Saw the recent BBC doc about Nashville – described on their website as; ‘‘Whispering’ Bob Harris journeys to America’s country music capital and reveals why Nashville became Music City USA. From the beginnings of the Grand Ole Opry on commercial radio, through the threatening onset of rock ‘n’ roll in the 1950s, right up to the modern mainstream hits of Music Row, this is the story of how music has shaped Nashville and why today it’s a place of pilgrimage for musicians from all over the world.’

Bob Harris is an easy-going and knowledgeable host and gave a good over-view of Nashville’s history along with the leading stars who made it so important. However, most of the recent singers and their songs seemed bland despite Bob’s assertion to the contrary (and the girl who sang about gay rights and smoking pot? New? Phew!) probably wouldn’t have got away with it without her old-fashioned good looks. The main trouble, to my mind, is that though country music artists make a point of mentioning their humble origins (and their audience’s) but ignore much of that in their lyrics. Instead they mostly sing about the same thing – love (or lack of it). One of the main reasons, I guess, is commercial – the same as for pop.

When I went to Oklahoma a few years ago (for Woody Fest, the Woody Guthrie* annual festival) we flew from Canada over the Mid West and I was amazed to see a seemingly endless patchwork of giant fields. Brought up on old cowboy films which portrayed America as wild, rugged and mostly mountainous I was somewhat disappointed to see this tame chequerboard. I later watched a documentary about factory farming – how most farms now keep thousands of animals penned up indoors – and my disillusionment was complete. America still peddles the old cowboy image of itself, especially through country music, but it’s long ceased to be true. Anyway, I wrote ‘Ghost of an Apache’ in response.

*Woody Guthrie could never have been accused of ignoring ‘real’ issues in his writing. Maybe that was because he cared far more about people and their problems than commercial success.

Just finished reading ‘Some People Are Crazy: The John Martyn Story’, a biography by John Neil Munro. According to one reviewer, ‘Munro does a good of job of weaving together the twin threads of Martyn’s remarkable musical career and the old rock-and-roll cliché of his self-destructive personal life. The book’s great strength is that he has access to many of the key sources: not just Martyn himself but musical collaborators – and great musicians in their own right – such as Ralph McTell, Dave Pegg and the incomparable Danny Thompson.’

All that’s true. I read the book over the weekend, mostly on the train to and back from London, and it certainly helped the time pass quickly. I was also delighted to get a brief mention at the end of the book where his early gigs in London folk clubs are listed. Many of the venues he played in, the Folk Barge (Kingston upon Thames), Cousins and Bunjies (Soho), Ewell Folk Club (which I MCd), Richmond Hanging Lamp Club, Putney Half Moon, Troubadour, Teddington New Anglers (which I also MCd briefly) and lots more around the area were ones I also played in. It was an exciting time when singer-songwriters were really on the up and many acoustic performers, like Paul Simon, Cat Stevens, Elvis Costello, etc, were to became famous.

At the time I was going under the name Steve Baker (embarrassingly I even tried out Steve Candy for a while). Obviously I was not in John Martyn’s league as a guitar player but he was a nice friendly guy then (not always later on according to many accounts) and very approachable. However, in 1968 I got out of the scene – sold my guitar, put my song books in the fire (really) and sought pastures new. I didn’t have half his talent, never mind stamina or capacity for drink and drugs. Of course, that was not the end and I’ve continued in music in other ways.

The last time I saw him was around the mid Eighties, playing at a riverside Art Centre venue in West London. The crowd loved him and, musically, he was very good. However it only confirmed my feeling that I made the right decision to get out while I could and become a teacher. The book only reinforced this. Had I continued in the music business back then it’d undoubtedly have ended badly (I’d be prematurely dead like him). Martyn may say he had no regrets but I don’t believe it – just look at the difference between his young and older self. He may have been a tremendous musician but he hammered his mind and body, as well as testing many of the friends and especially women in his life.

Broken Biscuits’ new album from Maurice Baker – a songwriter telling elemental tales

You know how it goes – read a book, hear a song, see a play and sometimes there’s an immediate connection. Occasionally, the same thing happens with people. I find that such links usually come with those who ply their trade across a slightly eccentric curve. Not sure what that says about me or them, but who cares. This recent train of thought began after listening to ‘Broken Biscuits’, the new album from Maurice Baker, songwriter, singer, writer and creator of those rather special characters *Alwyn Stevens and *Arthur Grimsby. Delivered in an adroitly idiosyncratic style, ‘Broken Biscuits’ is one man’s view of stories personal, communal, invented and unprecedented.

