Thinking of doing a show at the Edinburgh Fringe next year based on my book, The Singer-Songwriter’s Last Stand, which would probably feature songs by Woody among others. At present I’m just gathering information about the festival – it’s a daunting prospect but exciting all the same. Anyway, I came up with this tribute song which I’ll maybe enter for Woody Fest next year as well (though don’t see how I could afford to go to America). I also want to put more of my songs on YouTube , when I get the time, and this would be a good candidate I think.

WOODY GUTHRIE SANG 

Woody Guthrie you sang us America’s song,

And all the world over your name will live on.

The stories you told us all rang so true,

Of justice and freedom and peace,

And those poor working man’s blues.

You sang about hobos down on their luck,

Of gamblers and outlaws who’d fight for a buck.

And poor dustbowl farmers with nothing to lose,

Rocking and rolling along, with those poor working man’s blues.

How I remember when as a young man,

I hit on the highway to travel this land.

And though it was far from the old USA

This land is our land as well, that’s what Woody would say.

Some called you a commie but I laughed when you said,

All of your life you had been in the red.

You fought against fascists and all slavery,

And spoke up for everyday folks, wherever they might be.

The sign by the road said no trespassing here,

Keep off this land, yes, the message was clear.

But on the other there was nothing to see,

That was the side that was made, for you and for me

Some of my song is taken from Woody’s, ‘This Land Is Your Land’ which, some said at the time, indicated his radical Commie views. Maybe, but I don’t thing he was really into party politics, it was more simple human rights that mattered to him.

THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND (one verse and chorus)

“As I went walking I saw a sign there

And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.”

But on the other side it didn’t say nothing,

That side was made for you and me.

This land is your land, this land is my land

From California to the New York island

From the Redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters

This land was made for you and me.”

Woody spoke about human rights and his feelings towards ordinary people in other ways too, in books, newspaper articles and on radio.

“I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim or too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard travelling. I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. I could hire out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own kind of songs and to sing the kind that knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at you even more and the ones that make you think that you’ve not got any sense at all. But I decided a long time ago that I’d starve to death before I’d sing any such songs as that. The radio waves and your movies and your jukeboxes and your songbooks are already loaded down and running over with such no good songs as that anyhow.”

Here’s a nice picture of my three year old grand daughter, Evie, playing peek-a-boo. It has little to do with my new song below – but who cares?

THE KEY TO A HAPPY LIFE

Everybody wants to know everybody’s business,

That’s all they want to know.

Poking their noses where they don’t belong now,

No wonder those noses grow.

No, no, no… No wonder those noses grow.

The key to a happy life is to mind your own business,

And don’t go messing where you don’t belong.

The key to a happy life is to mind your own business,

You know that I’m right coz I sure ain’t wrong.

Tinker, tailor, soldier and a sailor,

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.

They’ve all got a job to do.

You lazy whatsit – so how about you?

Down in the valley in the old back alley,

There is Mrs Muddle on Jeremy Kyle,

Ranting and a-raving and a-misbehaving,

Meanwhile her kids are all a-running wild.

Down the ages turn the history pages,

Kings and emperors went to war.

Leaving a trail of death and destruction,

They all thought they were above the law.

The next door neighbour’s having a party,

Enough damn noise to waken the dead.

Don’t they realize people are sleeping?

They need it like a bang on the head.

One, two, three, four, five – BANG!   (X2)

I was listening to BBC Radio 4 the other day – I think maybe Woman’s Hour – and there was this woman (fair enough) rattling on about the difficulties of making her way through the higher education system having been brought up on a council estate. One major problem, it turned out was her Northern accent which came in for discrimination, often subtle or hidden. She did not sound particularly old, maybe mid-thirties, and I wouldn’t have thought betraying one’s origins from beyond the Home Counties wouldn’t have mattered much these days. In fact it could even be seen as an advantage since many middle-class people now disguise their roots with estuary English in much the same way as most also wear tee shirts and jeans to appear more homogenous or blokey. Anyway, this woman on Woman’s Hour seemed to be labouring the point unnecessarily so I thought I’d put the alternative view. I’ve read this poem a few times in folk clubs, assuming a cod northern accent (impressions never were my strong point – I’m especially crap at accents), but it seems to go down well, and the more I over-act the better.

UPSTARTS

Ya educated working class?

Ain’t nowt but an effing pain in the…

Ah, well, thou knows what I bleedin’ mean,

Upstarts of the social mobility machine.

Regards themselves as bloody bee’s knees,

With their Bachelors of Arts and PhDs

Beaten ta pulp in old school yard,

For readin’ books and not being hard.

While normal folks was down at mill

Or beggin’ coal and eatin’ swill,

Then suppin’ ale or tossing darts,

Shagging barmaid or lightin’ farts.

