What is wrong with us? Men, I mean. That we think violence solves anything? Mass slaughter by armies of young men (usually led by old men) have been at it for thousands of years yet, when the fighting’s over and the pieces have to be picked up, who is really the winner? Usually no one. Take, for example, the Middle East. Jews and Arabs have been at each others throats for ever but, despite both sides being highly intelligent and talented people in all other respects, don’t seem able to comprehend the futility of their struggle. Instead they blame one another and never, so it seems, admit fault. Only through tolerance and understanding can the grievances of both sides be addressed – if not they have nothing to look forward to but perpetual war. As neighbours they must simply learn to get along and stop using history as an excuse for endless attacks – and in particular recognise that ‘an eye for an eye’ mentality is nihilistic and futile.

The same goes for most other conflicts, particularly those fuelled by ideology (religious or political). Though whatever the cause, actual or imagined (often really power, land, wealth, oil, etc), even military victories in the long run are often hollow. After WWII, for example, though both Germany and Japan lost they quite soon became economic winners and Britain spent many years in decline.

War! What is it good for? We all know – yet the bombs continue to rain down on innocent people, often women and children, across the Middle East, Africa, and elsewhere. As if there weren’t enough natural and man-made disasters to deal with. And, let’s face it, they are usually man made. Sometimes I weep over the stupidity, recklessness, greed, arrogance and sheer bloody-mindedness of my sex. Recently I also wrote an anti-war song – not something I’ve ever done before. I know it’s pointless; remember all those protest songs of the Sixties – what good did they do? Maybe its my arrogance to believe I can make any difference by writing a song – anyway, here it is in all its simplistic glory.

PUT THAT GUN DOWN

C:     Put that gun down – look what you done now.                                

It’s no fun now – tribulation and pain.                           

Widow maker – cruel heart breaker.                                 

Angry man – hang your head in shame.

1. Mommas weeping – kids a-wailing,                                        

Wondering why, how can it be?                                                 

We are heading down the road to destruction,                               

And only because we can’t agree.

2. Look around now, oh can’t you see,                                         

What a wonderful world this all could be?                                

And all we gotta do to show we care,                                        

Get it together – people everywhere

3. Little big man with your weapons of war,                                

Don’t you know we’ve been here before?                                

Didn’t work then – won’t work today.                                         

Vote for freedom – it’s the only way.

My father’s brother, Ralph, was nineteen when WW1 began and, as a pacifist, refused to join up. In 1916, following conscription, he was convicted as a deserter for ignoring the call-up. An idealistic, intelligent but mentally unstable young man, he also refused any other occupation that might indirectly support the war. Despite great pressure from family and friends to comply, he refused to change his mind and was subsequently imprisoned in Sterling Prison and fed only bread and water. He then went on hunger strike. After three months he began to get delusions that he was being hypnotised. He was eventually moved to a hospital where he was described as, ‘…silent, morose, depressed, staring into space, easily upset, at times agitated, talking to himself and occasionally violent.’ To cut a long story short, he was eventually diagnosed with schizophrenia and later ‘primary dementia’ with petit mal attacks. He lived the remainder of his life in psychiatric hospitals and died in 1965 at the age of 70. Though it is likely he already had some underlying psychiatric problems (following his mother’s death as a child and then being sent away to boarding school, he had exhibited strange behaviour) there can be no doubt that the brutal prison regime followed by insensitive medical care sent him over the edge and resulted in a wasted life of incarceration.

I am not a pacifist (anyway, I’m probably too much of a coward to declare myself a CO in the face of public condemnation, even if I secretly had sympathies with their views). Though I abhor violence it seems self-evident that occasionally there is no alternative. Simply on a domestic level, if you, members of your family or friends, are being attacked you must surely attempt to defend them – it’s instinctive. Extending that principle to one’s country, we sometimes have little option but to protect ourselves and our allies or interests, by force of arms. However, this should always be a last resort (both recent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, in my view, could have been avoided and much subsequently unrest and violence).

I’m not sure I approve of Ralph’s views or not. However, since we were fighting to defend civilised and democratic values surely his (and other COs) actions should have been given greater respect whether society agreed with them or not. Although few COs were executed for desertion, many ended up suffering ill-health through cruel treatment in prison. Quite a few committed suicide or, like Ralph, developed mental health problems caused, or exacerbated, by wartime experiences.

