We visited the Isle of Skye in May and happened across a harbour front pub, The Pier Hotel, a real seafaring fisherman's pub overlooking Portree harbour. The clientèle still wore their fishy working clothes and in the corner a duo, two men in their seventies, played fiddle and accordian, both great musicians whipping up a storm with tunes everyone knew and loved. The heaving throng joined in with the slower wistful Scottish ballads and whooped to the faster dance tunes, jigging in the tight packed space. This was one of those holiday highlights where you feel you've got to the heart of a community and experienced something authentic of their culture.
Back in Oldham I reflected on how once again the Northern mill towns had been deprived of any kind of culture with a heritage going back centuries - no Robbie Burns for us. Our forebears migrated from the country for work brought by the booming cotton economy. They sacrificed their various cultures for an all new mill based community, based on leisure activities graciously provided by mill owners - the working mens' clubs and brass bands, for example.
My grandparents loved a sing-along at church social functions, where they sang songs of the musical hall or war time ditties. Then in the seventies they taught us, their grandchildren the words of the old songs and told us that these new loud songs would never catch on - "you won't be singing them round the piano in twenty years time" they used to tell us.
And they were right weren't they?
On Saturday we had a night out in a pub with a bit of a dubious reputation in Oldham - the sort of place you can be sure of a fight with your pint - there was a karaoke night. Mrs C and I joined a rowdy group of her colleagues for, rumour had it, was one of the best nights out around.
The start did not auger well, the place was shabby and the red faced hardened drinkers looked like they'd been in since they'd left work some considerable time before. Then the place filled up and by 10.30h was buzzing with young people and old, most of them knew each other, some had uncles, aunts and parents in the pub too.
The karaoke was indeed great fun with singers falling into two distinct camps: the wannabe diva and the drink addled trier. I preferred the triers, the ones who took on a challenge and failed to meet it, the ones where you heard the first bars of the song and said, "OMG he's not trying that one is he?!"
My favourite was Bert, dressed in what looked like the sweater he had for Christmas, in 1990, bright red face, legs that refused to keep him in one position for long; Bert belted out Robbie Williams' Angels with all the big-stage enthusiasm of Robbie himself, only three bars behind the rest of the song (that's Bert pictured above).
The thing was, nobody cared because we were all joining in with Bert, or with Terry who slaughtered Oasis's Wonderwall this was our community singing: tunes we all knew and loved that resonated with us. They might not have had a heritage traceable back through the annals of time but this was a culture in the making - I think my Gran would have been proud, even if she couldn't have said so for having to eat her words.
Life On Mars came to an appropriately climactic close last week and the blogosphere was full of plaudits for John Simm's and Philip Glennister's portrayals of Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt. For me though, there was a plaudit missing: every week, Blind Beggar are credited with the role of musical advisers for the series. I cannot imagine the series without their carefully chosen, erudite, witty and pertinent musical selection; yet I can find out remarkably little about this team/business/individual. I have been waiting for a reply to an e-mail I sent to Kudos, the Life On Mars production company, their silence is ominous - if they reply I'll let you know; but my money is that they wont; because they are busy protecting what must be one of the best jobs in the world.
Picture the scene (screen fades to reveal what looks like a comfortable lounge with an Apple Mac in one corner, and a Bang and Olufsen music system filling one wall, with comfortable leather sofas strategically placed to gain the optimum musical experience from it; two casuallydressed guys in their mid forties lounge on the sofas with A4 pads and pens on their laps)
Man 1: So when is this series set? Man 2: Script says about 1985 Man 1: And they want iconic music...they gotta be kidding... Man 2: ...wait though, what about Kirsty McCall, New England? Man 1: Yeah but it's all a bit sparse isn't it? Man 2: Hmmm I think we need inspiration.... Man 1: You're right dude
(presses a remote control and a giant cupboard slides open to reveal a huge bar containing every conceivable bottled beer. The guys pop open bottles which they clink in the air as if 'high fiving')
Man 2: And now for the sounds man...
(presses another button and a Tom Bakeresque voice says: "your chosen year is 1985, enjoy..." the room erupts in sound and both men leap around as Prince's Let's Go Crazy pumps out of the precision speakers; the party hots up as Simple Minds, Don't You sets their minds racing on their new high earning project),
Man 1: Great move man! We're gonna pull off another Mars coup aren't we? Man 2: Kerching!
Scene shifts to 90 minutes later, both men now sitting leaning drunkenly together on one sofa surrounded by empty bottles and cans; they both look dejected as the sounds of Elaine Paige and Barbara Dickson's I know him so well fade into the background.
