Time Stands Still in Beduff*

       It was chilly inside and out, at Bedworth RFC last night, for a Festival Fund Raiser. But all of us were warmed in turn, by the material being performed there. Particularly during an absorbing second half from Carole Palmer and Maria Barham.  I was delighted to hear them perform three of my favourites from their extensive set lists: "Geordie" their own "Still Falling," and a splendidly warm version of the spine-tingling "Caledonia." I introduced these two as part of a show I hosted  at Bedworth Folk Festival last November. Their singing and guitar playing is always excellent, their patter between numbers is relaxed and  sprinkled with a natural good humour. They appear to be having a good time. (You can use this for your next Press Release, Maria). I love the way Maria cheerfully thrashes her scarf around,seems to select plectra (is that a word) on a colour basis only, and occasionally admits without a trace of shame to using "my cheating capo."  (I though this was a Hank Williams song, but Arnold says not).

    There are lots of fellow-songwriters out there in Folkland  but I really respect Carole. There aren't many lyricists who make me shake my head at their skill, or smile at the the cleverness or irony of their words woven into their songs. I hope Carole won't mind me saying that she's the sort of songwriter you wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of. She has an almost Adele-like skill for stringing together pictures of people who seem to have got to her. I could be imagining this-they could be entirely fictional, but they get me building pictures, and that is the art of a wordsmith-Ouch!  The tunes aren't half bad, either!  Maria's guitar playing and singing are by turns thoughtful and energetic. She's never still and one day she'll take someone's head off with that swinging guitar neck.   She's versatile, too. We had a Bazouki and a flute solo from her last night!  Delighted that they will be joining us for Shackerstone Beer Festival in June, along with a few other Beduff regulars.

      Other interesting and entertaining spots first half  came from  "Up The Boro" Joe, Hosts Malc Gurnham and Gill Gilsenan (with David Parr),  Peter Kelly, Sheila Moseley, Emma Langford, and Dave Fry. Oh, and two thirds of Black Parrot Seaside. Our other third was off somewhere hunting Messerschmitts.( He's not an ex-WW 2 RAF pilot, type, just fond of 1960's light cars).  We started our own little cameo with one of (several!)  versions of "What a Folking Liberty," and as always happens with a Bedduff audience, they took it completely in the spirit intended. Buoyed by that reaction (and restricted to two only) we finished with " Albert Balls," a song so appreciated by Bedduff audiences that they know the words better than we do.

     Amongst Dave's numbers were a very nice Jon Harvison song which I've heard him do elsewhere, and The Strawbs "Part of The Union."  Dave didn't see me using my mobile during the Jon Harvison song because generally he keeps his eyes closed when he's singing! But for the record, I wasn't distracted or being impolite-I was making a note of the song, so that I could look it up later. (Still searching- it has a lovely chorus line of "one sky one moon one love.") Similarly, Maria and Carole might also have spotted me weeping during the second half. I cannot lie:it wasn't that I was overcome by their performance-it was an incubating eye infection. I'm on antibiotics for that now, so hopefully not too much crying at the next gig unless I get my finger trapped in a music stand? 

    Dave also got the audience singing along to that Strawbs song. Now, I must confess that when it came out around 1973, I wasn't entirely comfortable with it. Nor was I later taken with the way Right Wing elements and the media hijacked it to use it as part of their campaigns to denigrate Trade Unionism.  I'm sure The Strawbs didn't intend that. Indeed,  I wrote a response song to it called "Salt Of The Earth. " We still do it occasionally-it is on our 2008 CD. I'll explain it later for those who don't "get" it.

     Unbelievably, Arnold won yet another bottle of wine in interval  Raffle, to add to his already groaning cellars. I won nowt,( plus ca change!). Maria was gutted to miss out on yet another glitzy bag.  Other points of interest beyond the music were the odd revolving chairs (part of just too much furniture generally!), a spat between Malc and Gilly over some posters, the  the clock still working but permanently stuck at five minutes to three* and the team sheets for next Saturda,y outside on the Rugby Club Noticeboard. 

  

      In May we return to this venue to share a night of madness with another chum, Bill Bates. Malc was bigging this up last night as potentially being "mayhem" with a Comedy only theme, including Floor Spots. He wasn't just referring to our false starts,memory lapses,shock endings  or unrehearsed key changes either. Both Bill and ourselves are erudite and witty songwriters (he told me to write that) but we have been known to do a few serious songs, too. We shall see what eventually transpires. Should be a laugh though. May 22nd I believe.

