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You couldn't have timed it better: just when I'd gone misty eyed writing about the corner shop and collecting me mam's Hovis, Lisa pointed out the appropriateness of the music from the old Hovis adds. The one where a young flat cap wearing bread boy pushes his sit-up-and-beg bike up the steeply cobbled street to the tune of the Largo from Dvorak's New World Symphony. It couldn't be less Northern though if it tried - Dvorak's symphony was about the New World of the USA, rather than the North of England; and the steeply cobbled street they used in the advert was in Devon.
Anyway, with the warm strains of brass band music drifting across my imagination, we popped across to Blackpool to hear our Tom play in the North Western heats of the National Brass Band Championships. I have written about this event and its idiosyncrasies before so was a bit stuck for what to say, until this happened.
We have a new camera at work and it is necessary for me - no I consider my solemn duty - to borrow, I mean practice with it whenever the opportunity presents itself. So Sunday found me inside the Winter Gardens with our new Canon DS400. I had already spotted that flash photography was prohibited; nor, for similar reasons, was I intent on taking photographs when it would distract the players. I took a few pictures of the bizarre interior of the Spanish Ballroom - replete with its model hillside village 
to give the impression, I presume, of being in some sort of Spanish valley.
Poised to photograph Greenfield band as they came into the auditorium I shot a couple of tests to check the light but was approached by a timid mousey woman who, judging by her rosette, was an organiser. She pointed out that photography was prohibited; I pointed out that flash photography was prohibited which meant that I was OK. She withdrew.
Moments later I was tapped on the shoulder by a similarly rosetted man with a very stern beard. Now I, as you know, like a beard, but this one bristled with barely restrained indignation. We had a brisk exchange of views about what the programme stated about the restrictions on photography; but he had the rosette of authority and the humour of a traffic cop who, despite your pleas of mitigation reaches unfeelingly for his ticket book: he went immediately for the ultimate sanction.
"If you do not refrain from your photography I will have to ask you to leave the auditorium."
He drew out the word 'leave' with a dramatic flourish, until it was as long as his 'auditorium'. The devil on my shoulder confirmed with me that I really ought to call his bluff and refuse to budge. But just as I was on the verge of saying "well you had better get some help then..." I felt words like rivets drill into the back of my head from a seat half way down the hall:"DON'T - YOU - DARE" they said, so I skulked muttering back to my seat, but not without my parting shot:
"Your type are the reason that brass bands are a minority interest" I said; and I meant it to sting.
But I had the last laugh in any case just look at the photos of the Winter Gardens I took without him knowing. Ha! (oh, and a few I took at stormy lunchtime too)
It is no wonder that many bands struggle to keep players interested when the people who maintain the brass bureaucracy are as stuffy as that silly sod. Thank goodness that one of the less healthy sides of brass banding persists in many bands to tempt the young to stay for the social life.
Thank goodness for beer - the saviour of banding!
Have you ever had one of those surreal experiences when you wonder whether what you are witnessing is real or is some sort of elaborate joke played by a scheming comic genius? I had one last Saturday evening when Greenfield Band hosted their 20th Anniversary concert with the Klosermansfelder band, who Greenfield band have a cultural link.
Klosermansfelder is a small copper mining town in, what was, communist East Germany and as if to make them feel at home, Uppermill Civic Hall had a beer keller feel to it from the off, with the tables arranged longitudinally towards the stage, and from an early
point in the evening, many, many foaming steins visible along them - well alright then, pints of mild and bitter. Greenfield Band performed the first set of the evening with a selection of traditional brass band marches and a couple of songs from the musicals. They then came to their last number and suddenly the spector of Basil Fawlty loomed large on my horizon - and I hope I don't have to be too explicit about my recollection of that particular episode of Fawlty Towers - as they announced their last piece The Battle of Britain March. A number of us snorted into our beer but, as if we hadn't got the - unintended - joke, an older woman stage whispered to her, presumably deaf, neighbour "Didn't we beat them at that?...". The turn came for the German band to perform and what an excellent performance they gave, whipping the crowd into a true beer kellar, larger swilling, cheese-fest of tradional German umpah music.
