News from Nowhere

What can I say? It's vacuous, it's overblown, it is absolutely not my kind of music, but once a year I enjoy it. In moderation: no doubt I'm missing out on stuff I would enjoy, but I don't watch the semi-finals; I don't stay up for the interval performances and the voting; and I'm ambivalent about the way this year's contest even managed to take over Doctor Who. But then, I'm ambivalent about so much in Doctor Who these days, and this isn't a post about that.

Eurovision,then. It's a mark of how (not) seriously I take it, that when the show started I was a bit surprised to find we were in Switzerland - didn't Sweden win? That must have been the year before, but then came the performance of last year's winning song, and I was certain I'd never heard it before in my life. Had we missed last year, for some reason? How fortunate that I keep a diary in hich I wrote that "The favourite won, which I always find disappointing." Sufficiently so to have blanked it completely, apparently.

No promises that I'll still remember this year's winner in a year's time, but it was at least a surprise. Austria was represented by an operatic counter tenor, wearing what looked like his dressing gown as he sailed a paper boat through a monochrome storm, before finally reaching a lighthouse. "Well, that was brave!" I thought. I didn't particularly like it, but I applauded.

Sweden was represented by three Finns singing about the joys of sauna - in Swedish, which is - it says here - the first Swedish-language entry since 1998. The stage set didn't completely do without flashing lights, but its centrepiece was the construction of a wooden sauna. Top marks, too, for the reference to tango with Arja Saijonmaa (which I only picked up from reading the lyrics, and am so glad I did).

I also the UK's hymn to the morning after more than I expected to: the big choral "What the hell just happened?" seemed to be on a different scale to the jaunty "Someone lost a shoe, / I'm still in last night's makeup,/ I'm waking up like, what's this new tattoo?" Overall, though, it wasn't embarrassing and it made me smile. If I am reading the results correctly, it did respectably with the professional juries, but the televoters do not love us. I wonder why?

By the time we reached Albania, who were on last, I was pretty much exhausted: but the costumes and set were so very red they were unmissable. Once I noticed that, and that they seemed to be combining traditional song (in Albanian, I think) and electronica, I ended the evening thinking kindly of them. Honourable mention.

One more thing. Luxembourg's La Poupée Monte Le Son echoes Poupée de cire, poupée de son, with which France Gall won Eurovision for them in 1965. I could go down a rabbit hole comparing the two songs, just how tongue in cheek are Gainsbourg's lyrics (and Gall's delivery), how plausible is Laura Thorn's rejection of doll-like passivity while dressed in an explosion of candy-pink corsetry (I wondered why her tinfoil seemed to belong to a different outfit, but of course all was revealed when she emerged from her corsets to display a tinfoil swimming costume). But let's not. Even the joy of a shout-out to 1965 was slightly upstaged by, of all things, Doctor Who, which managed a shout-out to 1963 - but as I said, this isn't a post about that.

Pete Atkin was in Middlesbrough last night for the gig deferred from September. He had had to cancel because he had covid, about which he seemed more aggrieved than anything else: I went all through lockdown unscathed, and now... Well, yes: that's how lockdown was supposed to work.

We had been at his previous gig, and there were things last night I thought were different, but looking at what I wrote last time, I see I am misremembering: a handful of unfamiliar songs, a selection of classics, lots of talk, all as before. There's a curious flavour to talking about how the songs were written when it involves telling the story behind a lyric that somebody else wrote, but Pete carried it off with generosity; he said, repeatedly, that he had been lucky to meet Clive James and work with him, but I think Clive was lucky, too. I'd have been interested to hear more about the process of bringing together words and music - but perhaps that would be too technical for a relaxed evening performance.

I wondered whether Pete was talking a lot to spare his singing voice: appatently not, then. And, as last time, I thought his voice was if anything stronger as we neared the end of the evening. A very powerful closer with Thirty Year Man leading straight into - what else? - Master of the Revels. Once again, though, the audience demanded more, and this time we got a very sweet Together at Last.

If my memory is to be trusted - and (see previous post) it just might be - it is five years since we last went to an actual cinema. That seems an impossibly long time - longer than if I had said "not since lockdown", though it means the same thing. Last Monday was certainly our first visit to the no-longer-new Odeon cinema, with the elaborate food and drink menu and the fancy reclining seats...

We were there, of course, to see A Complete Unknown: a movie about Bob Dylan, following him through the period from his arrival in Greenwich Village as - well, yes - a complete unknown, from his immediate adoption of and by the folk scene he found there to his door-slamming departure: and all the while he was writing so many great songs, and we'd enjoy hearing those, too. I wasn't going to miss this.

( But... )

On the other hand, A Complete Unknown brought Dylan's music home for the Guardian's Laura Snapes: that's got to be worth something.

