Arts Diary: Wednesday

I am not going to swear that the lady sitting next to me in Martin Simpson was a Tory, but she didn’t clap when he said he was going go write a song about the government once he thought of a tune for Fuck Of You Bunch Of Lying Twats. And she didn’t clap much when he said the song had already been written, and went into a Woody’s Deportees. He also complained about subsidies for land owners with grouse moors (this is what they mean by leveling up) and finished on Theres Always Enough For A War But There’s Never Enough For The Poor, in memory of Roy Bailley. Rosie Hood’s band substantially reduced the dry eye quotient bu doing You Can Be Anybody You Want To Be, also in memory of Roy. He didn’t write either song, but he was the sort of person who made songs his own. Not that Martin Simpson is especially a protest singer. He also sings about red kites and hen harriers. And a perfect version of the Cherry Tree Carol (“which has nothing to do with Christmas”) and Alan Tyne Of Harrow.

NOT THAT GUY BUT the Cherry Tree carol is not from any known apocryphal source, and while the Ned Fielding who sold Alan Tyne his horse may very well have been related to the more famous Henry, Mol Flanders was written by Daniel Defoe.

There was a pod of dolphins in the sea! Well, there were a lot of paddle-boarders looking for dolphins. I think I possibly spotted a very small fin.

Spires and Boden did a Spires and Boden set, which is very much what one expects from Spires and Boden. New York Dolls, Sir Rylas, Old Maui and the Prickly Bush were all present and correct. King Louis was unquestionably the king of France before the revolution. There was a newish one, possibly called Child Hind, following the standard big ballad format. (Boy meets girl, girls father sends boy away, girl gives boy magic ring which will change colour if she falls in love with anyone else, girl hears boy is dead, girl falls in love with someone else, ring changes colour, boy gatecrashes girls wedding, they all live happily ever after.) Someone said it was like we had slipped back to a concert 10 years ago. Someone else said they sounded like a cut down Bellowhead, which I think was a compliment. They apologized to the dolphins for doing the whaling song.

Proceeded to the Swan, where people were singing South Australia and a version of House of the Rising Sun with verses no one knew. Drank beer. Proceeded to Bedford where someone was singing Dirty Old Town and bumped into several Festival Buddies, one of whom may possibly have had a well know 1980s animated children’s TV character in his pocket. Several more drinks were consumed. Possibility of attending talk on Northumbrian Pipe Icons at 930 tomorrow fades into distance.

Man on bus refers to his children as Tamlin and Lyra, very possibly because those are their names,

Very probably, Andrew, you say, but did you go to the singing workshop? Yes, actually, I did. Run by Frankie Armstrong who was up on the stage yesterday at the Norma tribute. The first half involved loosening our bodies, making burr burr noses with our tongues, humming, and pretending to be various kinds of animal. Pretend to be a monkey who has found a ripe mango. Pretend to eat the mango. Make as much noise as you like. Lose your inhibitions. Then she started singing playground chants and nonsense and making us sing it back to her, and ended up with us singing (I think) a Ghanian work song. The point being, of course, that we all have “singing voices” particularly if we thin of ourselves as playing rather than singing. Although I still struggle with this mysterious “key” thing that some people speak about.