Week 314 – The Barley Raking

You know how, when searching online for a recipe, your heart sinks when you reach one of those blogs, and realise that you’ve got to wade through screeds of text about the author’s personal life before you get to the recipe… well, this post is a bit like that. Feel free to scroll down to the bottom if you just want to hear the song. I won’t be offended (I won’t know!). And, as I’ve probably commented before, I do these blog posts for my own personal satisfaction, and if anyone else likes them that’s just a bonus. So, here goes.
When I was about 8 or 9, two new, young, male teachers started work at my primary school – Mr France and Mr Snow. I was in Mr France’s class in what these days would be Year 5, and I think it’s fair to say that he was a popular teacher with all of the class – very different from some of the older, fiercer teachers in the school. My mother taught at the same school, and definitely fell into that older, fiercer category. She and Barrie France seemed to hit it off, however, and they stayed in touch, and continued to meet up occasionally, after he moved on to a different school. And so it was, I suppose, that finding himself with two spare tickets for a barn dance at Warehorne, he offered them to my Mum. She and My Dad had been keen dancers before I was born – old time, barn dancing, square dancing, but definitely not jive or rock & roll. When I was old enough not to need a babysitter, they started going out again, mostly to school PTA dinner dances. I resisted all my Mum’s attempt to teach me to waltz or foxtrot, but when the PTA put on a barn dance that was open to fifth formers and above, a bunch of us went along and – much to our amazement, I think – had a really good time.
I’ve been trying to work out when Barrie France’s offer of tickets to this dance at Warehorne took place. I can’t decide if it was early 1976, or early 1977. I’m pretty sure I’d already heard of, and heard good things of, local band Fiddler’s Dram, which suggests that the later date is more likely; but the internet tells me that the first Whitstable May Day celebrations were held in 1976, and I’ve very definite memories of attending that event (and I wouldn’t have known about it, but for this dance). In either case, it came after my Damascene conversion to folk song. And so, on that fateful Friday when my Mum told me that she and Dad were going out to a dance that night – and that the band included members of Fiddler’s Dram – I asked if I could come along too. A phone call must have ensued (this would have involved walking to the phone box at the end of the road – my parents didn’t get a telephone installed until I went to university) and a ticket was procured. Having previously only danced to one of those sedate EFDSS-style piano accordion and music-stand bands, I was completely blown away by the band that night – the Oyster Ceilidh Band. Their playing was so full of energy, and the dancing wasn’t sedate, it was energetic and enthusiastic – dancing with abandon. Well, if you’re a lover of what was become known as English Ceilidh then you’ll know what I’m talking about.
Warehorne residents Ron and Jean Saunders put on regular dances with the Oyster Ceilidh Band in the village hall. After that, we went to every one, and to Oyster dances elsewhere (Boughton Under Blean village hall was another regular venue). And soon a bunch of my school friends were coming along, attracted by the liveliness of the events, and joining in enthusiastically. There were other events that Ron and Jean helped to organise too – I recall a music hall evening, carol-singing round the village (see Week 174 – Sweet Chiming Bells) and a Harvest festival.
We’ll come back to Warehorne in a moment. But I also want to mention the other part Barrie France played in my folky journey. He’d begun organising an occasional (monthly?) folk club in a side room at the Stour Centre, the fairly new leisure centre in Ashford. His interests lay at the Simon and Garfunkel / Tom Paxton end of the folk spectrum, rather than the trad stuff I had become obsessed with, but I went along with my best mate Mike Eaton. It was Mike’s dad’s copy of Below the Salt that had switched me on to folk music, and we were now singing in unaccompanied harmony, our repertoire consisting entirely of songs pinched from Steeleye and Watersons LPs. As I wrote recently elsewhere
Our singing style was a horrible mixture of teenage Kentish boys trying to imitate Tim Hart (who, I later discovered, affected that country yokel voice, because he thought his actual public school voice was too posh), Martin Carthy in his still brilliant but most affected early 70s period, and the East Yorkshire vocal stylings of Mike Waterson – who was only in his mid-30s at the time, but sounded like he was one of the old ‘uns.
But imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and it’s how most singers and musicians get started before, hopefully, finding their own way.
I have few memories of Barrie’s folk club. I think we might have gone along a couple of times at most, and I suspect that the club was a fairly short-lived venture. I do recall a Dutchman singing ‘It takes a worried man to sing a worried song’, and I think Ron and Jean Saunders might well have been there, performing with their son Jonathan (they later formed the Isle of Oxney Barn Dance Band, who were the first band I ever sat in with at a real dance in front of paying punters, and who I think might still be going, with Jonathan at the helm). And of course Mike and I would have sung – maybe ‘Spotted Cow’ or ‘Rosebud in June’, or perhaps ‘Swarthfell Rocks’, or ‘Bellman’, and almost certainly ‘Country Life’. The most important thing that happened, was that at the end of the evening we got chatting to a group of four girls. They hadn’t sung, but said they’d like to, and in the blink of an eye, we’d decided to form a group! The following Sunday afternoon, we all assembled in my Mum’s front room. There was Mike and me, and then Susan Hamlet, Lindsay Edwards, Caroline Chappell and ‘Bobo’ Woodruff (who declared that Mike, curled up in an armchair, looked like a dormouse). We’d just started sixth form, and they were a year older, in the Upper Sixth. I can’t actually remember if the six of us were ever all in the same place at the same time ever again, and this meeting certainly didn’t lead to us being a regular group (did we ever sing anywhere at all? I’m not sure we did). But Mike and I became good friends with Su Hamlet, and I learned a lot from her, one way and another (having eaten my Mum’s Sunday lunch one week, she told me that it had been horribly overcooked, and the beef was like tough old leather – not having much experience of other people’s cooking, this had never occurred to me, but actually she was absolutely correct!).
For his birthday that year, quite by chance, Mike was given a copy of the single LP selection from the Copper Family’s Song for every season and within the space of a couple of weeks we’d added almost all the songs from that record into our repertoire, Mike playing Ron to my Bob. And then, by the following summer I should think, we started singing with Alison Inns (sister of a school friend’s girlfriend) and Gill Harrison (sister of another friend in our year at school) and, sometimes, Jon Jarvis, who was slightly younger than us but whom we knew through the school choir and orchestra (Jonathan could actually play his instrument, which I’m not sure was really true of Mike with the violin, and definitely not of me with the trumpet). Mike’s Dad came up with our band name – Gomenwudu, which I believe is the name given to a harp in Beowulf (but I may have got that bit wrong). I don’t think Jon made it to Warehorne dances very often, but the rest of us did and, with the uninhibited arrogance of youth, we’d sometimes ask John Jones or Cathy Lesurf if we could sing a few songs at an Oyster ceilidh. And, bless them, they let us. And the audience were too polite to boo.
To put this in context, there were always song spots at these dances. Often from Fiddler’s Dram, or Beggars Description (see Week 277 – The First Time), or John Jones singing in harmony with his friend John Taylor; and, sometimes, John Jones would sing ‘The Barley Raking’ with Cathy Lesurf. So all of a considerably higher standard than anything we could aspire to.
There was one evening when we’d sung two or three songs at a Warehorne ceilidh, and they seemed to go down really well (cf. Samuel Johnson’s dog walking on its hind legs, and all that), and we were buzzing. To the extent that at the end of the night we mobbed John Jones and more or less forced him to dictate to us the words of ‘The Barley Raking’. Which meant that we had one more song in our repertoire! And I’ve sung it in various combinations ever since. Mike, Alison, Gill and I sang it unaccompanied; I sang it in my student days with Caroline Jackson-Houlston, again, unaccompanied; I worked up an accompaniment and arrangement in the early 1990s and played it with Saint Monday (with Dave Parry and Carol Turner); and then, when I started doing stuff with Magpie Lane fiddler Mat Green, we revived the same arrangement. And now, after more than 20 years of playing as a duo, Mat and I have finally recorded an album, and this song is on it.
The CD is called ‘Time for a Stottycake’ and you can see the track list, and purchase a copy (more than one, if you insist) from our website: www.andyturnermusic.uk/mat_andy.
The Barley Raking

