I have to say I'm not convinced by his Patrick Spens (which actually did win the award for Best Traditional Track) but that may be because I prefer June Tabor's versions of practically everything on general principles.

He finishes with two pieces on an electric banjo, complimenting the audience for not running from the room when such a monstrous device appears. Everyone agrees that Stag-o-lee was, all things considered, a Bad Man. Woody Guthrie has him hanged, where Peter Seeger has him going to the electric chair, but Martin tells us that "Stag-o-lee shot Billy in eighteen ninety five / Billy's in the grave yard, but Stag-o-lee's still alive" which is both a better line and closer to what actually happened.

I believe that if you are a proper French Gourmet, the correct answer to the question "What was the best meal you ever ate" is "The last one." I am told by people who know that Martin Simpson is one of the greatest acoustics guitarists in the world; I think he's certainly the best musician I have heard.

Oh, and he sings "Come Down Jehovah" better than Chris Wood does. Sorry, but it's

true.

P.S

Which reminds me. Chris Wood complained about sound engineers who play unrelated CDs before and after the main act comes on. So was there some obscure ironic vengeance in Mr Wood's raucous Cold Hard Haily Night blaring out over the PA only a few seconds after Martin's delicate encore of Boots of Spanish Leather had faded away?

Robin Williamson & John Renbourne

South Bank Club, Bristol

12 April

After Dylan, the Incredible String Band's "Big Huge" was the first folk album I bought. The first bars of Maya bowled me over with their overwhelming strangeness; self indulgent, certainly, fey, possibly; long rambling songs which contain several different melodies; lyrics which make no sense at all and one track that lasts exactly 20 seconds. Yet it all seemed to hang together in some kind of vision. All very child-like and English: where John Lennon's controlling muse was Alice in Wonderland, theirs was clearly Winnie the Pooh.

So while the Band itself are (I believe) not on speaking terms, I feel incredibly –seriously– privileged to have heard Robin Williamson perform live on three separate occasions. He has matured from the archetypal hippie to the archetypal ageing hippie, in an entirely positive way: white beard, long hair, wise, whimsical, charismatic, yarn-spinning, the chief bard of the order of celtic-something or other. His primary instrument is the harp; but in the course of the evening, he also pulls out a recorder, a whistle, a mandolin, and does some drumming. John Renbourne, an equally venerable 60s veteran, sits to his right, looking like your slightly bemused grandfather, doing his guitar thing content in the knowledge that he invented jazz folk (arguably) and doesn't need to show off.

There was a minor glitch at the venue. Everyone marched into the downstairs bar where the music usually happens, and found that this time things were being set up in the upstairs bar, which wasn't quite ready. This had the neat effect that the people who arrived first had the last choice of seats. Two of the haven't-been-to-a-concert-in-years fraternity kept opining that this was a poor show given how much we paid for the tickets. (Two members of the same club became rather agitated at the Martin Simpson gig because the venue's doors remained closed until the, er, "doors open" time.) I refrained from saying that the really surprising thing was that one could get into the presence of these demigods for less than fifteen pounds. I mean, seriously. Does Bob Dylan play church halls in Southville? Next month, the Colston Hall will be asking £40 to hear Don McClean. (I thought American Pie was a clever song until I heard Desolation Row and realised where it came from. Forty pounds!)

They start with a long blues number, Sometimes I Just Can't Keep From Crying. Then John Renbourne picks out a long, delicate instrumental which becomes a tub thumping gospel song. He and Robin Williamson sing together. They are arguably not singing quite the same tune, but it doesn't really matter. "Thank God I can sing this song of his love / I know some day I'll be singing above." The last time I heard Robin, it was in the basement (one could hardly say crypt) of an evangelical church in Clifton. He seems to be one of those hippies who takes a little of this and a little bit of that from the different religions of the world, as happy singing "Keep to the sunny side of life" as something all Celtic and mystical. Or maybe he can just enter into the spirit of whatever song he happens to be singing. Later on, they do a country and western number called something like "You keep me stoned on your love baby" which Robin described as corny and mawkish and sang without a trace of irony. He tells us that Bob Dylan once described the Incredible String Band as "quite good" and then sings "Where are you tonight, sweet Marie" on his harp. I don't know whether it was intended as a send up of Dylan, or whether slowing down and articulating the words simply allows us to see what funny, witty lyrics the master wrote. John did "Lord Franklin" (which, as we all now know, mutated into Bob Dylan's Dream) sounding unbelievably sad and unbelievably ancient. Robin told us that real life cowboys were nothing like John Wayne, but more likely to have been Mexicans or Irishman, and then did an arrestingly different version of Buffalo Skinners, which he thinks probably gives an accurate picture of what cowboy life was like: "Well then our season ended and the drover would not pay / You've ate and drunk too much, you are all in debt to me." A strange artefact; a bluesy version of a song more associated with the Oakie tones of Woody Guthrie, accompanied by an ethereal harp. It works.

