Kerfuffle in Concert - Expanding My Cultural Horizon Beyond 'Ark 'Th'Erald Angels...

Advent is a time of tradition. Nobody doubts it and we all participate in it, even if it's the more modern Christmas traditions like spending a full quarter's worth of electricity lighting the outside of your house with a plastic reindeer and the left overs from Blackpool illuminations. Me, I prefer the traditions anchored in the real meaning of Christmas - at least I thought I did.

My heritage, as I've pointed out before, is in the Methodist chapel tradition whose musical repertoire got rather stuck in the Victorian times and the early twentieth century evangelical traditions of Moody and Sankey. I've been missing out.

Last night we went to watch Kerfuffle - a folk/traditional music group/band/ensemble (delete whichever doesn't afford the necessary degree of credibility in your musical world). The total age of the whole band probably added up to less than two of our ages, yet their musical expertise and knowledge of the older traditions of British music is staggering.

Their latest album Lighten the Dark is a collection of traditional songs and carols.

Still awake?

It doesn't sound very exciting does it? But this is where people often fail to understand folk music. Traditional songs are the foundation for whatever the musician builds, and Kerfuffle build a performance of energy and life that doesn't merely lighten the dark but blasts a refreshing shaft of sunlight right through it.

So, I had my cultural horizons expanded beyond the austere walls of the Methodist chapel of my youth to cultural traditions steeped in nature and myth. Still, I was reassured to hear one older member of the crowd say to her friend
"They're alright these modern songs that'th young 'uns do, but I much prefer the traditional ones like 'ark th'erald angels..."

Kerfuffle are on tour. If you fancy a warming, fun Christmas warm-up, that includes a genuine clog dancing knees up don't miss them If you are up our way try the gig at Leeds in Holy Trinity Church.

Find out more here: http://www.kerfuffleonline.co.uk/

Or there's loads of music on their MySpace page here: http://www.myspace.com/kerfufflemusic

And, best of all here's a clip of Hannah James clog dancing in the front room of a hotel during the Sidmouth Folk festival:

Posted via email from stevencroft's posterous

The Defence of Old England

There has been much hand wringing about the English Defence League and their cack-handed attempts to defend an English cultural heritage that is deemed, somehow, to be at risk. I do think though, we are getting ourselves in a lather in the wrong place.

From what I've seen the EDL are merely the latest manifestation of an English culture that likes a bellyfull of beer, maybe a football match, but definitely a good old scrap. All of this, by and large, comes along loosely packaged with some woolly thinking on the right-wing political side of things. And of course the right wing extremists are only too glad to have foot soldiers eager to hitch their cart to a horse that guarantees them a bit of a ruck.

Add into the mix groups of young men who feel their way of life really is being undermined and their freedom to worship in a particular way threatened, and you have a cocktail that is bound to have a bit of a kick to it. But I don't think we should be too worried - like many cultural clashes, the reality is far more complex than something that can be sorted out with bricks, stones and fists.

First of all let's look at the culture the EDL are trying to defend.They talk about the 'islamification' of England, claiming that mosques in our towns are eroding our predominantly Christian culture. So where are the EDL when the dust has settled? Certainly not joining forces with local Christian communities to raise a new church hall; because that all-English christian culture simply isn't there.

So where do you go to find what English culture is really like in 2009?

Our parents were of the generation that still mistrusted immigrant communities in the UK, and my generation was raised hearing phrases that spoke of 'them', but as time passed 'they' became real people as second generation immigrants were educated and entered the work place. Where communities remained isolated it was, by and large, poorer communities with higher numbers of people out of work - this is true of both predominantly white and non-white communities.

In work we share the common goals of whichever organisation we work for and in the process learn how our varying cultures and faiths are worked out in practice during our daily lives. We don't often fall out over things, we are just different - but the thing is we aren't that different. We moan together about prices, we compare notes on the successes and failings of our children and we sometimes share recipes as we compare our lunches. Then on Friday some of us go to the mosque, or on Sunday to church - or maybe neither. Most of us socialise at the weekend, see family or play sport, then on Monday morning we compare our weekends together.

Work acts as a multi-cultural catalyst - we have the culture of our organisation to share and hold in common whilst retaining our own cultural differences and comparing with each other how they affect our shared work culture.

Maybe I'm painting too rosy a picture of multiculturalism - the point is for many of us that multiculturalism isn't a threatening idea or socialogical concept thrust upon us by well meaning politicians. keen on community cohesion, it is the natural result of being together. I accept that maybe people like me are an exception: at ease among others, eager to share and meet new people.

Where that sharing does take place, whether in work, school, university or elsewhere we don't generally fight over our differences; we grow and share, building a new culture that still retains the bits we are proud of from the old one, but also collecting and adding other bits - new words and new food, for example, but still retaining the essential values and spirit that are the true heart of England. The true values of our country are the same whether you go to Mosque, Temple Synagogue or Chapel.

I do worry that with fewer people working at the moment, there are not the opportunities for natural cultural sharing, and I accept that economic deprivation and disaffection among workless young people makes a breeding ground for extremists of any sort. But that is not the same thing as this cultural erosion that the EDL are so worried about.