Had things gone according to plan, we would have been in Middlesbrough last night to hear Robb Johnson with the Acoustic Irregulars. Things being what they are, the gig was cancelled, through no fault of the organisers (an earlier gig had fallen through, and the travel was no longer affordable). Of the three recent gigs we had booked at Toft House ("The Home of Unpopular Music"), this was the second to be cancelled: also not their fault that Pete Atkin had covid and has rescheduled for the spring. So last Saturday we were taking nothing for granted, eyeing the weather nervously: there was a thin blanket of snow over Durham, and threats of worse elsewhere...

The good news is that we had a very enjoyable evening with the Coal Porters. Beyond our street, the roads were clear, and once across the river there was no snow to be seen; the band appear to have travelled without incident too, from the village near Peebles where they had played the previous night. The internet informs me that the Coal Porters disbanded in 2018, but it doesn't seem to have cramped their style. If anything, there was the feeling of old friends with other projrcts getting together to have fun without long-term commitment. I liked vocalist Neil Robert Herd's explanation that "we have been described as 'alt-bluegrass'": it doesn't disown a perfectly reasonable description (banjo! mandolin! Bill Monroe song! high speed!) but nor does it actually endorse it. I also appreciated the costumes: three men in suits, bassist in teddy-boy drapes, fiddler Kerenza Peacock in a cotton print dress (but the print was of "some of my favourite feminists") and silver sparkly boots: that's what I'd call making an effort.

I can't find anything on YouTube which conveys the flavour of the performance. But here's what they did for their obligatory encore (Sid Griffin was prepared to hold forth at some length on this topic):



Post-encore, we also had an audience-participation version of Dylan's You ain't going nowhere: and then we came home. I wasn't tempted to buy a CD, but I'd go back for more of the live performance.

I was intrigued by sovay's post about this detective story, even before I registered what an apt coda it made to our recent adventures in Shropshire, Peters being, of course, a deeply Shropshire author. I had liked her Cadfael books well enough when I read them to have worked my way through most, if not all, of the series, but had never ventured into her other novels, and had no idea that she had set a murder mystery at a residential music college which is a hosting a week-end course on folk music.

"[A] residential music college" does not begin to describe Follymead. The opening of the novel is contrived to show it to the reader through the eyes of the astonished Liri. Two major aspects of the book each reveal the other, the singer and her reaction to the extraordinary location: the disproportionate grandeur of the gates, the full set of eighteenth century follies, the Grecian temple, the hermitage, the ruined tower ("No pagoda?" complains Liri, as the car rounds a corner and yes, there is the pagoda), the decoratively arched bridge over a river gleaming innocently like Chekhov's gun, the one element of genuine wildness in this artificial landscape... And then the house itself, a riot of towers and turrets and steeples and vanes - I enjoyed all of this enormously, and half-expected Michael Innes's Appleby to turn up. I cannot quite believe in it as a music college, especially a college in the ownership of the County Council. Peters offers some justification for this - the last of the family, for want of an heir, left it to the county with a handsome endowment fund, it operates under the aegis of a university - and plays up, too, quite how precarious it all is (the threat to Follymead is as urgent a concern of the narrative as any other) but even so... Ellis Peters was, says Carol Westron in an illuminating essay, passionate about education, "very active in the WEA (Workers' Educational Association) and helped to establish the Shropshire Adult Education College at Attringham Park. She also played a great part in setting up an Adult Education music college." In Follymead she gives free rein to a fantasy of a music college valued locally (Detective George Felse and his wife consider attending a forthcoming course on Mozart) and nationally.

If the book alloed the author to indulge in creating a fantasy music college, is the depiction of a folk music weekend similarly self-indulgent? She knows her ballads, and uses one of them for the scaffolding of her plot. (sovay recognised it ewven before the bog reveal, and identifies it as the version sung by Ewan MacColl: I defer to her expertise, and had to refer to the estimable Mainly Norfolk which offers achoice of variants.) But a passion for music and an eye for the potential of a balled do not add up to a love of folk music: maybe Liri is speaking for her author when she refuses the description "folk singer" as being ill-defined. "I'm not even sure I know exactly what a folk-singer is... About a ballad singer you can't be in much doubt, it's somebody who sings ballads. That's what I do ..."