By God we knowed ‘ow ta ‘ave a good time,

Shit for brains but where’s the crime?

But yer educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Ah, well… what with higher education,

Reckoning that’s their rightful station,

Where, what with social discrimination,

They had to make do with ingratiation.

Then, as up the greasy pole did climb,

Till, finally, at Prime Minister’s question time,

The honourable gentlemen in grey suits,

Betray their very northern roots,

Do quibble and quail making points of order,

But really, it were, oh Maggie how we did adore yer.

Yer educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Ah, now… give me toffs any day o’ week,

Despite the poncey way they speak.

Coz… you knew where you were in them olden days,

Never mind lord and lady’s fancy ways.

Though they treated us folk like muck,

Behind their backs did we give a…

For instance… though they paid us almost nowt,

And from tied cottages kicked us out,

If we got old or sick or weak,

And had no vote and could not speak…

But – didn’t we all know our places?

Behind our pale and dirty faces,

We was proud to be working class.

Always and ever – a right fucking pain in the arse

UPSTARTS

Ya educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Well you know what I bleedin’ mean,

Upstarts of the social mobility machine.

Regards themselves as bloody bee’s knees,

With their Bachelors of Arts and PhDs

Oh I recall back in old school yard,

They was soft as mother’s cooking lard.

Readin’ books in French and Greek,

And languages no buggers speak.

While normal folks was down at mill

Or beggin’ coal and eatin’ swill,

Then suppin’ ale or tossing darts,

Shagging barmaid or lightin’ farts.

By God we knowed ‘ow ta ‘ave a good time,

Shit for brains – but what’s the crime?

But ya educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Well… what with higher education,

Reckoning that’s their rightful station,

Where, due to social discrimination,

They have to make do with ingratiation.

Then, as up the greasy pole do climb,

Till, finally, at Prime Minister’s question time,

The honourable gentlemen in grey suits,

Betray their very northern roots,

Do quibble and quail making points of order,

But really, it were, oh Maggie how we adored her.

Ya educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Now… give me toffs any day o’ week,

Despite the poncey way they speak.

Coz… you knew where you were in them old days,

What with lord and lady’s fancy ways.

Though they treated us folk like muck,

Behind their backs did we give a…?

For instance – though they paid us nowt,

And from tied cottages kicked us out,

If we got old or sick or weak,

Had no vote and could not speak,

But – didn’t we all know our places?

Despite our pale and dirty faces.

We was proud to be working class,

Always and ever – a right fucking pain in the ass.

I know the arguments are complex but it still sickens me to hear of grown men (and women) getting a kick out of slaughtering big game animals. If they love these creatures as much as they say why can’t they just go and observe them and take photos? What’s the point in killing them? Is it to have pictures such as the one above? Or maybe to get a stuffed head on their wall as a memento to show off to their friends? Whatever the reason I don’t see how it can be justified, especially with all the scientific research indicating massive declines in most animal populations through habitat loss, poaching, and various environmental factors. Anyway, for what good it may do, I wrote this song – and, though it’s meant to be humorous, mean every word of it.

GOODBYE BUFFALO BILL            

C: Goodbye Buffalo Bill, it’s time for you to go,

No more herds a-roaming on the plains of the buffalo.

The lion and the tiger, the elephant and the bear,

The rhino and the antelope, endangered everywhere.

You shoot ‘em in the back, you bang ‘em on the head,

These wild wild animals, you’d rather see ‘em dead.

The law of the wild west is all you seem to care about

Blood and guts and thunder – oh boy you better watch out.

From Africa to Asia, all around the Pacific rim,

Wild, wild animals, ain’t nothing safe from him.

But soon there will be nothing left, no creatures left to shoot,

Except maybe other hunters, now wouldn’t that be cute?

Men with long range rifles, spoiling for a fight,

Like wild, wild animals – maybe then they’d know what it’s like.

To kill or to be killed – only thing they seem to respect,

And who’s got the biggest trophy to hang up by the neck.

Ain’t it a pity we can’t hang them instead,

Like wild, wild animals, bodies full of lead?

Some shoot for the fur trade, the ivory or the bones,

All for the love of money we’ll soon here be all alone.

In a world deprived of nature how could not carry on?

Without wild, wild animals we won’t be here for long.

There’s plenty more where they came from gun – fun

and if there’s not who cares?

The last of the big game hunters

The CD launch dates and venues are finally fixed – so everything’s looking good. All we have to do is sell a few more CD/booklets so we can cover costs and give a donation to the Justice & Peace charity. The contributing artists have done well, playing magnificently on the recording sessions and then buying and helping to sell CDs – but now we need to reach out to the public.

