Keep Music Live...But Don't Expect Too Much!

I have a sticker on my guitar case that loudly proclaims 'Keep Music Live'; it is a relic from the days when musicians thought that disco would be the nail in the coffin of live music (I really am that old). I mention it because the reason I haven't written for a week or so is that I have been practising, practising with two similarly aged friends for an evening when a small audience will sit expectantly for us to entertain them.

I am no longer worried that live music is doomed - it is clearly thriving - but I do worry that we are losing a certain type of live performance. Live music is rarely part of our lives any more, unless you go to church, but that was not always the case. Music was a regular part of every day life in homes and pubs, and I don't mean the paid for sort of turn you still get in pubs and clubs, I mean the sort that communities provided for themselves.

I suppose there is an extent to which this still exists in the brass band world and other organised musical groups but we do seem to lack the spontaneous sort of entertainment that comes from within.

Our own gathering will be a church social meeting and I can't help worrying that one of the reasons that this sort of music is dying out is that our expectations are set unrealistically high by what we hear around us; and what we hear around us are highly skilled musicians with studio production, polishing their already honed performances.

Consequently, when the quality is not as good as the professionals it narks me to see people wince at the odd wrong note or squirm in embarrassment because the version of a James Blunt song is not like the one they hear on the radio (and believe me it won't be!).

So what do we do? I suppose we encourage everyone to learn an instrument and play together in homes up and down the country. Alternatively (or additionally) ensure that when you do have a small amateur musical gathering everyone is liberally supplied with wine and/or beer - that should make it all sound much better.

In our case I dare say we'll be nipping in The Grapes before our ordeal - I mean performance - so perhaps we won't care in any case!

In the meantime: reach for your recorder today, Keep Music Live!

Like Knights of Olde

When I read Simon Armitage's translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight I was struck both by the fabulous muscular language that he injects into his writing and also by the way a tale of a manly quest still has the power to grip. It was to such a quest that the gentlemen of St John the Baptist Church, Hey went on Saturday evening: the inaugural Annual St John's Crown Green Bowls Tournament.Ten men stepped out on to the velvet sward at Springhead Liberal Club; but only one returned victorious.

Crown Green Bowling differs from it's Southern cousin in that there is little or no dress code (flat caps are, I am afraid to say, not compulsory) - there is no requirement to wear white; and the task of getting your bowls, or woods as we call them, close to the Jack, or block as its known by the cognoscenti, is made more difficult by the obstacle of the raised centre of the green: the crown. Of the ten combatants no one declared themselves as having existing skill, indeed many declared themselves - as I - a Crown Green virgin; but as the evening progressed it became clear that four players had hitherto hid their lights beneath their proverbial bushels.

The semi-finalists 'I helped organise this but haven't played before' Phil; 'I've only ever played a couple of times' Steve; 'I only know what I've learnt from t'internet Andy; and 'how can a Geordie IT teacher be any good at this' Tony; battled it out to the death leaving Tony and Steve to enthrall the crowd, gathered in the encroaching dusk, with a thrilling fifteen point climax. In the end, churchwarden Steve proved the mightier and, just like head boy at school, showed he was good at everything. Magnaminous in defeat Tony accepted his runners up cup (actually it was a mug) with only whispered mutterings about the next contest being a science fiction literature quiz and seeing who'd win then.

All in all given the high quality of last weekend's sport: Rugby World Cup, Football International and Italian Grand Prix, I know which classic conquest was my highlight.

Me? I was knocked out in the quarter finals by the eventual victor.

Bishops, Bobbies and Brass

Whit Friday is a significant day around here. It is a festival day, with its roots in the Industrial Revolution when philanthropic mill owners gave church going workers a day off to celebrate Pentecost: the birthday of Church (unlike the miserable Manchester mill owners whose employees celebrated Whit Sunday instead). The tradition is that brass bands escort the assembled churches as they process through their respective parishes to assemble and join in a mass act of worship. Over the years a unique aspect of the tradition developed in Saddleworth: the bands stayed around for the rest of the day, playing whilst the children enjoyed sports in the afternoon, then as evening approached, each village held a competition for the bands to compete against each other. One hundred or so years on the tradition is thriving; the morning celebration a happy event as church goers don their best outfits to parade into Uppermill square. Even modern day policing gives way to tradition with the officers marshalling the processions marching smartly in their ceremonial tunics rather than their more usual quasi-militaristic - but necessary - body armour and utility belt; these smart young men and women brought a tear to many a grannies' eye as they stirred memories of the old fashioned bobby on the beat; my friend Sarah will be pleased when I tell her that Manchester's finest did her proud.

The assembled masses were treated, this year, to the presence of two bishops stood with the assembled clergy on the back of one of J. Barratt's articulated trailers, given a day off from hauling goods for the occasion. Bishop Michael - the Bishop of Rochdale, not the boss bish Nigel, I was surprised to see - delivered an address to the thronged thousand or so church goers that was, for him, direct and relevant: talking of the need for people of all faiths to be agents of change in society. You will gather by the inclusion of the words 'for him' in that last sentence, that he is not always a direct and straight forward speaker. The trouble is he is very clever and if he preaches at your morning service you can bank on it taking until Gardener's Question Time comes on Radio 4 to work out what he was on about (Gardeners Question time has been extolling gardening advice on Radio 4 at 2pm every Sunday for years).

The worship complete, the ten Saddleworth church congregations, with their respective bands blasting away to pysche each other out in anticipation of the later comptetiton, made a fabulous site and sound as they paraded off the field and along Uppermill main street. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as my favourite march tunes punched through the air - Death and Glory, True and Trusty, The Army of the Nile - I wonder how many of the processing Christians were aware of the irony of their peaceful, life-affirming event being carried out to these war like, martial tunes.

Our appetite whetted for the evening's events we grabbed an excellent sandwich from Buckley's baker's shop (just round the corner from the new kitchen shop if you are passing) and spent a couple of hours in the garden before heading for Mrs C's aunt's house, conveniently situated in Greenfield with legitimate access to parking at the heart of the village where we can enjoy the contest. More of that soon.

Incidentally, I noticed in tonight's Oldham Evening Chronicle (or the 'Chron as it's known) that the reason that the boss bish Nigel wasn't there was that he was saving himself for the opening of the prestigious Saddleworth Festival on Saturday: an altogether more urbane event of the coming weeks.