Andy Turner – vocal, C/G anglo-concertina
Mat Green – fiddle
The song was collected in Hampshire by George Gardiner. It was included in Frank Purslow’s book The Wanton Seed and I’ve no doubt that that is where John and Cathy would have learned it. The notes to the revised edition of The Wanton Seed, by Malcolm Douglas and Steve Gardham, say that Purslow collated three Hampshire versions as well as inserting one verse from a broadside. The morris tune that runs through the arrangement is ‘Maid of the Mill’ from Kirtlington in Oxfordshire. The slightly asymmetrical B music is as per the musical notation I had from Tim Radford (written out, I assume, by Barbara Berry), but when I played it back to Tim he told me that’s not how it’s played for the modern Kirtlington side.

Barley Raking – broadside ballad from the Bodleian collection
A couple of concluding comments.
First, I’ve used the phrase earlier “the uninhibited arrogance of youth”. I have to say that, as a youth and, to be honest, probably throughout my life, I was far from uninhibited. And not especially arrogant either (although, as an only child, no doubt very selfish and not really aware of other people’s feelings). And yet, inspired by a love of singing, and the desire to do it as much as possible, we did somehow have the nerve to ask if we could sing at those Oyster ceilidhs. I wince now at the downright cheek of it, but we were so chuffed when the band let us.
Second, for anyone who’s confused, the phrase “cock up my beaver” refers to a beaver hat.
And finally, I have to record the passing of my dearest friend Mike. We saw each other infrequently in recent years, but I always considered him my best friend, as he had been since the age of 11. We had so many private jokes, that frankly weren’t really funny, but always made us laugh, if only because of the memories they evoked. Now I have noone to share those with. But the happy memories will live on. RIP Mike.

Mike and Andy at Dungeness, circa 1972

Week 288 – Our Captain Cried

This blog started less than 9 years ago, but the wealth of resources that has become available in that time to folk singers and researchers is quite staggering. The EFDSS Archive Catalogue aka Full English was launched in 2013 and continues to grow both in terms of the number of collections included, and the number of records with some kind of media attached. New collections added over the course of the last couple of years include the James Madison Carpenter collection, which has sound recordings made at a time when hardly anyone else in England was making them – and which was previously inaccessible to anyone not able to go on a research trip to Washington DC – and Ken Stubbs’ 1960s recordings from Southern England. Meanwhile, more and more catalogue records now include an image, for instance a scan of the relevant page from an old Folk Song Society Journal. The catalogue record for this song is a case in point.

The one regret I have – and in truth it could easily be remedied – is that I no longer need to go up to London on a regular basis to visit the library. In the old days I’d find an excuse to go about once a year, often coinciding with a Library Lecture, or some other event at the House. Sometimes I’d be looking for something specific: songs from Kent or Oxfordshire, or folk carols. But latterly I’d let serendipity be my friend and just flip through the pages of a bound volume of Cecil Sharp’s Folk Tunes. If I saw something that piqued my interest, I’d copy the tune into a manuscript book, or take a photocopy, then look up the words in the relevant volume of Sharps’ Folk Words. Sometimes there was no entry – Sharp had only noted the first verse – or the words were incomplete, so then I’d consult the catalogue and find other versions. And then, naturally, one thing would often lead to another.

This approach yielded such songs as A Cornish Young Man, You Roving Lads of Pleasure, The Deserter, The Isle of France and the version of ‘Rout of the Blues’ that Sophie Thurman sings on Three Quarter Time. It was actually that song which led me to ‘Our Captain Cried’. I knew ‘Rout’, of course, from the Dransfields’ LP of the same name, but had never really considered that the song might have been found in the oral tradition. Having found a couple of versions collected by Sharp, I then looked for other versions, and found one from Mr Henry Hills of Lodsworth, in an old Journal. It’s one of a considerable number of Sussex songs contained in ‘Songs from the Collection of W. P. Merrick’, Journal of the Folk-Song Society, Vol. 1, No. 3 (1901), pp. 66-138. I quickly decided that Mr Hill’s ‘The Blues’ wasn’t very interesting, but a few pages further on I found this – and if nothing else, I’m sure I was drawn in by the fact that the song is written out in 4/4 but with frequent shifts into 5/4. You could actually bar it in 13/4, which is not a time signature you expect to find too often in the English tradition (although, as Martin Carthy has been known to say, English folk songs are all basically one beat to the bar).

Our Captain Cried, from JFSS Vol 1 No3; from the VWML Archive Catalogue

The tune, you’ll quickly realise, is a member of the ‘Monk’s Gate’ / ‘Who would true valour see’ family of tunes – Vaughan Williams having based that hymn tune on one he collected (as ‘Our Captain Calls’) from Mrs Harriet Verrall, 20-odd miles away from Henry Hill’s home in Lodsworth.

For another similar version – very nicely sung by George Sansome, and with a wonderful anglo-concertina accompaniment by Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne – check out the CD Wheels Of The World by Granny’s Attic.

