Imagine if you will: Maypole dancers (over the age of twelve), sword dancers (under the age of sixty), singers, musicians, random punters, locals and enthusiasts, brought together in beautiful surroundings for a free festival. All the food is provided, prepared and sourced by the local community, the wine flows freely (in every sense) and the assembled audience is warm and appreciative. The regional council, the local council and tourist board support the event. The local classic car club joined in. The local sword dance team is led by the mayor, who reliably informs us, whilst briskly driving us to the station, that he won’t get that speeding ticket as the policeman who spotted him is also a member of the local sword team. After the second evening’s events wind down, the local youths descend on the rapidly deserting public dance floor wielding large sticks. As if to further underline the contrasts between my hallucinatory folk heaven and the world I normally inhabit, rather than clubbing one another to death, they just about manage to pull off a lively and impromptu version of their town’s traditional dance. At this point, I find myself strongly wishing to follow Eddie Izzard’s example: not to dress in a stylish selection of women’s clothes, but to declare myself a European.
Throughout the whole proceedings of a long weekend dancing in Italy I was overwhelmed by a sense of pride without pomposity and a genuine belief in the value of tradition, local and pan-European, that made everything gel and created an atmosphere which was marred only by the sinking feeling that this could never happen in the UK.
I could wax lyrical and no doubt already come across as over romanticising the pleasures of hanging out with new-found comrades in arms from Italy, Bulgaria and Belgium, but the key for me was the solid conviction that what everyone was involved in, regardless of style, country of origin was doing something important. But in a sense the dancers and musicians were incidental to the event, the organisation wasn’t a bunch of keen amateur folkies it was supported by business and organised by a whole community. What would it take for something like this to happen in the UK? Local community groups supporting one another? Local businesses supporting community groups? As I’ve mentioned elsewhere this issue, local pubs are intrinsically tied to our local scene and are often seen by us as direct beneficiaries of our activities, however as the floods have pointed out it is a symbiotic relationship - we need them at least as much as we like to think they need us.
What I wonder, is how far could other organisations, public bodies and community groups benefit from a co-conspiratorial relationship with those of us involved in folk music? Whichever side you are on, consider the possible benefits. I’m about to spend the next month under canvas in various fields up and down the country, yet, for the sake of example I’ve never seen a camping supplier supporting a folk festival. I work in education but see very few schools involved with their local festivals or traditiions, despite the lingering presence of folk dance in the National Curriculum. I dance every week in a community hall but have no contact with those people who use the hall for local history or even other dance events. How many times is this repeated? – whilst we’re fiercely protective of our own fascinations, there is a bigger world out there, often the very one which we’re sheltering our fragile passions from. Perhaps our activities would endure (and benefit) the outside world a little better if we really invited the outside world in. It’s perhaps wishful thinking, but I never fail to be staggered by how insular, how micro-communal we all get. What kind of leap of faith would it take for us to surrender our sense of being the English folk communtiy, the Irish or Old Time American folk community or the dancing-but-not singing community, and take all those fragments and declare them part of our whole city community?
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