From the profound and multifaceted message of the title track ‘Broken Biscuits’, through the authentic and somewhat reminiscent narrative ‘Looking for the Rolling Stones’, to a tough tale of abuse of the elderly in ‘Mumble and Moan’ and ‘Daisy Chain’ about the simple joys of ‘being together’ with that particular person, these songs tell tales that make their simple messages utterly insightful. Combining views of hard times, sad stories and cherished moments with a wicked sense of humour and creativity touched with necessary sarcasm, ‘Broken Biscuits’ is a more than worthy follow up to his previous album ‘The Singer Songwriter’s Last Stand’.

The songs take you on a rollercoaster ride, the wry smile generated by ‘Crazy Life On The Road’, the heartfelt sadness of ‘Kaikoura’, the sense of ultimate waste in ‘Five Hundred Souls’ (telling the tale of Kimberley McCarthy executed by the State of Texas) and a final ray of hope in ‘The Lighthouse Keeper’. You could argue it requires a certain descent into the vale of years or a well-travelled roadmap of experience to identify with these songs, that may be true, but I think it requires no more than the desire to listen to a songwriter telling elemental tales.

The musicians on ‘Broken Biscuits’ are Maurice Baker (guitar, banjo, keyboards and percussion) Jackie Manai (fiddle) Mike Hirst (melodeon) and Stew Rickard (melodeon and washboard).

Tim Carroll – Folk Words  www.folkwords.com (October 06, 2014)

The above review couldn’t be nicer – thanks Tim, much appreciated.

The photo was taken at The Stan Folk Club recently (low lights and dark clothing hide a multitude).

A good friend of mine saw Dylan play live in New Zealand recently (for the first and last time) and, though a life-long fan, had to admit the event was disappointing. The Great Man’s only acknowledgement of the audience’s existence came at halftime, apparently, when Dylan said brusquely, ‘We’re going for a break now.’ I’ve seen him myself a few times and have mixed experiences – and though find his inconsistency frustrating can hardly complain of being surprised. Just check out the many You Tube clips to see any number of patchy performances – including a concert (forget which one) where Richard Thompson on back-up guitar frankly blows the star out of the water.

But. But. But. A recent documentary on Sky Arts focused Bob’s early years showed him brilliantly playing acoustic in various venues including various TV shows and the famous occasion when Martin Luther King gave his ‘I have a dream’ speech. The programme featured his first four albums which were largely recorded very quickly (The Times They Are A Changing in one day, so we were told) and with little or no other instrumentalists. The grainy black and white footage revealed Dylan’s very simple guitar technique – mostly just three chord strumming – and boyish charisma. Most strikingly, though, was to be reminded of how many amazingly good songs he wrote in that short period. Had he never written another number following that time he’d still be one of the most important sing-songwriters of the post war period (WWII – now).

The show did not cover any electric stuff though commentators remarked how Dylan was ready to move on and, despite protests from fans, had never considered himself a folk artist in the first place. He was, and is, I suppose, primarily a poet – albeit one with a highly tuned ear for melody.

My one big criticism of ‘Bob Dylan – The Folk Years’ was the constant interruptions from ‘experts’ (mainly music journalists) throughout the rare film footage which was mostly not previously shown. A lot of these archive TV shows ruin perfectly good clips to interject ‘wise’ or ‘witty’ banter – which is all too easy and usually irrelevant after the event. In this particular case I’d have really liked to see all the old films of Dylan playing coffee bars and little venues in the early Sixties, even if it was filmed on primitive hand-held cameras with lousy sound quality. What was most important, and really striking, was that despite these technical faults ( and Bob Dylan’s unsophisticated delivery and appearance) his genius shone through. Virtually every track on all his first four albums is memorable and still relevant today (as demonstrated by the number of covers continually done by other artists around the world). I always was, and remain, one of Bob’s biggest fans – even if, as remarked in an earlier blog post, the man himself is/was a shit (no personal evidence for this of course). 

This is the fishing vessel Atlantic Endeavour, blown ashore near Cow Head, Newfoundland in 2011. It was caught in a severe storm and struck a rocky shoal. The two man crew were rescued by helicopter.

