Malcolm died on Sunday 22nd March 2009 and will be much missed in these parts, not to mention further afield.
Many tributes were posted on Mudcat...
Monday, 30 March 2009
A note on old Stirrings editorials...
I should at this point mention, that these online chunks may be slightly inferior to those found in the hallowed pages of that esteemed publication. These versions, dug off the drive of my mac, don't benefit from the steady sub-editorial hand of Malcolm Douglas, who has for a couple of years worked wonders with my "breathlessly comma strewn" prose.
Musings on the "Tradition"
As Stirrings 131 shuffled into being, I was struck by the irony of a number of online message board “discussions” attacking, defending and otherwise muttering about Seth Lakeman’s song “White Hare” and its nomination for Best Traditional Song in this year’s Radio 2 Folk Awards (an award which the aformentioned track ultimately did not win). This song, the online masses asserted, could not possibly be traditional because young Seth had written it himself. Meanwhile, away from the glitz and glamour of the Beeb, Mick Ryan’s song “The Widow’s Promise” turned up in the book Traveller’s Joy, the latest EFDSS publication collecting traditional songs from traveller singers, which received much praise in last issue’s reviews. EFDSS have, quite rightly published an apology;
Subsequent to the publication of Traveller's Joy, the author and editors discovered that the song 'The Widow's Moor' (no. 49 in the book and track 18 on the accompanying CD), credited to singer Duncan Williamson, actually derives from the song 'Widow's Promise' written by Mick Ryan. We apologise to Mick for this oversight and will ensure that in any subsequent reprinting of the book he shall be fully credited for his work.
Whilst I’m sure that Mick will be glad to have his work credited, I can think of no greater accolade for the writer of material in a traditional style than to have one of your songs collected from a source singer at the heart of a living tradition. One can only hope that Mr. Ryan is feeling a warm glow of satisfaction that at least takes up a little less space than a Folk Award and needs a lot less dusting.
The thing that really got me though, was the idea that something new could not be traditional. Traditional is not (in my book) a euphemism for old, dead, or “we don’t know who wrote this”, yet the online discussions of early spring would have you believe all these things. I’m quite partial to a “traditional” Sunday lunch, but I tend to like them pretty freshly cooked.
I hesitate to go all Zen on you, but I’d suggest that regardless of age, something either is or isn’t traditional. You can tell, you know, pretty quickly. It’s about feel, not a set of criteria, and something new can have that feel as much or more than something ancient. The Japanese have famously characterised this feel in aesthetics as wabi-sabi, an intangible intimate, unpretentious and earthy set of intangible qualities which craftsman struggle to put into even newly made objects. In the west that seems to translate into knackered looking brand new Levis and pre-abused “relic” stratocasters.
Eating Brains
I’ve just worked my way, gleefully, through Season One of the hit TV series Heroes, in which evil villain Sylar wades through the storyline, popping off the tops of people’s heads, removing their brains and absorbing their amazing abilities. It put me, bizarrely, in mind of my own progress through my music listening career. Maybe it’s an eyebrow thing.
You see, I’m not cut out for the mainstream. I’ve had my dalliances, historical and continuing, with “pop” music, but it’s never been quite me. I was one of those annoying teenagers who stopped listening to bands when they made it. I never much liked what my friends were listening to - well, maybe I did, but it would have been so uncool to admit it. I used all those bands as jumping off points to push back into their influences. As a musician I always felt that to get to where my heroes were, rather than imitating, I had to unpick them and find out how what their musical DNA contained.
You know what I mean – Nirvana just had to be better before the mega-corp. of David Geffen got its hands on them, so I pushed back into a whole world of obscure sub-pop records that I would never have found, and from there to Bob Mould, The Pixies and other ear-opening treats. Gary Moore took me back to Robert Johnson, Blind Lemon Jefferson and other old blues players. Alice in Chains took me back to, bizarrely, Elton John in his “before he got middle aged and boring” good period (see – everyone has one…) and Mike Waterson took me back to Joseph Taylor. It becomes an addiction, peeling away layers and years of influences to find where your heroes are coming from.
