It's festive up north
Aug. 4th, 2018 05:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shewhomustWe haven't been avoiding the Festival of the North which is happening at the moment; but neither have we been seeking it out. Nonetheless, last Saturday (yes, Saturday a week ago - this post has been long in the writing) we did two things which come under its capacious umbrella - and one that didn't. We went to two concerts at the Sage, and spent the time between them exploring the 'Winged Tales of the North' trail in the Ouseburn.
The first concert was an early afternoon showcase, not technically part of the Festival. Alistair Anderson had, he explained, been given his pick of the year's tutors from the Folkworks summer schools, and had chosen Andy May, Amy Thatcher and Nancy Kerr. Whether by choice or by chance, the line-up consisted of four performers from 'the greater north' (the consensus was that this could be stretched to include Sheffield, since Nancy Kerr had lived in Northumberland for a formative period) and there was much talk of characteristic three/two timings, early collections, influential Northumberland pipers. There's a line about Welsh music, that we don't have any folk music, because we know who wrote it all... and at times it seems to me that the same is true of the north-east: so much of what sounds traditional can be credited to Will Atkinson, Will Taylor or Billy Pigg. Or Alistair Anderson himself, of course: "I wrote this one so long ago, it's almost traditional." All three tutors claimed to be exhausted after the week's intensive teaching, and all three - all four - were full of enthusiasm for the summer schools and their students. The result was a cheerfully relaxed, end-of-term party.
Afterwards, we crossed the Millennium Bridge and walked along the Tyne until the fingerpost directed us to the Ouseburn's Village Green (I hadn't thought of the Ouseburn as a village, but it was fairly obvious that this must be where we were headed). I knew that there was an art trail themed around the works of David Almond, which is the sort of thing that would have interested me even without the excuse that David is a client; I didn't know much more than that, but there was an associated exhibition at Seven Stories, so it made sense to start there. Seven Stories would close at five, but we had plenty of time to wander around the Ouseburn, and with luck those dark clouds would hold off for a while...
There are problems inherent in any exhibition about the work of a writer. If you had to undertake such a project, you could do worse than choose David Almond: his recurrent motifs, his attachment to specific places, even his very visual writing process, all offer things you can display on a gallery wall. But the carefully constructed labyrinth of charcoal-grey and white panels felt very enclosing, not a good fit for this very outdoor author, and it wasn't long before we were ready to escape, and look up at the arches of the viaduct:
This was the start of our trail. But first, we detoured into the Ship, to consult the map over a plate of nachos. Vegan nachos, as it turns out, which explains the unidentifiable pale orange foam (it was good, and we ate it without feeling it demanded explanation, but in hindsight, oh, OK, that explains it...) and craft beer. While we were doing this, the skies grew darker and darker, there was thunder and lightning and torrential rain. That majority of the pub's clientele who had been sitting outside all piled indoors, and what had been a comfortable, bustling space became cramped and noisy, unbelievably noisy.
We left as soon as the rain had eased off to a gentle drizzle. If we'd delayed maybe ten minutes, we'd have been walking most of the way in sunshine, and been more inclined to linger, and some of the things we saw would have looked brighter, too. As it was, we walked along the Ouseburn in the last of the shower, now no more than gentle summer rain, and that was pleasant, too.
The boat's name is 'Idler', which seems apt. The reason why the swans are hanging around it so photogenically is that there's a man on board throwing them pieces of bread. It's moored more or less opposite my favourite piece on the trail, 'Don't Disturb' (by Hannah Fox - whose name I recognise but can't place - and Year 5 at Byker Primary School), an assembly of bits and pieces tucked behind the railings which divide some waste land from the towpath. So you can't stand far enough away from it to photograph the piece entire, and if you try, there are railings interposed:
You could regard this as a bug, but I think it's a feature; it gives the piece an elusiveness, the feeling of a secret only half seen. My favourite photo is close in, which makes it a false image of its subject. That's one of the things I like about it:
Further on, under the bridge, there are some beautifully lettered (by Rachel E. Millar) instructions:
We did not touch that wall; we did not close our eyes; we certainly did not say the word ESSALAMUS three times (though we did not know what would happen if we did). We may have hesitated there, because the end of the trail wasn't far off. Soon we were walking past the new housing development, and the Toffee Factory was across the river - again, my favourite picture of the installation there is this detail:
the sculpture taking its own advice and dreaming itself into the Newcastle sky...
