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.

I started working out this tune and could not think of any words, but I had the idea it would suit a nautical topic. So I looked up some poems and lyrics and came across ‘Go To Sea Once More’. Fitting my tune to these words meant some fairly heavy editing but eventually I was happy with the result. Having now learned the song I thought I’d check out the original and found what seems the most recorded version by The Dubliners. It’s also been recorded by The Byrds and Grateful Dead, among others. However, it seems the original is much older:

‘This song about the 1850s Bering sea bowhead whale fishing was recorded in 1956 by A.L. Lloyd for his, Ewan MacColl and Harry H. Corbett’s album ‘The Singing Sailor’. This track has been reissued on their albums ‘Shanties and Fo’c’sle Songs’ (Wattle Records) and Off To Sea Once More (Stinson Records).

Ewan MacColl recorded this song a second time for the Riverside LP Thar She Blows! and A.L. Lloyd recorded it again in 1967 for the album ‘Leviathan! Ballads and Songs of the Whaling Trade’.Here, he was accompanied by Alf Edwards, English concertina, and Trevor Lucas and Martyn Wyndham-Read singing chorus. This track was also included in the French compilation Chants de Marins IV: Ballads, Complaintes et Shanties des Matelots Anglais’.. Lloyd commented in the Leviathan! sleeve notes:

Estimable Stan Hugill said this song in “known to every seaman”. Well, to a good few, anyway. Who was Rapper Brown, the villain of the piece? Particularly during the latter days of sail, many lodging house keepers encouraged seamen to fall in debt to them, then signed them aboard a hardcase ship in return for the “advance note” loaned by the company to the sailor ostensibly to buy gear for the voyage. Paddy West of Great Howard Street, Liverpool, was well-known for this, likewise John da Costa of the same seaport. But we do not find Rapper Brown in this rogues’ gallery. Perhaps there’s some confusion here with the fearsome Shangai Brown of San Francisco, through whose ministrations many a British seaman awoke from a drunken or drugged sleep do find himself aboard a vessel for the bowhead whaling grounds of the Bering Sea, a trip few men in their senses signed for, unless desperately hard pushed. Our version is from Ted Howard of Barry.’

OFF TO SEA ONCE MORE

When first I landed in Liverpool I went upon the spree. 

While money lasts I spend it fast, got drunk as drunk could be.

But before my money was all gone on liquor and the whores,

I made up my mind that I was inclined to go to sea no more.

No more, no more! To go to sea no more.

I made up my mind that I was inclined to go to sea no more.

I made up my mind that I was inclined to go to sea no more.

As I was walking down the street I met with Angeline.

She said: “Come home with me, my lad, and we’ll have a cracking time.”

But when I awoke, it was no joke, I found I was all alone.

My silver watch and my money too, and my whole bloody gear was gone.

Was gone, was gone! My whole bloody gear was gone.

When I awoke, it was no joke for my whole bloody gear was gone.

As I was walking down the street I met big Rapper Brown.

I asked him if he would take me in, and he looked at me with a frown.

He said, “Last time you was paid off, with me you chalked up no score,

But I’ll take your advance and I’ll give youse a chance to go to sea once more.”.

Once more, once more! To go to sea once more.

I’ll take your advance and I’ll give youse a chance to go to sea once more.”

He shipped me on board of a whaling ship bound for the Arctic seas,

Where cold winds blow and there’s frost and snow and Jamaica rum would freeze.

And worse to bear, I’d no hardweather gear, for I’d lost all my dunnage ashore.

It was then that I wished that I was dead so I’d go to sea no more.

No more, no more! I’d go to sea no more.

It was then that I wished that I was dead so I’d go to sea no more.

Sometimes we’re catching whales, my lads, but mostly we get none,

With a twenty-foot oar in every paw from five o’clock in the morn.

And when daylight’s gone and the night coming on, you rest upon your oar,

And oh boys, you wish that you was dead or snug with the girls ashore.

Ashore, ashore! Snug with the girls ashore.

Oh boys, you wish that you was dead or snug with the girls ashore.

Come all you bold seafaring lads that listen to my song.

When you go a-big-boating, I’ll have you not go wrong.

You take my tip, when you come off a trip, don’t go with any whore,

But get married instead and have all night in and go to sea no more.

No more, no more! Don’t go to sea no more.

Get married, my lads, and have all night in and go to sea no more.

My version of this song (which I’ll admit is inferior) goes as follows:

JACK THE SAILOR  

When I was in Liverpool I went upon a spree,

As soon as I was paid off got as drunk as I could be.

And when me money was all gone twas then I wanted more,

But the only way I knew of was to go to sea once more.

Once more, once more – once more, me lads once more.

The only way I knew of was to go to sea once more.

But then me charming Betsy she offered me a bed

But when I woke next morning with me overcoat she’d fled.

And walking back upon the streets the girls they all did roar

“There goes young Jack the sailor he must go to sea once more”.

Once more, once more – once more, me lads once more

“There goes Jack the sailor he must go to sea once more”.

Then standing on the corner I met up with Jackie Brown

I asked him if he’d take me on, he eyed me with a frown

“Last time you was paid off there was trouble with the law,

But as you are a shipmate I’ll take you on once more”.

Once more, once more – once more, me lads once more

As you are a sailor I’ll send you off once more”.

He shipped me on a whaler all bound for Arctic seas

Where the icy winds blow to make me rollocks freeze.

And me without an overcoat as I did say before,

I wished that I had never had to go to sea no more.

No more, no more – no more, me lads no more,

I wished that I would never have to go to sea no more.

Sometimes we’re catching whales me lads, but often catching none,

A bobbing on the ocean with a little harpoon gun.

You’re feeling oh so weary and your body always sore.

Tis then you wish that you were dead or back upon the ashore.

Ashore, ashore, ashore me lads ashore,

Tis then you wish that you were dead or back upon ashore.

So come on all you sailor boys and listen to me song,

When coming off those long hauls, I pray you’ll not go wrong.

Don’t you go down to Liverpool and wind up on the floor,

But find yourself a country wife and go to sea no more.

No more, no more, no more, me lads no more,

Find yourself a country wife and go to sea no more.

Trad arranged by MB © 2015