Our Captain Cried

Andy Turner: vocal, C/G anglo-concertina

Week 286 – The Blacksmith Courted Me

I first heard ‘The Blacksmith’ via the starkly beautiful arrangement on Steeleye Span’s second album Please to see the King. That must have been the autumn of 1976. Over the next couple of years I heard several other versions: Steeleye Mark I’s rather less impressive arrangement on Hark the village wait; Andy Irvine’s reading of the song on Planxty; Shirley and Dolly Collins’ interpretation of the Phoebe Smith version, as part of their magnificent Anthems in Eden suite; and Barry Dransfield’s wonderful extemporisations on the Dransfield album The Fiddler’s Dream (as an aside, if you don’t know that record check it out now – possibly the best folk-rock album ever).

Steeleye and Planxty both did the version collected by Vaughan Williams in Herefordshire, as printed in the Penguin Book of English Folk Songs. That’s not a version I’ve ever sung in public, but it would have been hard not to have absorbed it in my formative years as a singer, and I posted it here back in 2015 as Week 214 – The Blacksmith.

In early 1979, thanks to Ashford public library and inter-library borrowing, I managed to get my hands on the 1963 Topic LP The Roving Journeymen featuring Tom Willett and his sons Chris and Ben. That record had a big influence on me. Over the next few years I learned over half of the songs on the album: ‘Riding Down to Portsmouth’, ‘The Roving Journeyman’, ‘The Rambling Sailor’, ‘My Dog and I’, ‘The Old Miser’, ‘The Game of All Fours’ and last, but certainly not least, ‘Lord Bateman’. I also really admired Tom Willett’s performance of ‘The Blacksmith Courted Me’ but somehow I never learned it. Partly, perhaps, because I viewed it as a song best sung by a woman; partly because Tom’s words were not quite, as you might say, ‘oven-ready’. Well last autumn I decided the time for procrastination was long past, and set about assembling a set of words to sing.

Tom Willett’s version of ‘The Blacksmith’ as noted by Ken Stubbs in 1960

 

I brought in lines from other versions to fill out Tom Willett’s three-line verses. Then I swapped a couple of lines around so that “clever” rhymed with “ever” and “beauty” rhymed with “duty”. And then I agonised for ages over the last couple of verses. I was determined to bring in “Oh witness have I none, save God Almighty” which, along with the “Strange news” lines earlier in the song I think of as one of the absolute glories of English traditional song lyrics. But I was equally determined not to omit Tom’s defiant last line

I shall never die for love, young man, believe me

In the end I added a whole extra verse, and turned the final stanza into a 6-line verse. And I think it works rather well. I am certainly enjoying singing the song, and when I make a visit to the Lewes Saturday Folk Club in April I think it’s pretty much certain that this will be on my setlist.

You can find recordings of Tom Willett singing this song in various places now. The Topic album The Roving Journeymen is available for download. There’s a Musical Traditions 2 CD set, Adieu to Old England, and a 2 CD release on Forest Tracks, A-Swinging Down The Lane, which (because Paul Marsh and Rod Stradling basically had the same brilliant idea at pretty much the same time) contains almost exactly the same recordings, made by Ken Stubbs in the early 1960s. Of the two I’d say the Forest Tracks album is marginally the better – apart from anything else the CD booklet contains the only photograph of Tom Willett you are ever likely to encounter. I know not everyone shares my enthusiasm for listening to field recordings of traditional singers, but if you do, A-Swinging Down The Lane is an essential purchase.

If you just want to dip your toes in the water, or if money is tight, you’ll now find Ken Stubbs’ field recordings available via the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library archive catalogue.

Catalogue record https://www.vwml.org/record/RoudFS/S393817 includes the pages from Stubbs’ notebook shown above, and his 1960 recording of Tim Willett singing ‘The Blacksmith’.

There’s much more in this collection, given my particular interest in songs from Kent and the South of England, that I really must explore. Often recorded in noisy pubs, often mere fragments of a song or tune, but fascinating none the less – try this recording of an unidentified singer delivering just one verse (almost!) of ‘Hopping down in Kent’; if nothing else, you certainly get a sense of atmosphere.

