News from Nowhere

An eventful weekend: Saturday evening was Martin Simpson at the Witham in Barnard Castle, Sunday morning was Sedgefield Farmers' Market, and then, since we were on a roll, more shopping.

This journal gets repetitive ( so feel free to skip the gig report )

The Farmers' Market, too, is also pretty repetitive, yet every every month has its excitements. ( I am a connoisseur! ) After which we came home and collapsed. Except that Robb Johnson chose that evening for a Shoreham Palladium concert on FaceBook, so there was more music in the evening.

On Sunday morning I was not at all confident that my back would stand for another day of festival. We agreed to treat it gently and see how we got on, and - spoiler! - this worked. We didn't even try to go to any morning events: after breakfast I had a lie down, and we headed for the Headland just in time to grab one of the chairs-with-back-support for Sweet Thames.

I've been thinking of this as another talk, but actually it's a performance piece, a one-man play in which Ewan Wardrop talks about the folk clubs of London in the 1960s, using verbatim the words collected in an oral history exercise (website here, and in fact there's a video of the whole show, at Cecil Sharp House). We were delighted that the story begins at Unity Theatre - though it doesn't actually mention Unity Folk Club. I am, in other word, the demographic who will like this show, and I did. I would have liked to look at the accompanying exhibition, but we didn't have time before the performance, and by the time we had a break between events it had been cleared away.

The afternoon's concert was a tribute to Tony Rose. I didnm't recognise the name, but it seems he was a singer of (mostly) traditional songs, who died in 2002: I don't know why they had chosen to remember him at this point, but all the participants spoke of him with great affection, so what more reason do you need? Paradoxically, for a concert built around someone whose material was primarily traditional, although I remember some fine tradional songs, what really stood out for me were the non-traditional elements. John Kirkpatrick contributed an unforgettable Nelly the Elephant, Martin Simpson revisited his version of Boots of Spanish Leather (hooray!) and the entire ensemble (including the Melsons, that wall of sound that results when you bring together the Wilsons and the Melrose Quartet) closed the proceedings with a rousing Down Where the Drunkards Roll.

By now it was mid-afternoon, tea time, and we went out in search of lunch. Feeling adventurous, we bought parmos from the Parm-O-Rama van and let the music from the outdoor stage wash over us - until we were jolted to attention by Ken Wilson and Jim McFarland singing The Trimdon Grange Explosion.

We didn't really notice Helian, but Will Pound and Jenn Butterworth were enough fun that - after a break in the bar, with comfortable seats and the crossword - we went back into the hall to hear them again. Outside it was dark, and it was rainy, and we weren't tempted out of the bar to see the procession set off, even though this had been one of last year's highlights. Not necessarily the highlight of the set, but certainly the bit that got the most applause, was Jenn Butterworth's very lively guitar string break (it drew blood) and then virtuoso replacement, while Will Pound continued his harmonica accompaniment, and eventually wrangled a melodeon into play one-handed. They also - since the theme of this post appears to be Not the Traditional Folk Repertoire - played a fine Arrival of the Queen of Sheba (follow the link above to find it on Bandcamp).

Talking of repertoire, I didn't know what to expect from the next set, from Martin Simpson: it was almost two years since the last time we saw him, and he's been involved in various projects since then. No sign of the Magpie Arc in this set: more than half, I think, his own compositions. Woody Guthrie's Deportees seems to have joined Palaces of Gold as a regular and angry commentary; from Nothing but Green Willow the song he sang on the album, Waggoner's Lad (very close to the Peggy Seeger version I grew up with); his closing number was John Prine's Angel from Montgomery, a choice you can file under I Do Not Understand This Man's Repertoire (nothing wrong with it, but not the strongest song in the set).

Contrast the Wilsons, who (as festival patrons) had the closing set: they were joined by James Fagan and Richard Arrowsmith (making them, they explained, a half-Melson), plus someone whose name I didn't get, and finally by Martin Simpson for the full male voice choir. Their finale was a powerful Miner's Lifeguard - what else? After that, we could have gone to the Fisherman's Arms, for the singaround, but we didn't. We came home to bed. Maybe next year ...

On Tuesday the magic of Live to Your Living Room brought us a Martin Simpson concert. I'd been uncertain about attending this: we'd heard him before playing at some virtual event which I don't seem to have recorded here - associated with the release of his Home Recordings album, possibly? - and been underwhelmed. I can't point to any specific thing that was wrong with it, but the performance felt very inward: I didn't feel any sense of connection, and I was ready to wait until we could hear him really, actually live. But durham_rambler was keen, even though he had another Zoom meeting booked for that evening, and it would take some effort and rushing about. He insisted, and he was right - it was a terrific session, and I enjoyed it very much.