I also wonder where people for whom social sharing is not natural and easy, can learn and experience other's culture. I don't see much of that going on on Facebook for example - these so called social networking sites seem generally little more that a gossip shop for pre-existing friends or way of passing time with trivial games. I don't see many cultural boundaries being stretched in the same way that natural social exchange in the workplace does.

So what of the future?

My instinct and experience is that we have far more to gain by sharing culture we are proud of and comparing and contrasting it with others' culture. History is littered with examples to demonstrate the benefit; and history is also cratered with examples where cultural difference has been allowed to develop into fighting.

So for my part I'll carry on encouraging people to share and I hope you do too. If there are waggons being hitched to horses, you'll find me sat in the one with people sharing their food, their music and their culture during the journey.

(By the way, you've probably guessed that I chose the image of British miners because once they are covered in coal dust you can barely tell what colour they are. The irony is that, browsing for a suitable image, I found it a web site supporting the BNP - I'll not dignify them with a link.)

More Northern Cultural Experience - Does Karaoke Replace The Singalong?

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.

Welcome to my world

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.

Featured picture: L'idiot by Chaim Soutine

My recent post Ten Years Younger featured my 'inner idiot'. Searching for an image for that post I came across a painting by the French impressionist artist, Chaim Soutine. The painting is titled L'idiot and depicts a young boy sat on a dining chair dressed in, what looks like, a sailor suit. The child has much bigger hands than might be expected and his head and ears don't look in proportion to the rest of his body. My guess is that this poor child had a learning disability. I found the brutally titled picture haunting and disturbing, as I wondered about the circumstances of the child's sitting for the portrait; he looks well dressed and, perhaps, was cared for by well off parents, though Sebastian Faulks' depiction of one of the central character's mental illness in his novel Human Traces, set in late 19th century France makes me wonder.

Great British Institutions

There has been much talk this week about Britishness, Chancellor of the Exchequer - and soon to be Prime Minister - Gordon Brown has been talking about the need to teach Britishness to potential new citizens of the UK. I thought I would take the opportunity to examine some of the things that the British do.

A slight increase in my mobility has meant the opportunity to get out, so out we went - shopping. So we'll start by examining one of the great bastions of the British way of life: Marks and Spencer. Because I do not have optimum shopping mobility I had the opportunity to dispassionately observe what makes Marks, as we fondly call it, so special (some may argue that the role of dispassionate observer is the default setting for a male shopper).

Our choice of Marks is a large out of town affair, on a large retail park accompanied by an Ikea, Toys 'R' Us and a B and Q. In addition to its other merits, the one level layout suits me at the moment. Our shopping strategy was well thought out; V. parked me on a thoughtfully placed chair by the door while she went on reconnaissance to identify potential purchase targets.

Sat in the poor-mobility seat it was easy to observe fellow customers and form some idea of what makes Marks. My crutch and Frankenstein's boot marked me out as an object worthy of sympathy, this delivered by way of indulgent smiles, nods and encouraging comments: "You won't be buying socks then".

That was the first thing that defined the Marks' experience: people are so nice - and that is the, very British, word that sums up the Marks and Spencer experience: nice; like a good cup of tea is nice, or a day out at the seaside is nice; understated, comfortable and pleasant, just nice.

But these nice people seemed quite narrowly defined. Their clothes may well have been the result of the last trip to Marks'. For men: shoes not trainers; trousers not jeans; shirts not tee-shirts. For women: smart trousers or skirts; if jeans are worn they are designer jeans (not Marks' jeans interestingly; though if men wore jeans I think they would be Marks'). The women have nice make-up and nicely cut hair - not obviously stylised, but nice. Both sexes wear good coats rather than waterproofs.

The whole experience of Marks and Spencer is pleasant, no music just the click and swish of coat hangers on rails; and muted conversations as people have relaxed discussions with good diction about possible purchases. There are accents but they are accents with rounded edges.

Yes, shopping at Marks and Spencer is a distinctly comfortable experience, there is non of the subliminal aggression you get in town centres, where groups of lurking youths bristle with latent menace making passing shoppers feel uneasy. Dissatisfaction with anything at Mark's is expressed with with a polite reprove or mild sarcasm. There is no pain in shopping at Marks - and here is perhaps one of the clues to its character - there is no apparent worry about spending, no anxious checking of price tags - shopping at ease for people at ease.

Wandering around the purchase targets V. had identified made my foot ache so, while V. tried on a couple of selections, I sat again. This time I perched on the edge of a display, it wasn't until I had been sat for a few seconds that I noticed the smiles and looks of fellow shoppers - I was sat beside three slender manikins wearing only lacy lingerie (size 10 - I checked). I must have made an amusing sight - an apparently benign middle aged man, obviously lame, sat beside these teasingly dressed dolls.

And perhaps that is the overriding feeling of the Marks and Spencer shopping experience, safe and benign: nothing bad can happen, women can be sexy but in settled relationships; men are not racy or dangerous, it's all so very nice.
I was left wondering though, whether this niceness doesn't extend into smugness; and I wondered too about what happens when people who are not 'Marks and Spencer' people wonder in with loud voiced mobile phone conversations and vulgar manners.

A British icon but, perhaps, not for everyone.

A lifetime's learning....in seconds!

Thanks to Urban Cowgirl for introducing me to Mr Picassohead. It takes seconds to create a masterpiece like today's featured picture - have a go and send it me as a link, I might even feature it on the blog.