Then came the middle bit.
Do you remember James Last; the way he sanitised pop music into something fit for playing only in elevators; how he managed to make beige a lifestyle choice rather than a colour and the way in which he hypnotised my parents generation and sold millions of albums of pop hits, sanitized until they took on a pleasantly harmless feel. He could have made the Sex Pistols sound like Val Doonican. The band's middle section must have been planned as a Last homage: a medeley of 1970s hits centred on the classic Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep, by Middle of the Road - it could only have been improved by them segueing into the Birdy Song.
But the thing was, we loved it: dancing, drinking and singing; swaying, rocking and swooning; and, as if to emphasise the fromagesque quality of the event, the band had a look of Tutonic seriousness - grim even throughout their whole set. It was great.
Finally the time for the last number came. It was announced as a rendition of the Klosermanfelder town song: a song that summed up the culture and heritage of the town; a song that brought a tear to the eye of every Klostermanfelderian as they sung it in bars and taverns across the town; a song that translated as: Good Luck Down the Mine, The Foreman's Coming. Later I felt guilty at my reaction to the title of that song which, after all is a poignant reminder of the years of oppressive poverty and sheer hard labour - as if mining wasn't hard enough anyway - imposed by the by the Communist East German regime.
Now here comes the real Royston Vasey moment. Today, looking for a suitable picture for this post I searched for Klosermanfelder in Google hoping for a picture of the town square or even a copper mine shot. But all that was returned by the biggest search engine of them all was one hit; and that was the article in the Oldham Evening Chronicle promoting the concert. I searched further and further: not a German sausage: not a single picture, article or blog post. Ever. It's like the place never existed...
Anyway, not wanting to leave you without some sort of image or interactive involvement with the occasion I have selected, as you will see above, a fine picture of Greenfield Band; and here is an irresistible rendition of that Middle of the Road classic: Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep: and I defy you not to walk into work singing it tomorrow.
Whit Friday evening is an annual, mammoth, brass band event that attracts around one hundred bands from across the UK and abroad every year. For the whole weekend Saddleworth's B & B's and campsites are packed; and licensees take in extra stock. Outsiders find the event hard to understand: locals refer to it as 'the band contest' but in reality there are around thirty individual contests in villages and districts across Saddleworth, North East Oldham and parts of Tameside. Generally spectators stay put at their favourite venue while the bands tour round the area competing at as many contests as they can between 4pm and midnight. When I tell you that each band has its own forty seater coach you will understand why it easier for spectators to stay put.
The contests consist of two parts: the march and the stand; the march is what it says on the tin and the stand is where the band, well, stand, and play a test piece to be judged by a hidden adjudicator, typically ensconced in caravan borrowed for the occasion.
Individual venues vary in their style and so attract different clientele: Uppermill and Delph are larger livelier events, where people who enjoy a rowdy beer soaked evening typically join the tougher looking type of Police Officer as the evening progresses. Dobcross is small and pretty, Greenfield and Scouthead are predominantly family events with
a variety of attendant attractions in addition to the bands.
We unpacked our folding chairs on the packed field at Greenfield among families enjoying a variety of picnics. The bands were terrific and included big names like Brighouse and Rastrick as well as some of the tongue in cheek 'scratch' bands assembled for the occasion from excellent musicians who are not currently registered to another band. These bands aim to entertain rather than win and dress in a manner to suit their name: Tartan Brass, Chav Brass and Boobs and Brass - a popular one - , were some of this year's selection.
The biggest cheer of the night was for Greenfield Band - our Tom's band - they lifted their game and managed to win the prizes for best 4th Section band and best Local Band.
If you are ever told you must go to Oldham, choose to come when it is Whit Friday; I guarantee you will forgive the town its faults and have a marvellous time.
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.
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.
to give the impression, I presume, of being in some sort of Spanish valley.