Looking at the records, hundreds of ships have come to grief around the Canadian coast and in the past many communities regarded spoils from these tragedies as fair game – as have seaside folk all over the world. The original poem by Theodore Goodridge Roberts (1877 – 1953) was written in dialect and paints a grim but realistic picture of attitudes to wrecks among Newfoundlanders a hundred or so years ago.

I have re-written the poem, omitting out-dated words, and generally making it more accessible (I hope). By the way, Show of Hands quote part of the poem in their song of the same name – but I didn’t get the idea from them. My starting point was the ‘oh, oh, oh,’ chorus section – then I went to my trusty Billy the Kid – ‘an anthology of tough verse’ edited by Michael Baldwin and found Roberts’ poem. It’s not surprising Show of Hands also chose this – as I’ve discovered before, good material is recognised by others too. Incidentally, Steve Knightly has returned to the wreckers’ theme in other songs (that is, people who salvage goods along the shoreline rather than those who use lights intended to lure ships onto rocks).

THE WRECKERS’ PRAYER  – MB © 2014

God of reefs and tides and sky, see our need and hear our cry.

Bread in the bag and beef in the cask, ease our bellies is all we ask.

C:        Oh, oh, oh. Give us a wreck! Oh Lord, give us a wreck.

Give us a wreck we pray good Lord, and we will shout ‘Man overboard!’

Winters here in Newfoundland, chill the bones of beast or man.

Give us a wreck we humbly pray, no harm done but who can say.

Mighty storms along this coast, come and go like the holy ghost

Give us a wreck or maybe two, just enough to see us through.

Till Spring starts up like a brand new day, and fish swim back into the bay.

Loud and long we’ll sing your praise, merciful Father till the end of days.

Master of fog and tide and reef, give as a wreck to stem our grief.

THE WRECKERS’ PRAYER ©  Theodore Goodridge Roberts

Give us a wrack or two, Good Lard,

For winter in Tops’il Tickle bes hard,

Wild grey frost creepin’ like mortal sin

And perishin’ lack of bread in the bin.

A grand, rich wrack, us do humbly pray,

Busted abroad at the break o’ day

An’ hove clear in ‘crost Tops’il Reef,

Wid victuals an’ gear to beguile our grief.

God of reefs an’ tides an’ sky,Heed

Ye our need an’ hark to our cry!

Bread by the bag an’ beef by the cask.

Ease for sore bellies bes all we ask.

One grand wrack–or maybe two?

Wid gear an’ victuals to see through’

Til Spring starts up like the leap of day

An’ the fish strike back into Tops’il Bay.

One rich wrack–for Thy hand bes strong!

A barque or a brig from up-along

Bemused by Thy twisty tides, O Lard!

For winter in Tops’il Tickle bes hard.

Loud an’ long will us sing Yer praise,

Marciful Fadder, O Ancient of Days,

Master of fog an’ tide an’ reef!

Heave us a wrack to beguile our grief. Amen.

Heaton Stannington Football Club, aka ‘The Stan’, Newton Road, Newcastle upon Tyne  NE7 7HP is the venue for a new folk club started by John Harris and, as from last night, hosted by me. The room is a social club, rectangular with wooden beams and a low stage area at the far end. There is also a saloon bar off to one side of the entrance. There’s a PA system and good acoustics, though at times the audience were a bit noisy (though, to be honest, performers need to confront this and find ways of dealing with it themselves). Unplugged clubs have far less problem with audience chatter as they aren’t drowned out by speakers – generally I prefer unplugged as, strangely enough, you have more control of the sound and better contact with the audience.

Last night there were about half-a-dozen acts, including a local duo called Brenda and Andy, a singer-songwriter from Durham named John Brindle, Berking Mad (Gerry and Mike from the Berkeley Tavern), myself and country music quartet called the Moonshine Stragglers.

Before the evening kicked off I was wondering why John had asked me to do the gig – on the evidence of my performing one song (a piss-take of Richard Thompson) on my previous visit, I assumed. However, once I got going the nerves vanished and I felt very much at home, not only on stage but also in the host role chatting to performers and punters. Though John (Harris) expressed disappointment at not having a full house I was actually quite satisfied knowing how hard it is to get audiences along to folk clubs, especially non-performers (most clubs are almost exclusively players). My only disappointment was the relative lack of fellow singers – hopefully things will improve as, in the end, people will only turn up if the entertainment is of reasonable standard (though a good bar helps).