How fortunate, then, that the story is set at a week-end course at which Professor Penrose will help us to examine the nature of folk music, with the promise of much debate, his record collection and some star live performances. I don't suppose Ellis Peters expected her background colour to be appealing enough that I am (at least) halfway to regretting that pesky murder investigation for getting in the way of some interesting music and talk, but there you go, that's what happened. ( The best I can do is to put it under a cut. At inordinate length, then: who's who, and who sings what? )

[Emerges, blinking, from the rabbit hole.]

sovay characterises as misdirection the use of a song - does it qualify as a balled? - to provide the nove's title. Indeed, and not just because Liri's vengeful rewrite invites the reader to anticpate an entirely different narrative to the one which eventually unfolds. It directs the reader's attention to the most obviously romantic pairing in the book, Liri and Lucien, the musical power couple between whom something has gone badly awry: contrast them with the rational observers, Tossa (short for Theodosia) and Dominic (Felse, son of the series detective, which is convenient), treading carefully through their a newly established relationship, and reflect that young couples tend to emerge well from the Cadfael books (this is from memory, but I'm pretty certain of it). Perhaps, then, the black-hearted true love is to be found in the third couple, the one introduced before the others, on the very first page ("only ine woman really existed in his life, and that was his wife.") There's a whole other post which grows from that reading, and considers the novel as it was surely intended to be considered, as a detective story. There's the character of the detrective to be considered, and whether he is a plausible policeman (to be set alongside the question of whether Cadfael is a plausible monk).

There's also a footnote about Ellis Peters' relationship with Czechoslovakia. But somebody stop me, before I launch into either of those...

Say what you will about the Eurovision song contest, it does not lose its ability to surprise.

We watched the finals on Saturday; we did not watch the semi-finals, feeling that four hours of Eurovision froth was quite enough for us. In fact, I don't need more than three hours, and went to bed after the songs; durham_rambler is made of sterner stuff, and stayed on through the voting. The favourite won, which I always find disappointing.

Israel, having won their semi-final, came 5th, and I have no idea how to interpret that. The contest is in theory apolitical, but there are few things as political as an institution which makes a point of being apolitical, so it was inevitable that the Israeli presence would cause a fuss. Their initial entry, October Rain was rejected as too political, but a revised version was accepted: it starts with an appeal to "Writer of my symphony" rather than "Writers of the history", and declares that "I'm still broken from this hurricane" instead of "I'm still wet from this october rain", which looks to me like a case of censorship forcing the writer to come up with something better, but what do I know? Inevitably, it allowed Eurovision to claim that it had taken a stand, but did not satisfy the people calling for Israel to be excluded (for what it's worth, I'd rather see an end to arms sales than a cultural boycott, but never mind). What was unexpected was that the Netherlands should manage to get themselves excluded instead (no apparent connection, although the atmosphere can't have helped cool things down, to say the least...).

Some years I become partisan about one particular song, but not this year. On the other hand, there was one piece of staging I found both absolutely dazzling and completely baffling, and would have loved to see again. My plan was to use the official participants listing to revisit that, and a number of other details. Well, up to a point. The list is a wonderful resource (especially as a source of lyrics) but the official videos it offers are, for better or worse, not the competition performances. For those, I'd presumably have to replay the whole show - and that is not going to happen. Some random thoughts, then, which turn out to be even more random than I expected:

The entry I would have liked to see again was Ukraine, who made extensive use of background images wrapped around the two singers, on walls and floor. Their official video is much more restrained, and doesn't really cast any light on the mystery. Instead it plays up the duality of their song Teresa & Maria ("Mother Teresa and Diva Maria" - oh dear!), performed by two solo performers brought together for the occasion, one to deliver the classic Eurovision big ballad, one to rap in counterpoint (I find rapping much improved by being delivered in a Slav language).

On the other hand, Norway's official video does make some connection between the stage performance (for which I was proposing a special I didn't see that coming award) and the lyrics as given in translation:

I was a very fine and beautiful maiden
With an evil stepmother. My mother had died.

She transformed me into a sword and a needle
And sent me off to the King’s estate.

The wrath of my stepmother grew
When all the fine people loved me most.

She gave me the hide of a grey wolf
And forced me to go into the woods alone.

And I would never be whole and good
Before I had drunk of my brother’s blood.

The stage show seemed to depict a ship in a storm at sea: there was water everywhere. But the video suggests a wild storm whipping up a peaceful lake, around a witchy central figure (Ireland also entered a witch, so perhaps witches are having a moment). The band's name, Gåte, means 'riddle' (according to Wikipedia), which figures.

The song features a nyckelharpa, which makes Norway runners up in the most obscure instrument category. The winners, though, were Estonia, who had something which I think is a talharpa. Like Ukraine, they also went for two bands appearing as one, with a song - I discover from the lyrics - about a drugs bust. Also, with so many performers wearing nothing but a few sequins, you have to applaud a band of blokes in big full-length black coats.

On the night, I interpreted Armenia's entry as another piece of dualism, the woman in a miniskirt version of traditional dress singing her 'modern' pop at - rather than to - the male instrumentalist who played in a more traditional style. Their video brings them both together in an over-the-top version of a tourist board advertisement. You could compare it, as a tongue-in-cheek version of traditional (peasant) life, with Croatia's official video in which Baby Lasagne (probably the best band name - sorry, Finland's Windows95man) plays the country boy leaving the farm. I coveted Baby Lasagne's waistcoat, not the one in the video, but the one he wears for rehearsals and performance, a fancy embroidered version of traditional national costume as saved for best.