We finished on some daft Irish musical hall whimsy. Robin is enjoying himself so much that he sings the last verse twice, and the audience join in the chorus. "Her lips were like the roses / Her hair was raven hue / By the time that she was finished / She had me ravin' too." He relishes the daftness; the cod Irish accent; the silly jokes. Yet there is no incongruity of going from heavy blues (he loves to play blues on an actual harp, instead of a "blues harp") and "Buckets of Rain" to wondering where on earth the blarny roses grow. This song, just as much as the hymn or the country ballad, is worthy of his respect.

He said that the man who made his steel whistle was the closes thing he'd even met to a Hobbit; yet it was hard to avoid thinking that this old, bearded, whimsical, wise hippy was the nearest thing you'd ever seen to a leprachaun.

Godlike. No, seriously: God like. And for fourteen quid.

Jim Moray

Jazz@Future Inns, Bristol

April 14

"This is a song about beating your sister to death with a stick and throwing her body in a river".

Last week, Martin Simpson told us the story about how a young man met two sisters and gave the younger a gay gold ring (and didn't give the elder anything). This week, Jim Moray tells us how a younger sister was given a beaver hat (the elder sister, she didn't like that). In the first version, once the younger sister had been murdered by her jealous sibling her body is fished from the river by a miller, whereupon "a fiddling fool" cuts up her body and turns it into a violin, as you do. "But the only song that fiddle would play was 'oh, the dreadful wind and the rain' ". (Martin Carthy does a version in which the ghoulish instrument, more helpfully, identified the older sister as the murderer.) In Jim's version, the dead girl floats down the river. The miller fishes her out. And then he takes the rings off her fingers, and throws her in again.

There is probably some kind of a message here, both about millers and about folk songs.

The first time I heard Jim Moray (at the Folk on the Oak festival) I was a little underwhelmed: he seemed to to be singing a lot of old standards which hardly any one else would touch (Barbara Allen; Early One Morning) with electrical beats which mostly drowned out his voice. However once I'd listened to his albums, especially the superlative Low Culture, I decided that I had totally misjudged him. He has a sweet singing voice and uses a range of electronic sounds to put genuinely clever twists on (mostly) familiar old songs. Not all of it works, but when it fails to work it fails to work interestingly. ("Lucy Wan" is a charming folk song about incest and murder; the Daily Mail complain a lot about how nasty black people's music is violent; so the notion of alternating the traditional verses of the song with a modern, how you say, hip hop interpretation of the same story is extremely clever, even if I don't care to listen to it very much.)

So I was decidedly intrigued to hear that he was doing a purely acoustic set – grand piano and guitar only – in the Jazz club beneath the hotel in the new shopping centre.

He certainly knows and cares about his folk music, and, to my untrained ear, he can play the piano very well and the guitar well enough. He opens on the piano with a rather good Dives and Lazarus ; his plinky plonky guitar version of the Raggle Taggle Gypsies had Martin Carthy written all over it. The more raucus songs survive the acoustic treatment best. Lord Willougby is loud and dramatic (the recorded version depends mainly on Jim's keyboard, I think); and he makes Oh Don't Deceive Me, Lord Never Leave Me sound almost sinister in such a way as to banish all memories of Frank Spencer! He seems like a nice, self effacing chap – and frankly, he's a big enough "name" that he doesn't need to be playing this tiny venue – but has no real stage presence or "patter". Some of the songs outstay their welcome: Lord Bateman can seem interminable at the best of times.

On record, he has a rather interesting voice – words like "cheeky", "naive", "boyish" and "innocent" all entirely fail to describe it. Tonight he was, I think, getting over a cold: that thing where your voice changes from low to high half way through the line was probably happening more than he meant it to. On the CD, "Gilderoy" is a really, really, poignant ballad: listen to that giggle or twinkle he puts into the word "rakish" in the line "he's such a rakish boy". He carried the song off well enough on the piano tonight, but that detail didn't seem to come across.