What we got was a fair facsimile of Martin Simpson's folk club performance: a selection of his own and other people's songs, linked with - well, I see that I've described it in the past as being close to stand-up, and yes, stand-up or storytelling or just the very best conversation. As usual, mostly familiar repertoire, with a sprinkling of new pieces - some of those not exactly new: he explained, for example, how he had learned Donal Og from June Tabor's first album in the 1970s, and had been playing it as a slow air, but only now felt ready to sing it. I'm happy for him, but I miss his instrumental work.

It was the old friends that had a silly grin spreading across my face, though: All the friends I ever had is gone and - a request, and not quite under control - Boots of Spanish Leather.

Talking of old friends, we have - touch wood! - tickets for a real life gig next week: thanks to nineweaving, Martin Carthy at the Old Cinema Launderette.

It's five years since we saw Martin Simpson at the Davy Lamp Folk Club, and on Saturday he was there again - and so were we. They don't sell tickets in advance, just encourage you to turn up early, so we drove to Washington between the fireworks, and settled down with the prize crossword, which was an alphabetical jigsaw.

It was entirely worth the wait: a magical evening, from the opening perfect pairing of St James Infirmary Blues with Dylan's Blind Willie McTell (bonus link: Dylan's version) to the encore, a new song about his mother to sit alongside Never Any Good With Money -

- OK, let's get this over with. I feel mean about this, but for the record. For a start, I'm sufficiently contrarian that if anyone, anyone at all, says "Now I'll sing you my greatest hit," my heart sinks. Your greatest hit is unlikely to be my favourite of your work, and that certainly applies to Never Any Good With Money. You couldn't grudge the man the pleasure it obviously gave him to sing about his father, and find that people responded to what he was telling them, but I think he's written better songs (Dark Swift, Bright Swallow, for example, which last night came with sound effects of exploding shells to accompany the story of what happened at Slapton Sands), and even so, in truth I think he's a good songwriter but a brilliant interpreter of other people's songs -

And having got that out of the way, last night's selection of songs made me very happy. I love that Martin Simpson's repertoire is constantly renewed, a perpetual work in progress, so that each time you see him there are new discoveries alongside the old favourites. Different flavours predominate at different times, pver the years, as you'd expect: there've been times when it was all about the blues, and times when the big ballads squeezed out everything except one or two tunes - come to think of it, that's what's missing at the moment, not enough tunes...

But there was as much great music as you could cram into one evening. I was particularly happy to hear Charles Causley's Katherine of Aragon, as set by Alex Atterson (I admit I still prefer the version I learned long ago from Alan Francis - which is of course not the version Alan Francis sings, but my misremembering of it, but still...). He ended the first set with a blistering version of Leon Rosselson's Palaces of Gold. And, for a big finale before that encore, entirely unexpected, Emily Portman's Bones and Feathers.

I hadn't expected to segue neatly from the previous bird post into another, but when Martin Simpson, Nancy Kerr and Andy Cutting took the stage at the Sage last night, they opened the show with Martin Simpson's stunning song, Dark Swift and Bright Swallow. How did the swallow manage not to be one of the nation's ten favourite birds? Something badly wrong there.

Nothing at all wrong with the concert, three strong and creative performers clearly having just the most fun ever playing together. Some fine new songs, and some splendid arrangements of old ones: I'd love to share their version of Lads of Alnwick ("because," says Nancy Kerr, "if you don't have a Northumbrian piper in your band, clawhammer banjo and one-row melodion are the next best thing." On the other hand, if you do have a Northumbrian piper in your band, this is what it sounds like), but just one track from the collaboration seems to have made it onto the internet, and it does give the flavour of their work:

The Guardian's review of the Full English is informative rather than ecstatic, and I can't fault it for that. It tells me things that were not made clear at the concert: that it was Fay Hield who was initially commissioned to create new arrangements from the digital archive, and that the project just grew from there - which may explain the slightly low key, bunch of friends getting together to play some stuff, impression. Martin Simpson was Martin Simpson, which is always good, Seth Lakeman was Seth Lakeman, which is less to my taste, Nancy Kerr sang a song which she had written, words which usually cause my heart to sink but on this occasion gave it no reason to do so, I enjoyed the evening and if it wasn't life-changing, well, they can't all be.

Links to hold on to: they saved the strongest song for the encore (The Man in the Moon). And the archive itself.

Back to the Sage on Wednesday for a 'Future Traditions' concert, the students of the Folk Music degree course learning about performance by doing it. These concerts are variable in quality, but we've heard some really enjoyable music over the years, and it's a rare occasion that doesn't offer something of interest. Last night began well - a Portuguese pipe and drum duo (and that's none of your penny whistle pipes, but the sort of instrument that involves tucking something the size and shape of a young pig under your arm), a Scottish murder ballad delivered with great relish - but showed signs of fizzling out into ensemble pieces in which the entire year group plays together for no better reason than that they don't want to play separately, pleasant enough but lacking focus, lacking impact.