Finally: since I've talked about the inscrutability of some of the staging, I should add that if there were a prize for most transparent staging, which there isn't, it would go to the UK. With the subtlety for which we are famous, we apparently recognised that Eurovision is a very gay event, and put Tom of Finland in charge of the choreography. We came in 18th, beating Estonia, who finished twentieth, which is what usually happens to my favourites.

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.

One of M.'s contributions to last night's Unity Folk Club was to get all of us, even those who had never heard of Pogo Possum, singing Deck us all with Boston Charlie - excellent stuff, and very silly. More information here, including (if you scroll down far enough) the song sheet as handed round.

It's not every funeral you come away from earwormed by (Is this the way to) Amerillo. But maybe there's no such thing as "every funeral".

Yesterday we went to York for the funeral of durham_rambler's cousin: she was a lovely person whom we didn't see very often: here's the piece in the local paper (much interrupted by intrusive ads).

If I had realised that family traceling up from the south would be staying the night in York before the funeral, I would have argued more strongly for our doing likewise: we'd have had time together, a more leisurely start in the morning and a more timely arrival. But then we would have missed the sight of the the low winter sun gleaming on the walls and gates of York, as we inched round the perimeter of the city (against the clock, but it was still a glorious sight).

The funeral itself was in the parish church, which was very much higher than any I've been to before: much lighting of candles, and the swinging of a censer to produce clouds of smole (it smelled of singed cloves). But there was also a brass band, because Denise had been a member of the Shepherd Group Concert Band. They payed as part of the service, in between the choir, and the organ, and the hymns (including Jerusalem). Afterwards, when the close family had gone to the crematorium, they played again: and perhaps we should have joined the family, but we weren't sure, and if we had, we wouldn't have heard the band play Beyond the Sea (below, in their more familiar habitat)>



Aterwards, at the reception, we had a 40 minute set from the band in full upbeat mode, which was both fun and strange: it impeded conversation.but it worked, in a strange, cheerful way.

Afterwards we drove home in the low bright evening light.

Saturday was the day my back - which has been complaining since that long drive to Surrey and home again - decided to go on strike. Perhaps it had simply reached that pont; or perhaps it hadn't enjoyed the previous day's seating; and carrying my bag and camera probably didn't help. It didn't stop me enjoying the Folk Festival, but it may hhave limited how much of the festival I was able to enjoy.

We started the day back in St Hilda's church, to hear Angeline Morrison 'Singing for Cesar'. Someone had turned up an entry in St Hildas parish records: "Cesar, a slave of Mr McDonild, baptised January 23rd 1750." That's all: nothing else is known of Cesar, what happened to him (presumably him, though even that is not known), whether he continued to live in Hartlepool, whether he died here... But the mere fact of his presence here was a jolt. We know that despite its reputation as an impoverished backwater, Hartlepool was once a thriving port; some fine houses on the Headland would have belonged to wealthy merchants. So we might have expected the presence of enslaved people - but we didn't. Angeline Morrison had decided to make a funeral / memorial ritual, drawing on the broadest themes of African practice, a song and a short procession, and a garland of roses. Short and sweet.

Undecided what to do next, we lingered for the start of Ciderhouse Rebellion's set: but after one tune, it was clearly not for us (too much boom mat and too freeform). Instead we went to a talk about the Museum of British Folklore. Wait, there's a Museum of British Folklore? Well, there'a a collection - or several - and an enthusiast (actually, two, but the speaker was Simon Costin, and his enthusiasm was unmistakable) and a guerrilla campaign of events and exhibitions. So all they need is a home ...

We bought samosas for lunch from one of the catering vans, and ate them in a marquee which we we sharing with DigVentures (I hadn't known they were active in Hartlepool, but of course they are) and some bees (I wish I'd had the energy to find out more about this project, and to take some pictures of the humans in bee costumes). After lunch, we went to another talk. This seems to have been our theme for the festival, that we attended and enjoyed a lot of talks; this one was Dave Arthur talking about Hearken to the Witches Rune, the record he made with Toni Arthur in the early 70s, and was more interesting than you would expect from a talk about a record you#ve never heard of before.

Finally, we had the Wilsons launching their new album: they seemed apologetic that it was only their fifth record in a 50 years career, but if you aren't that bothered about recording, and you can sustain a career without it, then why should you? I liked this reminder that there is still life in live music. I also liked their version of Leon Rosselson's Palaces of Gold "The BEST version," I thought - but then Martin Simpson sang it the next day, and no, as you were. Good to hear Close the Coalhouse Door again, too.

After which, my back was making it clear that it had had enough. Neither of us was tempted to stay late to hear Altan, so we came home via Morrison's pizza department.