The Blacksmith Courted Me

Week 269 – Kitty from Ballinamore

Like ‘As I roved out from the County Cavan’, I learned this from the LP Triona, by Tríona Ní Dhomhnaill. Like a lot of other songs in her repertoire, I believe she had this one from her aunt, Neillí Ní Dhomhnaill. It’s a song which doesn’t seem to have been recorded frequently. You can hear Seamus Ennis singing a version on the Musical Traditions CD of late sixties recordings from the King’s Head Folk Club. And there are two recordings from Northern Irish singers – both as ‘Kate from/of Ballinamore’ – on Topic’s ever-expanding Voice of the People series: Geordie Hanna on Volume 6 Tonight I’ll Make You My Bride and Paddy Doran on The Flax in Bloom. Finally, there’s a rather charming 78 rpm recording by Joseph Maguire available to listen to via the ITMA Digital Library (that’s the Irish Traditional Music Archive, and nothing to do with Tommy Handley).

 

Kitty from Ballinamore

Week 253 – Fare thee well cold winter

So take a good look at my face
You know my smile looks out of place
If you look closer it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears

I’ll be all smiles tonight, boys, I’ll be all smiles tonight
If my heart should break tomorrow I’ll be all smiles tonight

It has always seemed to me that this song was inspired by the same sorts of emotions as Smokey’s classic…

Mike Yates recorded the song in 1972 from George ‘Tom’ Newman of Clanfield, near Bampton, in Oxfordshire. I first heard it sung by Lal and Norma Waterson on the LP Green Fields and subsequently learned it from the transcription of Mike Yates’ recording in Everyman’s Book of English Country Songs, edited by Roy Palmer.

Only a few songs recorded from Tom Newman have been made available on record: ‘The Tree in the Wood’ appeared in the seventies on the Topic LP Green Grow the Laurels, and then again – along with ‘Sing Ovy, Sing Ivy’ – on the Musical Traditions CD Up in the North, Down in the South. Meanwhile Tom’s song ‘My Old Hat That I Got On’ (which Magpie Lane recorded on the CD Six for Gold) was included on Volume 13 of The Voice of the People.

This song, however, has unfortunately never been made available. Mike Yates’ recordings can be accessed at the British Library Sound Archive, but are not available to listen to remotely. One day I must make a trip there, and this will certainly be on my list of recordings to check out. In the meantime I have absolutely no idea if the way I sing ‘Fare thee well cold winter’ bears even the slightest resemblance to the way Tom Newman sang it.

 

George ‘Tom’ Newman was in his 90th year when I met him and, sadly, I only knew him for the last six months of his life.  Originally from Faringdon, he was living in a small bungalow in the village of Clanfield, near Bampton.  I was told that Tom used to occasionally turn up at the Bampton Whit Monday ceremonies with his one-man band and would proceed to accompany the traditional morris team around the village.  John Baldwin, whose [1969] Folk Music Journal article again introduced me to Tom, had described Tom thus: He is an old man now and tends to become very excited when singing; sitting in a chair and pumping the floor with his feet alternately, and similarly his knees with clenched fists.

Mike Yates – notes to Up in the North, Down in the South

The song itself is a bit of a mixture of ancient and modern. On this Mudcat thread Malcom Douglas pointed to a seventeenth century printing of a ballad containing the “let her go, farewel she” motif, and there are nineteenth century  broadsides with very similar lyrics to Tom Newman’s version. Except they don’t have the “All smiles tonight” refrain.

It must be twenty years ago that I sang this song at a folk club and someone pointed out that the chorus crops up in a Carter Family song. Mike Yates has written that, when he collected ‘Fare thee well cold winter’ he assumed that Tom Newman had picked up the chorus from an old  recording – by the Carter Family perhaps, or Kitty Wells. But in fact Cecil Sharp collected a version from Lucy White, of Hambridge in Somerset, which included a “We’ll be all be smiles tonight” chorus.

The chorus comes from an American song written by T. B. Ranson in 1879, which may well have gained popularity in Britain at the time. Lucy White’s version proves that Ranson’s  chorus had been added to the older British song by 1903 at least, some decades before it was being recorded by various American performers (there were several recorded versions before the Carter Family recorded their ‘I’ll Be All Smiles Tonight’ – see the Traditional Tune Archive for details). I’m not aware of any connection between Lucy White and Tom Newman, so these two collected versions suggest that the song – with this chorus – must have had some kind of wider currency in Britain in the late nineteenth / early twentieth century.

 

Fare-thee-well cold winter. 19th century broadside ballad from the Bodleian collection.