Ever since I discovered about my uncle a few years ago (it had been a family secret) I’d thought of writing a song about him. And now, with so much media attention given to commemorate 100 years since the outbreak of WWI, it seemed appropriate I should try and depict the struggles of people like Ralph. So far I’ve only managed to finish two verses (just one below) so it’s very much a work in progress.

AWARD OF THE WHITE FEATHER

Didn’t die in any battle, but he might have all the same.

No comrades there to honour him – no last post in the rain.

Wasn’t at Gallipoli, Passchendaele or Verdun,

Never shivered in the trenches or was deafened by the guns.

But when the war was over and the victory had been won,

He still lay in a prison cell, his sentence just begun.

C: And the one and only medal that he wore – the white feather.

Are Steve Knightley’s lyrics as cynical as they appear or is he just reporting others? Certainly its true that to be successful you need to be single minded and ambitious. Suze Rotolo, Bob Dylan’s girlfriend in the early Sixties, says in her autobiography that he was ‘persistant’ – though she was talking about his behaviour towards her, implied it covered his career too. She also describes some pretty shitty and ruthless behaviour towards other artists. Cat Stevens sang, ‘Baby, baby, it’s a hard world – hard to get by just upon a smile.’ Which I guess is good advice. You need to work hard in any field, even to ‘get by’ but to really make it you have to be determined and make many sacrifices. Whether you need to be cruel I’m not sure. Though medieval kings usually were cruel and ruthless to gain and maintain power or didn’t last long. In the folk world most people I know, including the successful ones, are modest and friendly (including Steve, I believe) – but then there’s no big money in it. Commercial entertainment is full of rogues, big egos and rip-of merchants who perhaps see themselves as royalty.

Like most of Knightley’s songs, this has a great tune and very catchy chorus. Powerfully sung too, as always.

BE LUCKY – by Steve Knightly

I went out in the world I lived in London town
Though I knew that those streets weren’t paved with gold
I looked up to a man and he never let me down
But he said if you want your music sold you should

Be smart or lucky
If you can’t break the mould, break the rules
Make friends or money
But if you would be King be cruel

There is no clockwork in the stars
No-one cares how good you are
Look around the world is full
Of hungry souls who want it all
Space inside they have to fill
Friendship they’re prepared to kill
Hunger is their guiding light
They scratch they claw they push they fight
Just to be lucky
(Vote for me)

Now I’ve come so far
People ask for clues
Saying how have you found the peace you’ve earned
It was one night in a bar
A young man on the move asked me
What’s the one thing that you’ve learnt
And I said

Be smart or lucky
If you can’t break the mould, break the rules
Make friends or money
But if you would be King be cruel

How much do you want the prize
Will you freely sacrifice
Pride and your integrity
For fortune and celebrity
Break the rules
You’d better be cruel
Break the rules
Be lucky

(Show Of Hands) from ‘Country Life’ 2003

‘Two teenage girls were raped, murdered and left hanging from a mango tree recently in the case which has shocked India.

Pappu, Awadhesh and Urvesh Yadav were arrested over the deaths of young cousins Murti and Pushpa. Now they have admitted raping and killing the two girls but two other suspects are still being sought by police. Residents of Katra village in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh now fear they could be targeted too. The case has prompted widespread outrage because the girls were targeted due to their low-caste status 

In addition to the three suspected murderers, two police officers have been arrested for allegedly ignoring the victims’ parents when they reported that the girls, aged 14 and 15, had gone missing. The girls’ murder has prompted protests in New Delhi and other Indian cities, in an echo of the outpouring of grief which came when a student was raped and killed on a bus in the capital in 2012. In their home village, poor locals described their worries that they would be vulnerable to a similar attack in the future. Murti and Pushpa disappeared on Tuesday night after going to a field near their home to relieve themselves, because they do not have their own toilet.  

Yesterday, his wife called for the killers to be executed, saying: ‘Money can’t bring back my daughter but the hanging of her killers would give peace to her soul.’ And Pushpa’s father Babu Ram accused the police of ignoring his family because they belong to the Dalit caste – formerly known as ‘untouchables’. He said: ‘At the police station, the first thing they asked is what caste we came from. And when we told them we were Dalits, they didn’t entertain our complaints.’ 