The problems faced by refugees will not be going away any time soon unfortunately – nor will media coverage which is often negative and emotive. My point of view is simply that we, in wealthier and more stable countries, should be helping people fleeing war, famine and social upheaval which, in most cases, is not of their making. As I have discovered, the refugees are just human beings like us who want to live in peace. Who can blame them seeking sanctuary here and in other European countries?

At the same time our government should be doing all it can to solve the political causes of the problems, in as peaceful a way as is possible. Simplistic, maybe, and the situation is vastly complex and will no doubt become worse before it gets better. In the meantime we should not demonise the victims, nor erect barbed wire fences (real and metaphorical) which will solve nothing.

In the meantime, we musicians, along with other good hearted folk, can do our bit to support a great local charity that is offering practical assistance to men, women and children in dire need.

We finally got into the Y Studio two weeks ago to record our compilation album (2 CDs) to raise money for the Justice and Peace Refugee Project. There are just over 30 numbers ranging from original to cover songs, instrumentals and poetry. Over the weekend each artiste or band was initially given an hour to record their piece but, owing to the demand to participate, some performers only got half an hour – but most completed their thing in one take. No double tracking or over-dubs were allowed, though we did make a couple of exceptions to add some harmonica and mandolin.

Now I’m ploughing through the tedious bit – collating all the lyrics and personnel details for the sleeve notes. We also took loads of photos so I’m trying to sort them out too for insertion in the accompanying booklet. Next will come the launch party – still to be arranged.

Below is Rea Brown – uke player extraordinaire.

Here’s Gerry, co-producer and great musician, with his daughter Aine. Joe Crane, Irish piper, sitting.

A couple of months ago I took part in a concert to raise money for a Newcastle project which collects groceries and clothes for refugees. Recently I decided to take it further and contacted the charity organisers, John and Audrey Marshall, and they invited me to meet their clients and fellow support workers. Most of the attendees are asylum seekers, some of whom have been trying for years to be accepted. I spoke with one chap from Kurdistan called Ari Mohammed who had been in the UK for 13 years, was married to an English woman and had two daughters (he proudly showed me their photos). Though his wife could work here and his children attended British schools (and only spoke English) his asylum application continued to be refused though he did not know why. Another chap, Sami from the Sudan, had been here for 18 months, was now studying English at Newcastle College and keen to work. He said it had taken 3 months to get here, mostly held up in Italy getting registered. Two other young men, who had only been here 3 months, came from Eritrea and were still struggling with our language which they realised was quite a handicap.

I also spoke with the dedicated staff who, it was clear, were motivated by a simple humanitarian desire to help and support these vulnerable people. Given that many are technically homeless (sleeping on friend’s floors and sofas, etc,) and must survive only on charitable hand-outs and a pitiful £39 per week Government allowance, it can hardly be said they have come here to scrounge. Obviously, in the long run, there have to be international agreements and peace-making initiatives in the war-torn countries of origin, but for now we who have so much should do all we can to support those in need – it’s simply about decent human behaviour. That’s my belief anyway.

Our next move is to make a musical recording – maybe a single or maybe an album, we don’t know yet – along with a short video, and get it out there to start raising money for the charity.

Bruce Springsteen, in 2013, remarked: ‘Musicians are a sorry lot who destroy lives and can’t manage their money or their relationships,’ as he accepted the MusiCares Person of the Year Award on Friday night in downtown Los Angeles. But, he added, they’re also a glorious fraternity who make life worth living.’

In his speech, which came about midnight after a long and stirring show in which musicians like Mumford & Sons, Elton John, Neil Young, John Legend and Alabama Shakes performed his songs, Springsteen offered appreciation to the Grammy charity MusiCares for its help with musicians in need of aid.

“Thank you MusiCares for taking care of musicians, because we are bad with our money,” he said, prompting laughter among the 3,000 people in the huge hall at the Los Angeles Convention Center.

“We spend too much on the wrong things … We love the wrong people. We are the wrong people … We fuck up many people’s lives while setting fire to our own dancing down the street.”

And yet, he said, music is a vital force in life. “You can’t  triumph without music, because music is life.”

He added that the Taliban (and, of course, other fundamentalists) had banned music and dancing – yet these were the most natural responses of people everywhere, expressing feelings of joy and freedom. Most creatures, he went on, sing and dance (in their own way) so to repress it was to try and repress life itself.

I took this idea of singing and dancing being banned by revolutionaries – afraid perhaps of its power. But throughout history many political establishments have criticised or tried to supress music and dancing as they know it may be subversive. Here’s my take – inspired by Springsteen’s words.

REVOLUTION BALL (The)

They’re tearing up the carpets at the revolution ball,

Along with all the buildings that used to stand so tall.

But there’s nothing much to cheer about, given half a chance,

Just more executions for those who sing and dance

C:  Ooh ooh… those who sing and dance.