There's one last thing to see, and you don't see it until you have left the secret enclosed Ouseburn. The Glasshouse Bridge forms a barrier, and when you look back, you see one last message lettered across the bridge:
Which is pretty much an invitation to turn round and walk the trail again, in reverse. But we didn't, because we had other things to do. Instead we walked back along the Tyne, and crossed the Millennium Bridge again (with a bonus performance of its Blinking Eye nickname: once we were safely across it opened to allow a couple of boats through) back to the Sage.
The evening's concert was billed as Great Exhibition of the North: Folk on the Tyne. This isn't intended as a criticism of any of the artists involved, but I have no idea what was going through the mind of whoever programmed it. The Wilsons, the Young'uns, the Unthanks: two powerful male vocal groups - the Young'uns deeply influenced by the Wilsons), and not just in the jovial banter between songs; then after the break a band which may have started out with the vocal harmonies of the Unthank sisters, but Adrian McNally's arrangements throw in not only piano but also trumpet and string quartet, not forgetting a bit of clog dancing. The Sage's description calls it "Art Folk", which is horrible; the Unthanks own website has a more convoluted explanation.
There is a folk song hiding in there, somewhere - paradoxically, there is probably more traditional folk musivc hidden in the repertoire of the Unthanks than in that of the Wilsons, who draw heavily on songwriters like Graham Miles and Ed Pickford, or the Young'Uns who, on this occasion at least, were singing songs they had written themselves. From which we conclude - nothing, really. I enjoyed the first half of the concert very much; I respect and admire what the Unthanks are doing, but I don't enjoy it very much.
We didn't stay for the ceilidh.
The first concert was an early afternoon showcase, not technically part of the Festival. Alistair Anderson had, he explained, been given his pick of the year's tutors from the Folkworks summer schools, and had chosen Andy May, Amy Thatcher and Nancy Kerr. Whether by choice or by chance, the line-up consisted of four performers from 'the greater north' (the consensus was that this could be stretched to include Sheffield, since Nancy Kerr had lived in Northumberland for a formative period) and there was much talk of characteristic three/two timings, early collections, influential Northumberland pipers. There's a line about Welsh music, that we don't have any folk music, because we know who wrote it all... and at times it seems to me that the same is true of the north-east: so much of what sounds traditional can be credited to Will Atkinson, Will Taylor or Billy Pigg. Or Alistair Anderson himself, of course: "I wrote this one so long ago, it's almost traditional." All three tutors claimed to be exhausted after the week's intensive teaching, and all three - all four - were full of enthusiasm for the summer schools and their students. The result was a cheerfully relaxed, end-of-term party.
Afterwards, we crossed the Millennium Bridge and walked along the Tyne until the fingerpost directed us to the Ouseburn's Village Green (I hadn't thought of the Ouseburn as a village, but it was fairly obvious that this must be where we were headed). I knew that there was an art trail themed around the works of David Almond, which is the sort of thing that would have interested me even without the excuse that David is a client; I didn't know much more than that, but there was an associated exhibition at Seven Stories, so it made sense to start there. Seven Stories would close at five, but we had plenty of time to wander around the Ouseburn, and with luck those dark clouds would hold off for a while...