 Daily Mail report – 1 June 2014

Of course, this case and other similar ones is terrible. Unfortunately such barbarism is rife all over the world, especially in war zones. However abuse of women and children is also prevalent in supposedly ‘civilised’ countries. Nor are the vulnerable immune from celebrities, as we’ve seen recently with Rolf Harris and Jimmy Saville (and how many others one wonders?). My song here highlights this issue:

CODE OF SILENCE

She was just a poor young girl – never did no harm to no one.

But they took her off and carried out such violence.

And they did unspeakable things,

Then left her body hanging.

But no one dared to break the code of silence.

Someone’s brother, someone’s uncle,

someone’s cousin, someone’s friend,

It’s hard believing they were even there.

When you’ve known them all your life, maybe sisters and a wife,

But upon the code of silence, you’re bound to swear.

And it isn’t only one, any mother’s daughter or son,

Can easily become another victim

And to their eternal shame, powerful men avoid the blame,

Hiding behind the code of silence.

Is it in some distant land where civil war’s a-raging?

Where for the rule of law there is defiance?

No it’s in our own back yard – don’t have to look too hard,

But no one dares to break the code of silence.

No one dares to break the code of silence.

‘One hundred years ago, Robert Johnson was born in Mississippi – a dirt-poor, African-American who would grow up, learn to sing and play the blues, and eventually achieve worldwide renown. In the decades after his death, he has become known as the King of the Delta Blues Singers, his music expanding in influence to the point that rock stars of the greatest magnitude – the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, the Allman Brothers – all sing his praise and have recorded his songs.

He lived from 1911 to 1938 and recorded just 29 songs between 1936 and ‘37 for the American Record Corporation, which released eleven 78rpm records on their Vocalion label during Johnson¹s lifetime, and one after his death. When alive he was barely noticed but, some recordings were re-released in the early Sixties and suddenly he was acclaimed as a lost genius.

The power of Johnson’s music has been amplified over the years by the fact that so little about him is known and what little biographical information we now have only revealed itself at an almost glacial pace. Myths surrounding his life took over: that he was a country boy turned ladies’ man; that he only achieved his uncanny musical mastery after selling his soul to the devil. Even the tragedy of his death seemed to grow to mythic proportion: being poisoned by a jealous boyfriend then taking three days to expire, even as the legendary talent scout John Hammond was searching him out to perform at Carnegie Hall in New York City.’

From: http://www.robertjohnsonbluesfoundation.org/biography

My song was initially writen in the Sixties but dug up recently and totally revamped. The rant now is really a dig at musicians who copy indiscriminately off YouTube. Of course, we all view music online, no problem with that (in fact I’d recommend it except for the almost total absence of income for performers) but many make little attempt to develop the material themselves or even copy it to a reasonable standard. Where a good replica is achieved audiences may be happy but, though I can admire the skill, I decry the lack of originality. There’s also something a little sad about some white, English, comfortably middle class, guy aping a long dead black dude singing about having a ‘hell hound on my trail’. In the case of Robert Johnson (and many others) that wasn’t just poetic licence.

ROBERT JOHNSON’S GONE   

 Robert Johnson’s gone – he just walked out of here.

At least that’s who he sounded like – man I almost shed a tear.

He got it off-a YouTube – copied note for note,

Can a white man sing the blues? I don’t know. But he ain’t the real bloke.

Chorus – Coz Robert Johnson’s gone.  Robert Johnson’s gone. He’s real gone.

Blind Lemon is dead – and so is Sonny Boy.

You know how they played so well, oh yeah, it was the real McCoy.

Leadbelly and Sleepy John, Louisiana Red,

What unlikely names they had – but what terrible hard lives they led.

Ah but who was Robert Johnson? By the way.

King of the Delta blues. Many people say.

Even Eric Clapton said he was the best.

Only twenty seven when they laid his body to rest.

Some say he was murdered, with a dose of strychnine.

Leaving just a few recordings – as the only evidence he’d been.

You can drink your whisky. You can mess around.

You can stay out late at night, but watch out for that old hell hound.

Never take an open bottle, from a jealous man,

Or he’ll be dancing on your grave, just as soon as ever he can.

Waiting at the crossroads – sky’s a-turning black,

If you sell your soul tonight – won’t ever get it back.

It don’t matter who you are, even if you paid your dues.

You ain’t never gonna walk, in any old blues man’s shoes.