There’s blood upon the highway and in the market square,

Body parts are flying like matchsticks in the air.

But they’re all bound for paradise you hear the mad men’s chants,

But I don’t see no virgins queuing up to dance.

Can’t you hear the birdies? The whistling on the wind?

Every one of God’s creatures sometimes has to sing.

And it ain’t for the money, the fortune or the fame,

Just for joy of living – and to cry, ‘let freedom reign’.

There’s death and destitution among the refugees,

Fleeing from the conflict upon their hands and knees.

Their homeland’s turned to rubble in the worst of circumstance,

Let’s hope that one of these days they may sing and dance.

Last night, just after 7.00pm, I switched on Radio 4 while wallowing in my bath. As the dreaded Archers theme faded I quickly switched to Rado 4 Extra, hoping for some classic comedy such as Steptoe and Son, The Goons, Round The Horn, Dad’s Army or Hancock’s Half Hour (it’s not just nostalgia that has me laughing out loud at these gems). However, being a Sunday, there was Mystery Theatre – old American detective stories and the like. In this case it was Rocky Fortune, broadcast in 1953 and starring Frank Sinatra as a drifter employed by an agency in various jobs but who usually found himself helping to save sweet innocent ‘chick’ in distress. It was originally broadcast by NBC, following Dragnet in the schedules, and had the same streetwise language and self-deprecating New York humour. Unfortunately I found it hard to understand more than the odd word as the sound quality was somewhat abrasive and, as I was washing, had to contend with irregular splashes and gurgles.

So I switched over to Radio 2 – not something I usually do unless there’s a programme I want to hear like Mark Radcliffe’s Folk Show or Bob Harris Country (I do sometimes listen to others, but that’s usually in the car) – and blow me down but they were playing Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’. The presenter (it may have been Michael Ball) said the song had been written by Paul Anka. After I’d got over the strange coincidence of meeting up with Frank (also my father’s name) so unexpectedly back-to-back as it were, I mused on the great good fortune of the composer who could have retired in some splendour on the proceeds from the many subsequent recordings and performances (though, of course, Paul Anka was already very wealthy with many hits to his credit). In fact Anka wrote the song specifically for Sinatra, using words and phrases he knew would appeal to the star. He also adapted the melody from a French song he’d heard on holiday there and so was obliged to share royalties.

So what is coincidence? Carl Yung called it synchronicity but despite some long quasi-scientific terminology does not really explain it (to me anyway). By its nature coincidence is irrational, eerie, inexplicable and therefore, like God some might say, a waste of time attempting to grapple with. But I disagree. Not that I have any explanation myself but only feel that sometimes it’s good to be reminded of our deficiencies or limitations. It’s easy to believe we have most things covered, scientifically speaking, but that’s probably what the Victorians, or even the ancient Egyptians and Romans thought too. Who knows what may be uncovered in hundreds or thousands of years from now? Coincidence is reminder that not everything has a convincing theoretical basis – and maybe never will – but remains a mystifying reality just the same.

A friend from Cambridge, a great lap steel guitar player, put me onto Folkstreams.net which is a great film resource of mostly archive material on folk activities. Music is one of the main topics (but also arts, crafts, industries, social life, etc) and there’s some fascinating films from people like Alan Lomax, Pete Seeger and other revivalists. One film is about the legendary Peg Leg Pete who spent all his life travelling around, scratching a living in many ways, but also playing harmonica and singing as a busker and later in Medicine shows. This is what is said of him:

 Born Arthur Jackson in Jonesville, South Carolina, United States, to David Jackson, a farmer and native of Virginia, and Emma Jackson, Arthur was the fourth of six children. His fraternal great-grandmother, Racheal Williams, was born 1810 in Colonial Virginia, and was commonly referred to as a mulatto. She may have had a Caucasian mother or father, most likely, a Caucasian father, as this would have been typical for the time period.

Arthur taught himself to play harmonica as a small child but resented school, left home at the age of 12, and never stopped roving. He shined shoes, acted as a house boy, cooked on ships, hoboed, then made a living busking on street corners. Arthur lost his leg trying to hop a train but made a peg out of a fencepost, bound it to his stub with a leather belt and kept moving.

Arthur’s ability to play 2 harmonicas at once (while one went in and out of his mouth) made him an attraction and he went on to perform in patent-medicine shows. He could also play notes on his harmonica with his nose. Arthur went on to marry Theo S. Jackson, who was 18 years older than him, and the mother of Herbert Miller and Katherine Miller, both natives of Tennessee. Peg Leg Sam gave his last medicine-show performance in 1972 in North Carolina, but continued to appear at music festivals in his final years.

He died in Jonesville in October 1977, at the age of 65.