Saved by the Teacups! A pleasant surprise, as we've been seeing them at these events for some time now, and thought they must surely have graduated (ah - it's a four-year course; perhaps not, then). So the concert was rounded off with some rousing four-part harmonies. They've clearly been doing a lot of performing since we last heard them, and are all over YouTube: The Country Life is a favourite; Ripples in the long grass is pretty (a setting by Alistair Anderson of a poem by Katrina Porteous, apparently). So that was fun, but it felt a bit like cheating.

This weekend just past marks the point at which I have to accept that it really is Christmas. Just one month out of the twelve, surely I can't be such a grouch as to begrudge that? Well, I can, of course: as far as I'm concerned, twelve days is the canonical Christmas period. But you can't fight all the battles, and so the weekend which included December 1st was filled with things which took on a festive flavour, whether we intended them to or not.

There was seasonal weather

The weekend started with a heavy frost and a below zero temperature (centigrade, so not dramatically cold, but colder than it has been so far) before our swim on Friday morning; and ending with snow on the ground on Monday morning.

There was shopping, some of it Chrismassy and some not

The Christmassy bit was an actual Christmas Fair, in a big marquee on Palace Green, at which I bought some small gifts and some cards, as well as such everyday necessities as wine, soap and pork pies. The not included the regular grocery shop, and an expedition to look for a new car - comprehensive failure, except the bit where we called on J. on our way home for a cup of tea (accompanied by Italian cake; if there was cake, the Christmas theme can't have been far off).

There were guests,

a rapid visit from D. and valydiarosada, not a Christmas visit but for family reasons. So late arrivals, previous commitments, early departures, all that. But we did manage lunch together - with chips! - at the Stonebridge

There was a party - not a Christmas party -

but a multi-person birthday party. Still, a party is by definition festive, and this was a good one, with plenty of interesting people to talk to (plenty meaning, or course, more than you can manage, so we left having barely greeted our host).

There was music, not in itself seasonal, though the Sage felt obliged to put on a tinsel halo and tell us about their Christmas programme, so we wouldn't feel deprived.

As if! Actually, there is something celebratory about the Martin Simpson Trio. Guitar, accordion double bass and vocal combine in the sort of big solid sound it takes eleven of Bellowhead to acheive. They give the impression of having a wonderful time playing together and their enjoyment gets out into the music. If you can't relish a good tragedy, then traditional music is not for you, but I've never heard 'Sir Patrick Spens' sound as jaunty as it did on Saturday. With the joyful Keilder Scottische that followed it, it was the high point of my evening - though the closing 'Lakes of Pontchartrain', which should have been sung by Elvis at his most rock and roll, came close.

Which is quite enough excitement for one weekend.

Let other pens dwell on pain and dentistry...

In any case, 'pain' would be overstating it. I spent 40 minutes with the dentist this morning, preparing for a crown to be fitted on a tooth that is broken beyond repair, and that's not a pleasant way to start the week, but I lay there and thought about Matin Simpson at the Sage last night, and I got through it.

The Sage billed the show as 'The Martin Simpson Trio'; that's Andy Seward on bass, Andy Cutting on melodion, and Martin Simpson on a variety of guitars and banjos. I hadn't heard this line-up before, and wasn't sure what to expect -

Well, it's been a while since we've heard Martin Simpson. Once we wouldn't have missed a chance to hear him play, have travelled silly distances and gone to ridiculous lengths to catch a show, and felt it was well worth while. Then there was a period when his playing was technically as stunning as ever, but what had always made him really special was the emotional intensity he somehow channelled through that extraordinary musical precision. He seemed mellower, more laid back, and it was hard to begrudge him that, but I felt there was something missing. Others disagreed: this was the period when he was winning praise and exposure for his song Never Any Good (which I've just seen described as "fast becoming Martin Simpson's Strets of London" - well, yes). He's a great interpreter, and makes any song he performs sound good, but I think his own song-writing is - oh, not terrible, but mostly not quite there. Interesting anecdotes and fragments of his own life and other people's, but you know when you're doing a jigsaw, and the picture's all there, there are only a couple of pices missing, but somehow when you add the last piece it all looks completely different? I don't know what that last piece is, but when he finds it, his songs will be completely different.

I'm delighted to report that our trial separation has worked wonders, and some of the old magic has returned to our relationship. The mix gave more prominence to the bass than I would have expected, and less to the melodeon, and the result was a very full and rich sound, with lots of impact but which didn't drown the guitar. YouTube has their version of The Lakes of Ponchartrain, which sounds as if they arranged it sometime in the 1950s in the hope that Elvis would sing it. And Martin Simpson's website offers a video of his version of Sir Patrick Spens, which is good, but the trio version last night was better, tighter.

I don't think it's going to be as long until the next time we see him.