There are problems inherent in any exhibition about the work of a writer. If you had to undertake such a project, you could do worse than choose David Almond: his recurrent motifs, his attachment to specific places, even his very visual writing process, all offer things you can display on a gallery wall. But the carefully constructed labyrinth of charcoal-grey and white panels felt very enclosing, not a good fit for this very outdoor author, and it wasn't long before we were ready to escape, and look up at the arches of the viaduct:
This was the start of our trail. But first, we detoured into the Ship, to consult the map over a plate of nachos. Vegan nachos, as it turns out, which explains the unidentifiable pale orange foam (it was good, and we ate it without feeling it demanded explanation, but in hindsight, oh, OK, that explains it...) and craft beer. While we were doing this, the skies grew darker and darker, there was thunder and lightning and torrential rain. That majority of the pub's clientele who had been sitting outside all piled indoors, and what had been a comfortable, bustling space became cramped and noisy, unbelievably noisy.
We left as soon as the rain had eased off to a gentle drizzle. If we'd delayed maybe ten minutes, we'd have been walking most of the way in sunshine, and been more inclined to linger, and some of the things we saw would have looked brighter, too. As it was, we walked along the Ouseburn in the last of the shower, now no more than gentle summer rain, and that was pleasant, too.
The boat's name is 'Idler', which seems apt. The reason why the swans are hanging around it so photogenically is that there's a man on board throwing them pieces of bread. It's moored more or less opposite my favourite piece on the trail, 'Don't Disturb' (by Hannah Fox - whose name I recognise but can't place - and Year 5 at Byker Primary School), an assembly of bits and pieces tucked behind the railings which divide some waste land from the towpath. So you can't stand far enough away from it to photograph the piece entire, and if you try, there are railings interposed:
You could regard this as a bug, but I think it's a feature; it gives the piece an elusiveness, the feeling of a secret only half seen. My favourite photo is close in, which makes it a false image of its subject. That's one of the things I like about it:
Further on, under the bridge, there are some beautifully lettered (by Rachel E. Millar) instructions:
We did not touch that wall; we did not close our eyes; we certainly did not say the word ESSALAMUS three times (though we did not know what would happen if we did). We may have hesitated there, because the end of the trail wasn't far off. Soon we were walking past the new housing development, and the Toffee Factory was across the river - again, my favourite picture of the installation there is this detail:
the sculpture taking its own advice and dreaming itself into the Newcastle sky...
There's one last thing to see, and you don't see it until you have left the secret enclosed Ouseburn. The Glasshouse Bridge forms a barrier, and when you look back, you see one last message lettered across the bridge:
Stone holds the bird
Air and water sing the song
Steel becomes an angel's shape
And you are all these things
Which is pretty much an invitation to turn round and walk the trail again, in reverse. But we didn't, because we had other things to do. Instead we walked back along the Tyne, and crossed the Millennium Bridge again (with a bonus performance of its Blinking Eye nickname: once we were safely across it opened to allow a couple of boats through) back to the Sage.
The evening's concert was billed as Great Exhibition of the North: Folk on the Tyne. This isn't intended as a criticism of any of the artists involved, but I have no idea what was going through the mind of whoever programmed it. The Wilsons, the Young'uns, the Unthanks: two powerful male vocal groups - the Young'uns deeply influenced by the Wilsons), and not just in the jovial banter between songs; then after the break a band which may have started out with the vocal harmonies of the Unthank sisters, but Adrian McNally's arrangements throw in not only piano but also trumpet and string quartet, not forgetting a bit of clog dancing. The Sage's description calls it "Art Folk", which is horrible; the Unthanks own website has a more convoluted explanation.
There is a folk song hiding in there, somewhere - paradoxically, there is probably more traditional folk musivc hidden in the repertoire of the Unthanks than in that of the Wilsons, who draw heavily on songwriters like Graham Miles and Ed Pickford, or the Young'Uns who, on this occasion at least, were singing songs they had written themselves. From which we conclude - nothing, really. I enjoyed the first half of the concert very much; I respect and admire what the Unthanks are doing, but I don't enjoy it very much.
We didn't stay for the ceilidh.
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Date: 2018-08-05 10:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-08-05 10:20 am (UTC)I enjoy it!