However, generally speaking, I was happy with the night’s events – I hope everyone else was too.

and a

We were having an argument recently, Sofie and I, about the problems of illegal immigrants, especially those attempting to smuggle into the UK from ports such as Calais. Her argument was simple; send the whole lot back where they came from. But what if their homes and livelihoods are destroyed and their countries in turmoil? In any case, even if they are ‘economic migrants’ who can blame them wanting to improve their chances in Europe or the USA, etc? Of course, there are no easy solutions.

However, I did some checking and was amazed to discover the vast and growing extent of the problem. According to the Guardian website, ‘The total number of people forcibly displaced worldwide has reached 45.2m people, the highest level in almost 20 years, according to a report published today by the UN’s High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR).’

To ease our consciences we tend to demonise anyone attempting to move here, for whatever reason however genuine, but the true reasons are usually complex. We should also not forget that most Europeans have very mixed parentage going back centuries. It may be self evident that a relatively small country like Britain cannot sustain immigration indefinitely and restrictions must be imposed, but let’s not forget most of these people work hard and contribute a great deal (which many of our indigenous population do not).

Anyway, here’s my musical take on the problem:

NOBODY WANTS THE REFUGEE

Nobody wants the refugee, drifting on a restless sea,

Hopes and dreams are sinking fast – a better life is all he asks.

No one hears his desperate cry, as the ship goes down and many die.

But who can point the finger of blame,

At a hungry man calling out in vain?

Nobody wants the refugee, though he’s no different to you or me.

Skin and bone – heart and soul,

Head hung down with a begging bowl.

Maybe tonight he can rest his head,

Away from those who’d shoot him dead.

And in the morning – anything goes.

Gotta keep on moving, down a lonesome road.

Nobody wants the refugee, in no-man’s land on live TV.

Or at the gates fighting to get in,

With his stranger’s ways and weather beaten skin.

Cause you never know – life isn’t fair,

He’ll take what’s ours – and leave none to spare.

Better now to turn him around,

Back where he came from onto stony ground.

Nobody wants the refugee, his ragged clothes and hard luck story.

His broken home – or motherless child.

We got our own problems – not reconciled.

But one of these days – gonna have to face,

We’re all a part of one human race.

And you never know, maybe you or me,

Could be a-drifting on a restless sea.

Could be a-drifting as a refugee.

Doctor Who, in a preview for the new BBC TV series, was shown with Robin Hood and Maid Marion. There was humour mixed with the usual sci-fi hokum which, to be honest, doesn’t appeal to me. However, it gave us the idea for a song. Tales of outlaws in Sherwood Forest have long been turned into entertainment – going back hundreds of years. It’s easy to see why; Robin and his merry gang aren’t just a bunch of uncouth muggers, but misunderstood freedom fighters outwitting the ruthless tyranny of rich and powerful lords and masters. Such stories have always appealed to the masses who almost always feel cheated and mistreated by those in power. Hollywood (and the BBC, etc) continue to reinterpret such myths and no doubt will always do so. So why not me?

However, film and TV companies have their own agendas and never let the truth get in the way of a good story. History, in particular, is frequently mangled. Two recent fact-based dramas for example were good entertainment but I wonder how far they’d strayed from reality. The first, ‘Our Zoo’ about the family who bought a crumbling old mansion in the 1930s and turned the grounds into an animal park (Chester Zoo)despite having no experience or capital, was heart-warmingly good entertainment but probably some distance from actuality (but who cares – it was enjoyable family viewing). The other show starred Eddie Izard as Robert Watson Watt, an eccentric Met Office boffin who (or so it was implied) almost single-handedly saved this country from destruction in the Battle of Britain by developing a radar detection system enabling the RAF to counter-attack approaching Luftwaffe planes. Watt’s team consisted of equally eccentric and unlikely boffins who seemed happier playing silly ball games on the beach (in between flashes of blinding inspiration) or scribbling indecipherable nonsense onto a blackboard than actually making progress at their allotted task. It may be that Eddie and his potty chums were starved of funds and resources as was shown, but the real point, so it seemed to me, was to depict them as struggling outsiders for dramatic effect rather than to illuminate history. Of course, I may be wrong, but as time goes on there are fewer and fewer people who were actually around during those pre-war days to argue, so it seems likely liberties will increasingly be taken. Hollywood, of course, has never had any misgivings about re-writing history, especially when it comes to wars which, as we know, were all won single-handedly by the Americans.