All credit to the guy: his massive reputation depends on sticking two fingers up at sacred cows and singing Early One Morning with a drum machine, but he's still prepared to come to a venue that seats 50 and let his songs and his pleasant voice speak for themselves. He's not a natural story teller like Martin Carthy or Chris Wood and he's not a brilliant musician like Martin Simpson. He his, however a man with an absolute genius for iconoclastic recordings of familiar songs. And Low Culture is a superlatively brilliant album.

Mawkin: Causley

Theatre Royal Bath

April 16th

Mawkin: Causley is the result of a coalition between Mawkin, a folk instrumental band, and Jim Causley, a folksinger. They have been described as a folk boy band, and there is certainly a general sense of boyish naughtiness in evidence: a sort of camp rivalry between band and singer. You never quite forget that this is a team up between two acts, rather than a single entity. ("I wrote this song," says Jim "And then I gave it to Makwin, and they did what they always do..." "Yeah," says the guitarist "We threw it in the bin.")

There's a pleasant variety to the evening: Brothers Dave and James Delarre (who say they learnt their trade as buskers) do a guitar and violin set together; the whole of Mawkin does a set of hornpipes without Causley; Jim straps on a piano accordion and sings a comedy song with Alexander Goldsmith, the real squeeze box expert. (I was aware of the song which warns young married men about the dreadful consequences of allowing German musicianers to tune their wives' pianos, but I hadn't heard this one, in which a German clock winder winds up a married ladies clock. What is it about these Germans?) And no-one can restrain Jim from taking to the stage by himself to recite, with voices, Roahld Dahl's version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. You can honestly only get away with this kind of self-indulgence if your music is stunningly good.

Which it is.

There are some weird musical jokes. The traditional North Eastern song "Greenlanders" is presented in a cod Spanish arrangement – because Dave once met some Geordies on the Costa Del Sol. (The Greenlanders were Geordie miners who spent the winter on whaling ships. "I know that's not very popular nowadays, catching whales," says Jim. "But it's better than catching crabs.") But mostly it's just clever, beguiling arrangements. The absolute stand out is "Jim Jones in Botany Bay". The band create a complicated changing sound scape around the piece, particularly notable for Dave using the guitar almost as a percussion instrument. ("A bit like Voodoo Child" he says, which leaves me unenlightened.) But the arrangement never seems to swamp the original song -- although perhaps Jim can't quite do "angry" in the way that the last stanza requires.

One bijou problem, by the way, is acoustic: in the songs where the whole enemble is together and Mawkin are getting into the groove it can be quite hard to hear Jim's voice over the instrumental; which doesn't matter too much in something like The Cutty Wren -- which is more or less giberrish anyway -- but a bit of a shame in something like George's Son which has a good story to tell.

If the Radio 3 people had followed my plan and given Martin Simpson the prize for "Best New Foksong" then they could have given Mawkin: Causley the "best traditional track" prize for "The Cutty Wren". I don't think anyone knows precisely what the song means, although it has something to do with the Peasants' Revolt, but this arrangement manages to make the repetitive lyrics positively sinister. Jim confides that one day when he sings "oh where are you going said Milder to Molder" it's going to come out as "said Mulder to Scully".

Jim's introductions take the mickey out of all his songs – and out of other singers, and folk music scene in general. ("Some other, more...mature...singers on the folk scene also take a long time to tune their guitars.") Yet he knows where his traditional songs were collected, and the one song he wrote himself ("The Keeper of the Game") is derived from a volume of Anglo Saxon riddles that he just happened to be reading. Given the subject matter, Mawkin naturally decided that the arrangement should have a reggae vibe about it. There is something self consciously over the top about the performance, which tempts one to say "camp" -- as if they are trying to put the songs in quotation marks. But it's less showy and anarchic than Bellowhead. Jim apologizes for the number of depressing songs he's singing: the little drummer boy who dies at Waterloo; the soldier singing about all the places he's seen action – which actually turn out to be the names of London pubs and brothels; the psychotic sea captain who has killed his entire family and means to starve the passengers on their way to Americee. But in fact it's a funny, joyful, sing-a-long evening. They finish with a drinking song ("Let union be with all it's fun / For we will join our hearts in one") and then top it by doing "Cropper Lads" as an encore. There is a huge sense that the band is having a good time and sharing it with the audience.