Folk Club Etiquette: "Floor Spots"

         A recent Facebook thread made me think about this. I wanted to reply to the particular post  in depth, but Facebook doesn't really offer much of an opportunity to develop a debate or shape a coherent argument.  By setting out my own thoughts here and providing a link, via Facebook, to them, I can hopefully offer another perspective.

      If I read it correctly, there is a suggestion in the Facebook thread  that some kind of musical apartheid is being exercised by some Clubs and/or presenters/venues. However, most Clubs and venues are friendly, opening and welcoming.  A few may slip occasionally into bad habits, but that is a rarity in my experience. A handful are occasionally downright hostile to "incomers" (as they see it), and a tiny,tiny  minority of venues seem to exist only as the personal possession of one or two self-obsessed Luvvies. Who only seem to see it as a vehicle for their own ego(s). (Avoid!)

    Here's the first of two  declared interests. At least two of the current members of the Black Parrot Seaside line-up have run successful Folk Clubs in the past. It was bloody hard work, and I admire anyone who has the commitment to do so now. Not so long ago, we almost clinched the opportunity to host a third one. It would have been in a prestigious and well-appointed venue in a big city, working in partnership with another well-known and respected Midlands Folk Act.  I really regret missing out on that. Given the right opportunity I'd certainly have another go at running one. But it's not for the faint hearted. 

       Because to run one requires a thick skin, a genuine love of the genre, an appetite for hard work, a personality, a highly-developed sense of fairness, and (in the best ones), a visible  determination to provide a balanced and eclectic mix of music for their audience. Providing material they can enjoy and reflect upon. From established performers, and less well-known ones.  That sort of mix is essential. For if newcomers and late returners are never given a chance to try out their skills somewhere-then where else are they going to do it? Listen to the life stories of John Martyn,John Renbourne, Roy Harper, Nic Jones, Ralph McTell,Maddy Prior Jackie McShee et al-they all started out nervous, shy, experimental, and raw. Broad-minded Folk Club hosts gave them a step up, tolerated their imperfections and encouraged them. Result!

  

       Here's a second declared interest.  I have played loads of venues so I have witnessed the very best (and the worst?) of what Folk, Blues, and Acoustic Clubs have to offer. In most of them, there exists  an unwritten etiquette. It extends across when and how to leave the room for toilet or refreshment purposes. It embraces an accepted but reasonable amount of affectionate heckling. There is a generally accepted audience (and performer) code of not talking over quiet songs, sensible chorus singing, not pinching others' material, and joining in politely with fund raising activities. The protocol also extends to how an Organiser compiles a guest list, and prior arrangements over floor spots. A few organisers operate an " Oh just turn up" policy. Whilst the democratic loveliness of that is endearing and useful, if not properly controlled, it can very occasionally descend into chaos!

      A popular and well-established club will always have a dilemma which is  a veritable double edged sword. They will find that they will regularly have more artistes wishing to perform "floor spots" than they can possibly accommodate. Here is where real skill and vision are required. The easy solution is to give all the spots to your mates. But audiences will soon spot that, and tire of it. Another part solution is to insist on pre-booking. There is an element of equality about this which is appealing. It means that some bigshot who has a night off from their 96 venue national Tour cannot suddenly swagger in and bully those who have pre-booked off the stage. But what happens if you are so popular you cannot accommodate even all the pre-bookers?

     Well, the answer is that then you really have to prioritise! Which unfortunately, will mean disappointment for some.  I've had that work against me, and it hurts. But you just have to bite your lip and accept it, I'm afraid. Especially if you want to return to that particular venue. It seems to me reasonable that if the Hosts are going to put in all the groundwork beforehand, we performers just have to go with their final judgement.  Is this disappointment a bar, or a ban, or exclusion? No,  I don't think so. The best organisers will attempt balance as they prioritise, putting together a programme which they hope will sustain the interest of an audience of many tastes. The best combination is a  mix of traditional and contemporary. Regulars and newcomers. 

     Finally, almost every Folk Club and music venue I know encourages what is basically Performance Art. It is very much in their own interests to do so. They will join in a dialogue with performers, discuss potential "gigs" and floorspots, and always reply to correspondence. I can think of only two who seem to feel they are too "big" to do so. They are in fact, very much the exception to the rule and are just plain ignorant. Write them off, prospective performer. View if very much as their loss.

   

Senile Pervitude?

       I  had some very  complimentary feedback about the descriptive scene-setting  leading readers to the venue featured in the last Blog entry. So I'll start this one by attempting the same sort of flowery build-up. Indulge me.  It is, after all, quite rare for a Folkie to sing in two consecutive venues which bear so much relevance to his own family history.