June – 2014

Along Greek Street, in the heart of Sixties Soho, there was this dingy basement folk club where some of the best musicians in the country (and  from the USA and elsewhere) played, sang and hung out. Though there were other folk clubs in London they were mostly in the suburbs – the back rooms of pubs or, occasionally, in coffee bars (The Troubadour near Earls Court, for example).

Davy Graham was probably the best and most influential guitarist who mixed traditional folk with flamenco, jazz, Indian and other Eastern melodies and rhythms. He was also the composer of Angie, a tune all aspiring folk musicians tried to play as a kind of apprentice piece.

Les Cousins was home to singer-songwriters who often felt uncomfortable in other clubs where prejudice against anything new was still prevalent. John Martyn, though he started out playing mostly traditional tunes, was an innovator who went on to experiment with all kinds of genres and styles (as well as writing some brilliant songs) and played at the Cousins often.

Jackson C Frank was one of my favourites – an American singer-songwriter who died a tragic and miserable death quite young. He’d suffered severe burns and other injuries (including psychological ones) as a child when a boiler exploded in his school, killing most of his classmates. He was persuaded to learn guitar when a teenager by a doctor as a form of therapy and came to the UK in his early twenties having secured a large compensation pay-out. He wrote some brilliant songs – simple, tuneful and poignant – and had a nice voice. After some initial success he started to go to pieces, not helped by drink and drugs, and finally returned home to the States, his money all blown. He was rediscovered in the late Eighties by a fan, living as a bum on the streets. An attempt was made to reinstate him but he died of pneumonia and cardiac arrest in Massachusetts, 1999, at the age of 56.

I visited Les Cousins a few times in those days (I remember seeing Cat Stevens once playing ‘I love My Dog’) and even played a bit, but I wasn’t good enough (or persistent enough) to get noticed. I also toured many other clubs around London but, for singer-songwriters, this was the best. Despite its insignificant size and position (you’d never have found it if you didn’t know it was there) Les Cousins hosted an incredible line-up of talent – many of whom played a significant role in forming the music of the following decades.

Recently, and for on particular reason, I wrote a tribute song to Les Cousins and the great musicians who played there.

SOHO IN THE SIXTIES

Soho in the Sixties with its seedy strip joints and bars,

And this one little dive in Greek St. where they played acoustic guitars.

Some called it Les Cousins and others ‘Lay Couzanne’,

But mostly we just called it where the new folk singers sang.

Soho in the Sixties, hanging about all night,

In a dark and dingy basement, like moths around a light.

Among the lost and lonesome, mostly playing for free,

Were many a-star of the future – hoping one might be me.

Soho in the Sixties, with its drunks and junkies and bums,

Improvised jazz in the alleys – and echoes of rock and roll drums.

But I guess we took no notice, way off in our own little scene,

Figuring how to play Angie, or what Roy Harper’s lyrics might mean.

Soho in the Sixties, mixing the old and the new.

Like a maid went out one morning, with the California day dreaming blue

Singer-songwriters were heroes – revolution was in the air.

Along with the wacky tobaccy, and a surplus of bodily hair.

Soho in the Sixties – I recall one Ralph McTell,

Singing ‘bout the streets of Paris where he’d busked along for a spell.

Paul Simon got up for a quid or two, instead of the millions today,

And the amazing Davey Graham, man he blew us all away.

Soho in the Sixties with Bobby, Tom, Joni and Jack,

Over the pond from America, far richer upon their way back.

And taking a big ocean liner, was poor old Jackson C Frank,

Who ended up in a gutter – after once nearly breaking the bank.

Soho in the Sixties, with John Renbourn and Bert Jansch.

And the wonderful Sandy Denny who had us all in a trance.

Cat Stevens, Nick Drake and Al Stewart, the Incredible String Band and more,

And too many others to mention, walked in that wagon wheel door.

Soho in the Sixties with a girl named Sexy Sue,

A beautiful mandolin player, who broke my young heart in two.

But I guess I became kinda bitter – when she turned my offers all down,

Don’t know if she ever made it, coz soon after then I left town.

Soho in the Sixties – now mostly all swept away.

Just like the rest of old London – it’s a corporate vision today,

And folk singers with guitars are nothing but living antiques,

Can’t even give ‘em away, down on Carnaby Street.