Man 1: Three chuffing tracks... Man 2: We're stuffed dude... Man 1: Chuffing eighties crap... Man 2: I'll get our coats...
Perhaps the job isn't that easy after all. Incidentally the BBC website for the series lists the songs used in each episode, but don't, like I did, click on the names expecting to hear the song, you just get more information on the artist - a page advertising Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, in the case of Alvin Stardust!
Thomas Hamurger Jnr. has tagged me to list seven tracks or albums that feature in my life at present. Because I'm organised like that, I've done them in my music pages...click here.
It's my turn to tag some of my fellow bloggers with the task, here are my chosen few:
This Sunday, 11th March 2007, brass bands from across the North West of England will congregate at Blackpool's Winter Gardens for heats of the National Championships. Why do I tell you this? Because it is an important event in our part of the world.
The sound of a brass band playing is quintessential to the Northern shires; redolent of summer afternoons in the park or crisp winter days anticipating Christmas. But who are the people who make this music; who still goes to village halls or band clubs twice a week to rehearse; and for what purpose?
We each live in individual worlds that overlap others'; it is the overlapping of these worlds and the way in which that takes place, that defines how we live together. My sons play in brass bands, consequently the world of brass bands is significant to me. It was brought home to me, however, how far removed this world is from others' worlds when queuing to get into the Winter Gardens one year. Our turn came to pay the man at the entrance desk, looking like a throwback from a former age, with slicked back hair and a cigarette dangling from his mouth that tipped ash as he spoke; he asked:
"Are you chess, brass or George Formbys?";
and I realised in that moment that he didn't care which world we were in; indeed he lumped us together with other minority interests at the Winter Gardens the same day. Some of some of whose participants looked like they were short of daylight and fresh air; others dressed in 1940s clothing carrying ukulele cases...how could he rank brass bands with them?
But why would he know that brass bands matter, how they are inextricably linked with Britain's industrial heritage. The names of bands still echo that tradition: Grimethorpe Colliery Band or Fairey Engineering for example; of course if you Google Grimethorpe Colliery now you only get the band, not one sackful of coal. Players in today's bands are as likely to be nurses, electricians or call-centre workers as hard bitten manual workers from the pit face, but they continue the tradition, the shift in Britains industry is reflecting in the make up of the bands.
Yet, having queued to listen to the heats I wondered about the extent to which the brass band movement helps itself. The process of many brass band contests involves each band playing a test piece of music; they all play the same piece; sometimes the piece of music is dreadful and there may be twenty bands to listen to. It does take a particular type of madness to sit through twenty versions of the same tune trying to divine which is better than another; perhaps George Formby doesn't sound so bad after all.
This idea of dipping into different worlds is one of the reasons I like blogging and reading blogs; it gives me an insight into vastly varying lifestyles - but not, incidentally, so many different cultures, or am I not looking hard enough.
Away from the acutely competitive side of brass bands we should be grateful that the traditions persist, I for one say you can't beat a march contest on a summers day in a Yorkshire village with a glass of beer; hope to see you there.
We have a music group at church about which I promise I will write in the future. Today though, I was browsing YouTube for some Corrs songs that we are to cover at a social evening in March. I found some superb live versions but here is the star of my day. I loved the Zuton's last album, particularly the single Valerie (I'm biased; you may have noticed that my wife's name begins with the letter V), so browsing on I found this version recorded live, by Amy Winehouse, in someone's living room by the look of it.Not only has she got a stunning voice and cool tattoos; she has an engaging un-self concious way of singing that I love.
I found this cracking example of what every modern love-lorn man is missing in his bid to impress girls: a ukulele. Enjoy watching my favourite Lancastrian icon schmooze a lady in this short clip.
Footnote: The following conversation took place between my son and I on his return from work yesterday:
Me: I've had a good day, your cool dad has been on YouTube finding cool videos Son: Don't say cool dad, you're forty-four Me: Sorry I'll try to be older Son: What have you found? Me: A coo...sorry, really good George Formby clip Son: What? the guy with the grill is on YouTube, cool.
If you've seen the music section of my blog you'll know that John Martyn is one of my musical staples. Regular visitors will know that I have my left leg in plaster so I was gutted to learn that I was going to miss Martyn at the Lowry at Salford Quays; but look what I've found on YouTube:
Do you remember the music from Trumpton? After a guitar practice I was browsing for a recording of it and look what I found, watch and enjoy: Trumpton Incidentally I have a celebrity moment to share. When we were kids the family went to watch an episode of the comedy series 'It Ain't Half Hot Mum' being filmed, I sat next to the Trumpton narrator, Brian Cant in the audience, good eh?