ROBIN HOOD IN HOLLYWOOD

Down in Sherwood Forest a long long time ago,

A poor lonesome outlaw was practising his bow.

Aiming at a big oak tree, he missed it by a mile,

Distracted by a fair maiden with an unbelievable smile.

She said, ‘Oh pardon me Sir, but I could not help but tell,

You don’t half need a shower and a dollop of hair gel.

C:        Robin Hood, oh Robin Hood,

Don’t believe all they tell you – way down in Hollywood.

He said, ‘It’s none of your business, my dear sweet Miss.’

Then he made a grab for to steal an outlaw kiss.

But she was not having any of that old crap,

Punched him on the nose and laid him out flat.

‘Wey-hey!’ cried Robin as he lay there on the earth,

‘I see forsooth, you’re a liberated serf.’

So he went to see an old crone, who gave him this advice,

‘For the modern kind of woman a man must smell quite nice.

Splash on this here deodorant to your sweaty underarms,

For just a couple of sovereigns it really works a charm.’

Never mind your bow and arrows, even if you can’t shoot straight,

I’ve a notion with this potion you’ll score without mistake.

Then this jolly band of outlaws cheered as all for one,

When Robin and Maid Marion walked into the setting sun.

And last the film director said, ‘Folks we have a wrap.

Another great commercial selling a load of tat.’

The actors removed their costumes and went to have a beer,

Glad that in reality no outlaws lived around here.

MB  06-09-14

Last week I ran a shadow puppet making workshop in Malvern at a family holiday centre. The workshop was advertised for kids but all ages turned up – teenagers, adults and children some as young as four. Everyone joined in, either making puppets themselves or assisting others. The title, MONSTERS v ALIENS – Giant Shadow Puppets, was intended to inspire people’s imaginations and it certainly did that.

Unfortunately we only had two sessions (there were many other activities) as I’d liked to have developed a drama using the puppets. In schools I have used shadow puppets very effectively in Halloween celebrations, or to dramatize stories about Space, Underwater (ponds and oceans), Underground (caves) and so on. They work very well with music, songs and story telling. They can also be made by people of all ages and abilities and, once a screen and light-source have been obtained, can be made very cheaply.

I overheard the phrase ‘a million love songs’ on the radio the other day and, though I missed the context, the words lodged in my mind. It seemed like the cue for a song but I couldn’t think of anything – especially as I’ve always been rubbish at romantic material. However I began, not knowing where it would lead. Then, much to my surprise, I realised I was writing a song from a woman’s point of view. It also became something of a piss-take. I suppose it reflects my attitude to most ‘proper’ love songs which I never could take seriously even though they form the subject of over 90% of popular material. Even hard-bitten folkies, when not droning on about worker’s rights, mining disasters or the plight of the lower orders (despite themselves barely having soiled their hands in honest toil, except gardening maybe) will lapse into romantic ballads as a default position. Love is, I suppose, a universally understood topic which can be viewed from a myriad angles.

A Million Love Songs   

You can sing a million love songs, 

Dance all night for what it’s worth.                                          

Offer chocolates and pretty flowers, 

Even promise all the Earth.                                                        

But you know what – I’m not impressed. 

After what you did I couldn’t care less.                                     

Your words are as empty as a drum.                                       

Why don’t you go back home – to your poor old mum?

You can roam the streets at midnight, like a tom cat by the old canal.

But you might as well go jump in, only thing I’d do is smile.

And you know what? I don’t give a damn. If you’re gone with the wind or kick the can.

Just like in the American Civil War, but you never were Clark Gable, that’s for sure.

You could build a golden palace, but the garden would be full of thorns.

And though you tell me I’m your princess, you can’t hide your little horns.

And you know what – my only regret? Allowing you to see me so upset.

But the tears I cried were maybe not in vain, even Jeremy Kyle said you’re a pain.

Though you sang a million love songs, every one was out of tune.

And your dancing just looked stupid, like David Brent – the Office goon.

And you know what – I will admit. Though this TV programme is the pits.

For my 15 minutes of fame – worth every bit.

But you know what? You’re still a s…….