Arts Diary: Tuesday

Slightly not at my best this morning. The Bulverton bar has a stout called Darkness. It is very drinkable and 5%. I think the last half was a mistake. Can I have a half of Darkness I said to the barman. Isn’t that by Joseph Conrad I added. I don’t know if he got it. I thought it was appropriate to go the Grace Petrie gig in my Vote Jeremy Corbyn teeshirt. Naturally I spent the evening talking about politics with strangers. There were some very small children in the mosh with ear protectors , doubtless learning about feminism and swearwords. Some old guys at the back said they liked the choruses but didn’t “understand” the lyrics. I think that lyrics like “the images which fucked ya were a patriarchal structure and I will not surrender to your narrow view of gender” are quite transparent. Theresa May, may I say your archaic view of family holds no relevance today. The only concession to to folkie folk was the acapella rewrite of Old Man’s Tale (as Young Woman’s Tale obviously). (The false God that they’d made out of the city still prevailed, and ee were told the welfare state was why the system failed.) But her wingman is still the folkier than folk Ben Moss, and his fiddle and mandolin goes astonishingly well with her sweary protest yelling.

Opening for her, and very nearly as phenomenal was a Yorkshire singer signing in as Serious Sam Barrett who went from folkie classics like They Learned Me To Play Upon The Rubdubdub to finger picking songs about his trade unionist dad and old guys in a Leeds pub. Very possibly the discovery of the week so far. I stayed to watch the kaylee (pronounced sell I dah) with music provided by yer actual John Kirkpatrick, Benji Kirkpatrick and all the other Kirkpatricks. This was when the ill advised stout occurred. There was a display by some Morris men who reminded one that Morris can be actual proper dancing with steps and everything.

John Kirkpatrick also made a threesome with Martin Carthy and Martin Simpson, earlier in the day, at an emotional tribute to Norma Watterson. (Martin carried off a fine Fair Maid Of Australia and didn’t milk the “bush of Australia” line.) Many other folkies were on stage; Eliza, holding it together until the very end, presided over the second half.

A French Canadian accordion player did two numbers. The start of the 60s, 63, 61, 62 were a great time he said. The Watersons started before the Beatles. “Well, at same time as Beatles. And same importance as Beatles.”

Well, quite.

Everyone went back on to the stage to sing Grace Darling. If this were a developed article as opposed to being typed off the cuff between breakfast and 11.00 concert, I would have made a clever connection around the line “But Grace had an English heart.”

I have talked myself into going to a singing workshop. Civilisation may not recover.

Official best day of festival so far.