Fare thee well cold winter

Week 248 – Sally Free and Easy

I’m not entirely sure where or when I learned this song. Almost certainly not from Cyril Tawney himself, although I did see him two or three times in the early eighties. I think I must have picked the song up from a floorsinger at the Faversham Folk Club. These days you can find the words to pretty much any song with a quick web search, but in those pre-Internet days I just sang the words as I remembered them.

Checking now what the composer himself sang, I see I’ve introduced some minor variations, but nothing to alter the spirit of the song. And in fact I think Cyril Tawney approved of variation, as part of the song’s absorption into the collective consciousness (or folk tradition, if you prefer). You can read about the background to the song here.

As Cyril noted, the song is lyrically, though not melodically, structured like a blues. And possibly this is the closest thing I’ll be posting here to a twelve-bar blues, as I don’t think I have any examples of the real thing in my repertoire.

Sally Free and Easy

Week 214 – The Blacksmith

Song number 8 in Classic English Folk Songs, formerly the Penguin Book of English Folk Songs, and few would argue that this is a classic of the genre.

It’s actually a song which I’ve almost certainly never sung in public, and which I’ve never really considered to be part of my repertoire. Partly because I’ve always planned to learn Tom Willett’s magnificent version (and having got this version of my chest, so to speak, maybe I finally will), but also because it’s just one of those songs which everyone knows. Still, I seem to know the words without having to think about them, and it is a classic, and it’s a great song to sing; so it seemed daft not to post a version here.

I would have first heard it as the opening track of Steeleye Span’s Please to see the King. Where – like a lot of songs on the two Carthy / Hutchings Steeleye LPs – it’s given a wonderfully sparse, austere, atmospheric and totally effective arrangement. Shortly after hearing that recording I would have heard the OK but far less interesting arrangement on the first Steeleye LP, and then Andy Irvine’s take on the song, on the debut Planxty album. I suspect most of the words went in by osmosis, but having them in the Penguin book would have helped – no need to transcribe them from tape or vinyl.

Vaughan Williams noted the tune, but no words, from Mrs Ellen Powell, at Westhope, near Weobley in Herefordshire. Malcolm Douglas, in his additional notes for Classic English Folk Songs, suggests that Vaughan Williams and Bert Lloyd used Peter Verrall’s version, or possibly the Such broadside shown below, as the basis of the verses given in the book.

The blacksmith: broadside printed by H. Such, between 1863 and 1885. From the Bodleian collection.

The Blacksmith

Week 197 – Hurricane Wind

In recent years an incredible number of 18^th and 19^th century musicians’ tunebooks have become available, either in printed form or on the internet. This is excellent news, of course. But, faced with yet another collection, containing dozens or even hundreds of tunes, and clearly not having the time (or patience) to play through them all, spotting tunes which are worth playing can be a bit of a hit and miss affair. So, more often than not, my initial trawl through a new physical or virtual tunebook will involve looking for tunes with interesting or unusual titles: ‘Pup in the Parachute’, ‘Love laughs at Locksmiths’, ‘Pass around the Jorum’, ‘Peas on a Trencher’, ‘The Fly-Flappers’. Frankly, it’s probably as good an approach as any other.

The same applies, to a lesser extent, with song collections, and I’m quite sure that it was the unusual title which first drew my eye to ‘Hurricane Wind’, when browsing through Roy Palmer’s excellent book Folk Songs collected by Ralph Vaughan Williams.  I think I expected it to be a song about a shipwreck, or some other misadventure at sea. But actually it’s the tale of a lover spurned, and the title comes from a memorable phrase used by the female protagonist (the one doing the spurning):

As she was a walking down the street
Her young sea captain she chanced to meet
She looks at him with a scornful frown
Says ‘What hurricane wind blowed you to town?’

 

Hurricane Wind. From Ralph Vaughan Williams’ notebook, via the Full English.

Vaughan Williams collected the song in 1907 from Mr Penfold, landlord of the Plough Inn at Rusper in Sussex (who, incidentally, was also the source of the rather lovely ‘Turtle Dove’ which Sophie sings with Magpie Lane). Mr Penfold’s text was fairly complete – Roy Palmer added just one couplet from a Scottish chapbook,  ‘The Perjured Maid’. However – unusually, as Roy always presented singable versions in his song books – I felt that the song didn’t quite tell the whole story. So, on a trip to VWML, I looked for alternative versions. There weren’t many to be found – at least not in those pre-computerised days – but I located some usable verses collected in 1939 by Alan Lomax and Helen Hartness Flanders from Josiah S. Kennison of Townshend, Virginia, and printed in The New Green Mountain Songster. Hopefully you won’t spot the join.