When someone presented me with one of Peter Bellamy’s home compiled mix tapes of what he listened to I found a treasure trove of influence. The music hall of Gus Ellen, the otherworldly harmonies of Georgian table singers, Jethro Tull, the Stanley Brothers and Chris Smither all wedged together on one tape alongside the expected trad stuff. How did anyone mix such eclectic influences and not burst? Time and those who knew Peter may argue that it was not an easy task, but it was a reassuring, vindicating and thrilling gift that set me off on years of further digging, listening and singing – absorbing, changing, regurgitating perhaps, but evolving.
I wonder sometimes what the DNA sample of my own musical tastes might be someday – we all seem to muse on what we’d choose for our Desert Island Discs selection. What would linger on the mix tape/CD/MP3 playslist that outlives me? Will it confirm or refute the opinions of those who hear us making our own musical marks in the world?
What will my friends/children/random recipients really think of Hank Williams the 3rd, Malicorne, Nusrat fateh ali Khan, Peter Bellamy and the yet to be cemented stars who’ll share the digital walk of fame.
The least I can hope is that they’ll oepn their ears, take a chance and that it provides someone else with jumping off points to a bigger world of listening.
If it ain't fixed, don't break it.
I just got back from another stint in the recording studio.
I came away with the overwhelming feeling that technology is, indeed a wonderful thing. Modern production, we all want it, even if we want it in a retro package; the face of commercial viability demands a certain level of polish.
The powerful tools available to recording artists let us fix every little timing glitch and bum note. Nudging, coaxing, shifting a little here and there until everything is in time, tune and place. But I also have a niggling feeling that this power to rewrite the past of musical performance comes at a price.
I recently watched Louis Theroux’s documentary on the obsessive, addictive potential of plastic surgery. The apparent logic that summed the programme up was that for many people, making changes that elevate one part of the anatomy above it’s basic flawed state to “perfect” simply reveals the ever more minor flaws in the features that surround the bit that has just been fixed. The cycle begins then, and surgery is the inevitable way to repair the newly highlighted flaws.
It’s no great leap of the imagination to see how plastic surgery addiction can become analogous to the process of prettifying, fixing and repairing a recording. Listen to many of the great folk recordings of the past and there is an inevitable absence of autotune, falsified ambience, clever overdubbing and the like that is all part of the day-to-day arsenal of the modern recording artist. But for all that, they’re not unlistenably out of tune, out of time or lacking in general character. In fact, you could argue that the process of “fixing” a modern recording knocks the character out of it.
I’m not suggesting we abandon the undoubtedly brilliant gizmos of the studio and return to huddling round a single microphone (though many American new-grass artists are seeking to do just that in an effort to capture some mystical vibe of the past). I’m not even saying I haven’t or wouldn’t make full use of the tools to fix something in an otherwise great take, but what I am questioning more and more is how much feeling and character of performance can be eroded by an enticing and addictive set of options.
The voices that I love, the music that moves me is… well, by its very nature as vernacular music rough, slightly unpolished and hopefully possessed of a warts and all brilliance that has made it stand up despite fashion for however many years. So I question why when I find myself listening to my own stuff I forget all that and hurriedly check whether that slightly out of tune note, three minutes and twenty seconds in, can’t be sharpened up to pitch with a crafty bit of autotuning.
When I listen to a lot of modern recorded folk music I’m awed by the production- clean, ballsy, oomph laden, slick pieces of studio wizardry that are sure to please the demands of Radio 2 and commercial viability. But somewhere, in the back of my head there’s often something I’m missing.
Someone once said that a tightrope walker is only interesting to watch if he wobbles. No matter how good the performance, the thing that gives something its edge is often the flaws in it that not only give it character, but also frame the brilliance of its moments.
Are we making the very things that make folk music so enduring and endearing take a back seat to the supermodel good looks of slick production? The perfect supermodel is of course, the plainest, most average person you can imagine; ready to be dressed up in whatever the job of the day demands.
Perhaps I can live with a few duff notes, rather than putting things under the knife this time.
A beginning...
Well, this is a new departure for me. I was mildly concerned that I wasn't doing enough writing and that it would be good to get some stuff out where people could see it. Whilst it's a little embryonic yet, I hope to post a few things here when I get the chance.
None of My Business
Europe: home of dubious meat products, brown shoes and a system of political corruption that makes our own system of political corruption look decidely ramshackle.
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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