      Yesterday saw a cold  Sunday night with a light February frost just forming on the hedgerows. Moonlight flooded the deserted country lanes of North East Warwickshire, yet not a vehicle did I see on my solitary drive across the minor hills of Withybrook and Cloudesley. Not even a glimpse of a ghostly Roman Legion, as I crossed the deserted Fosse Way. Then the  giant silhouette of a large sandstone church suddenly emerged from the gloom,and there was  where my Great Grandfather, William, married Maria Whitmore. On the 12th June 1878, to be precise.  Without that event, I would not be on my way to sing there, or anywhere else.

      Where was I? Monk's Kirby. The Bell Inn, to be precise. Privileged to be invited again to be a "Friend" of The Sly Old Dogs-that fluid musical ensemble who entertain a sizeable and knowledgeable audience each month. Not yet a SOD myself, I remain more a Crafty Old Squirrel. Although that does not reduce down to a mildly rude acronym. (Perhaps Blindly Unstable Mole might be better?).

       Quite unique (to my knowledge), here the Guvn'or, Paco,comes out from behind the bar occasionally and joins in. The only other place I ever recall that happening was whilst The Parrot were perfoming at The Golden Cross, Coventry, in our Rock Band days. In the middle of a simulated fight sequence, the landlord misunderstood the symbolism of that singalong classic "Small Maladjusted and Mean." As I was mock-attacking our drummer, he gamely vaulted the bar, armed with a baseball bat. He also  let his Doberman loose. It made for a memorable night.

     Generally, Paco just plays the spoons. Which is much safer. Last  night, he also demonstrated an astonishing singing voice with a haunting Spanish ballad.  Frankly, that blew away both audience and musicians for a while. Tremendous stuff. How kind of him to later tell me I had "a beautiful voice." Praise indeed. I am not worthy,Paco. 

    These nights with The SODS provide me with a useful opportunity to keep what limited unaccompanied singing skills I have, maintained. And I am also able to experiment with BPS different material old and new. There is always a talented group of musicians here, who can turn their styles and instrumentation to many genres. And SODs' audiences love to belt out choruses. This applies to well loved traditional songs and more contemporary material. Fired with this knowledge I chose bravely to begin my own contribution by airing that dying art (it seems), the Sea Shanty.

     " Santy Anna " was part of our original repertoire when we ran The Bulls Head Folk Club at Brinklow. It doesn't get out much now. I remember its last outing involved me frightening an audience with it at one of the now defunct Miner's Arms Acoustic Nights, a few years ago. Shanties nowadays seem to be the Trainspotters of Folk Music. Mumford and Sons or Bellowhead they ain't .  I still love 'em, but they are not to everyone's taste.  One hundred miles in any direction from the nearest coast, it seemed somehow appropriate. So we plodded on resolutely, from Liverpool to Cape Horn and back, without hardly getting wet.

      In the second of three halves (!!),  I performed another well known Olde English Folke Song. There are two versions of " On Bedduff Bank."  The cleaned-up CD version and the "Live" one. Which features a rude and defamatory verse describing pretty well every significant Warwickshire town. (Actually, I left the Leamington verse out last night, just in case we had any Estate Agents or solicitors in).  

   Encouraged by a very positive response to that, I finished my evening's contribution with another shot at "Black Velvet Band". Another track from our "Aint' It Grand!" album, yet one which I'd b****ered up there last month.  I have yet to come across an audience who bang out BVB choruses with quite such enthusiasm and volume. Last month, I was so overcome by the quality of the musical accompaniment, that I actually started listening to it, rather than concentrating on the word flow. Maybe I got away with mixing the verses up then? Last night was better, although I confess to a dreadful Spoonerism in the penultimate "custodial" verse.

" Oi'll give you seven years senile pervitude," I babbled.  I spotted Dave Sampson shaking his head at that, but otherwise, maybe I winged it again?

  The pleasure of these evenings is the broad range of material one can hear there. A slightly under the weather Bob Brooker,sitting,magnificently  in his shorts (??) did justice to a song he clearly adores, "The Bonny White Horseman". (Also covered by the divine Kate Rusby on the John Tams-produced Sharpe album-but under a different title). Colin Squires perfomed admirably despite the fact I'd almost run him over beforehand, as he walked down to the pub. Martin's basso profundo rendition of Fiddlers Green and   Paul's excellent parody of Route 66 featuring the A66, Keswick and Middlesborough were other highlights. Old friends and new ones. Marvellous.

