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.