While the Roud Index lists only one English and one Scottish version, this song has in fact turned up a number of times in the United States. I particularly like the way the original “Nobleman near Exeter” has become “The Rich Man Extra Tire” in this version collected from Miss Laura Harmon, Cade’s Cove, Blount County, Tennessee, in 1928.

Having pieced together my version in the mid 1980s I then neglected the song for many years, but have recently resurrected it, and was able to give it an outing a few weeks ago when I went to see Elizabeth LaPrelle and Anna Roberts-Gevalt at the Musical Traditions club in London.

‘Two Old Songs- The Perjured Maid, The Waukrife Mammy’ – chapbook printed in Falkirk, c1840. From the G. Ross Roy Collection of Burnsiana and Scottish Literature, University of South Carolina.

Posting the song here gives me the opportunity, belatedly, to pay tribute to Roy Palmer, who died in February of this year. It would be hard to overestimate the influence Roy’s work had, over the last 45 years, on the repertoire of British folk singers. Certainly my repertoire, and that of Magpie Lane, would be considerably poorer without books such as A Touch on the Times, Songs of the Midlands, The Rambling Soldier and, of course, his RVW collection. We were honoured and thrilled when Magpie Lane were asked in 2000 to record a CD as a companion to Roy’s book A Taste of Ale. I don’t know if Roy later embraced the digital age, but at that time, when he sent me a draft copy of the book for us to start work on, all the musical transcriptions were done by hand, and the text was all typewritten, on a proper old-fashioned typewriter.

In the tributes which poured out following Roy’s death, common themes were praise for his scholarship, for his ability to present folk music and folklore in an accessible way, and that he was a lovely human being and a real gentleman. I only met Roy on a few occasions, but that was certainly my impression. He will be greatly missed.

You will find obituaries of Roy on the Guardian and Morning Star websites.

Roy Palmer. Photograph by Derek Schofield, from the Guardian.

Hurricane Wind

Week 143 – The Seeds of Love

Famously, the very first folk song that Cecil Sharp collected was from the almost suspiciously aptly named Somerset gardener, John England. This is not John England’s version however, it’s from the great Pop Maynard. The song was included on the Topic LP You Subjects of England.

When Radio 2 launched their Folk Hall of Fame earlier this year, with Cecil Sharp as the first inductee, I was very pleased to find that Magpie Lane’s recording of ‘The Seeds of Love’ (from our Jack-in-the-Green CD) was included on their Cecil Sharp Playlist.

I concocted that arrangement sitting at the piano (an instrument I’ve never actually been able to play) a few days after the birth of my daughter in July 1996. With a new-born baby in the house, I assume I must have had my foot even more firmly on the soft-pedal than usual.

Below you will find a recording of me singing the song solo, and a recording of Magpie Lane performing it in Bampton Church last September.

The Seeds of Love 

Andy Turner – vocal

 

Magpie Lane: Sophie Thurman, Ian Giles, Andy Turner, Jon Fletcher, Mat Green – vocals

Recorded in concert, Bampton Church, Oxfordshire, September 2013 (thanks to Jeff Dando for live sound mixing).

Week 140 – Down By The Shannon Side

I learned this song from the Cornish traveller Charlotte Renals, who is featured along with her sisters Betsy Renals and Sophie Legg on the Veteran cassette Catch me if you Can (now available in expanded form as VT119CD). Her version has several two and three line verses. I’ve filled in the gaps, and put the verses in a more logical order, with the help of a very complete set of words collected by Cecil Sharp in August 1905 from Captain Robert Lewis of Minehead in Somerset.

In Charlotte Renals’ version the male protagonist is Captain Walters. A perfectly respectable name. But in Captain Lewis’ version the bounder’s name is Captain Thunderbold:

My name is Captain Thunderbold
It’s a name I will ne’er deny

Well why would you deny a name like that? And how could I resist including it in the song?

Looking at the numerous broadside versions available via Broadside Ballads Online  the name seems to be universally given as ‘Captain Thunderbolt’ and this is the title Phoebe Smith has for her version of the song.

The Shannon Side – broadside from the Bodleian collection, printed by H. Such, between 1863 and 1885.

I had let this song lapse for several years, but recently relearned it, and I must say it’s good to have the song back in my repertoire.

Down By The Shannon Side