Down Memory Lanes

      Once, (long ago) I sang in a Tribute concert at The Gosford Park Hotel. This inaptly-named red-brick pub was never residential, as I remembered it. It was at the top of the street I grew up in- Northfield Road, in Coventry. From outside this pub, as a kid, I could hear steam locomotives shunting in the yards just across the road. In bed at night, I could still hear the freight engines whistling, and their wagons clattering as whole trains got under way. Once all courtyards, cobbles, factories and terraced streets full of workers' houses, the whole area is now Bedsit Land. Last night, for the first time since childhood, I walked  these pavements again. Ones I had not trodden for over half a century. I was en route to The Tump Folk Club-now residing at The Humber Hotel in Coventry. For (yet another!) debut of a re-vamped Black Parrot Seaside. No Buzzards, no Grit Trays-a three piece version this time. Welcome back, Mick. So chuffed you're back with us.

     Because of the Humber's location, and the memories it held for me, I decided not to drive, as I usually do when visiting the Tump. Instead, I caught the bus into “Cov “ and paused first to take sustenance in the 14^th century Whitefriars Alehouse. It would have been churlish not to have sampled the Salopian Lemon Dream on offer there, but having done so, I plodded on downhill and past the Halls of Residence of Coventry University, in Gosford Street. When one of these buildings was The Ministry of Pensions offices, I would wait outside at lunchtime, to meet my mum. During her dinner break we'd have something to eat in the Rendezvous Cafe, and I'd window-shop, browsing the latest Dinky Toys in Davies's, or the  secondhand comic books in Luckman's.

       I turned left, and walked past my old primary school, All Saints. Although virtually intact, it has been a Nightclub for many years.  But there, still,  was the cloakroom where I used to hang my mac. There was the playground,still ashphalted. No more coke heaps, no dustbins, no more outside lavvies.Still in use, but  as a car park now.

     I then followed the same route home as I did for seven years as a post-war Coventry schoolkid. No dairy to marvel at now, but as I turned into Gulson Road, I smelt the familiar whiff of a Fish and Chip Shop. Ma Coopers-same name-same shop-very different menu. No queues like there used to be, as I waited for my sausage and chips. Through the shop window  I saw that opposite, what  used to be my Grandad's local-the Hare and Hounds-was now a Mini supermarket. Chewing pensively, I wandered up Charterhouse Road, named after the religious order who owned land thereabouts before the housing came. Past houses which were once shops. Past Grandad's old house, and into Northfield Road itself. And there was my old house. Where I once played with my Bayko set and read my Davy Crocket Annual. Now a Student Let. No longer were there factories at the bottom of a hill I'd forgotten was so steep. The River Sherbourne undoubtedly still slurped along down there in the darkness, but on the valley side opposite, no massive Parkside complex, with its Armstrong Siddeley  silhouette on the skyline. Wheelie bins, road signs and bus stops cluttered the old street now. I'd never get a clear run on my scooter, down into the yard of Curtis and Beamish at the bottom of the hill. The bomb craters were all filled in, too. Post-war housing infilled where I used to dig up shrapnel.

     I lost my sausage in Terry Road. Not in the historical sense, but last night, as it rolled out of the chip papers and into the gutters. I was too busy gawping at a house where one of my friends used to live, to catch it. Turning left into   Humber Avenue, I felt a little pang of guilt. Forbidden territory, this was for me, because of its proximity to the railway and to Gosford Green Goods Depot. The huge metal footbridge across the tracks has long since gone-as have the tracks. The bridge was so long it would shake as pedestrians walked across it. A footpath has replaced it. And yet I paused-midway, as I used to-just where the points used to shuttle loaded wagons bound for The Rootes works nearby. Above the roar of distant traffic-was that a whistle?  No. It wasn't. But of the six songs we sang  last night, Dave Goulder's "Requiem for Steam" had to feature: " The whistle is silenced:the coal is all burned/the ashes are buried for good. "

       The Humber was warm and welcoming. This was also the last pub I had a pint in as a single man, so I have great affection and nostalgia for it, and for the area. We  performed "The Odeon", "Albert Balls," "Over The Hills" and " Courting is a Pleasure." All songs we'd aired at The Tump previously. And halfway through-an old face from our electric days turned up-good old Aral, who I haven't seen for decades!

     We finished with a version of "Bedduth Bank," which turned out to be a little longer than originally intended.  Partly because of the funereal pace we set off at, and partly because we tried out a few extra verses to those featured on the last CD. This song mentions my other favourite town-Nuneaton. Our family had moved from there to Bedduth and then on to Northfield Road. Now we have roots again in all three towns. What would my Grandad have made of all that I wonder?