I have been toying with the idea of letting this blog go the way of all flesh. Who reads blogs these days? And why do I make more work for myself?
There are a few stalwarts out there, though, who I want to keep updated about events and happenings. And there’s the principle of the thing. Thinking in public about creative projects that are dear to my heart. I am not ready to let that go – though I congratulate myself on being so very irregular in my updates. Might that be a sign of personal growth?
Life has been extremely full recently, of rather unglamorous things that demand attention and energy to recover. But I am excited that some musical projects continue to bubble away, and give me focus and inspiration.
My latest enterprise involves learning how to use animation software. Why, might you ask, should I make a lyric video for a new song, when social media platforms will automatically do such things for you? The short answer is that it’s fun. The slightly longer answer is that I have dreamt about making my own cartoons since I was a kid, and I would love to be able to make an animated short. I have always enjoyed hand lettering, and the structure of this task is a good way for me to get comfortable with the interface. So that down the road I might do more elaborate things…
The video will go live when the single is released on 28 September.
That very same day, we are hosting a benefit concert at Caper bookshop, raising funds for two local treasures: Asylum Welcome, which supports vulnerable migrants living in Oxfordshire, and Donnington Doorstep, a family centre where people with young children can relax while their offspring explore a fun and creative space full of toys and activities.
“What is that?” people often ask when I take it out of its case. The cuatro’s doubled set of steel strings sound somewhere between a mandolin and a twelve-string guitar. When I stumbled into one in a cluttered music shop on a grim Chicago afternoon, I was still reeling from the heavy anaesthetic of a root canal. I was smitten the moment I laid eyes upon its violin-like profile, imagining I might be able to make some pretty sounds were I to take it in my arms.
Having played mostly on nylon string classical or flamenco guitars for several years, the bright joy and assertiveness of its strummed chords were sheer delight. It reminded me of the richness of the steel-stringed Guild I had played as a young teenager, learning folk and pop guitar in the bucolic fields of Appel Farm from Joe Crookston. Playing steel with a pick was wonderfully familiar, and I realised how much I missed it. Yet the cuatro was also different: even though a guitarist could find her way on it pretty quickly, its quality of sound and its beautiful shape were like nothing I had heard or seen before. Emboldened by my anesthetized stupor and possession of a credit card (my father’s), I declared that cuatro mine. I took her home.
My technique on the instrument differs significantly from how it is normally played. The national instrument of Puerto Rico, its mandolin-like upper registers usually sing twinkling melodies which shimmer above the mix.
Go seven minutes and thirty-two seconds into this interview with a child prodigy on Puerto Rican television to see what I mean:
Fabiola Mendez went on to become the first cuatro player to study at the Berklee College of Music in Boston–although it was she who taught the cuatro to her teacher, a guitarist. Listen to her all grown up:
This is wonderful stuff. But I am only now discovering it, though I’ve been playing my cuatro for a decade and a half.
My cuatro is a petite, harmony-laden rhythmic powerhouse. It’s not a top-of-the-line model. In fact, it took me a little while to conclude that the distance from the nut to the first fret is just a shade off, meaning that I get better intonation if I keep a capo on the first fret (or above). At the very top of the neck, again, the intonation gets a bit inconsistent.
I do my best to work around its idiosyncrasies, as I hope others would do for me. I know full well that I stumbled upon this strange treasure and fell in love, without research or deliberation. I even entertained the notion of a cosmic connection between my dental work and the molar-like profile of its tuning pegs. Far-fetched as that might be, I am glad I impulsively clung to this (un)familiar instrument. It has illuminated both my joys and my sorrows with a strength I have come to depend upon.
In the depths of winter, I find reassurance in the quiet patience and dormant life of a pine cone. Its sturdy symmetry is comforting. Drawing gives me the opportunity to observe its ragged regularities and geometric modulations with keen attention. Somewhere between a rock and a flower, its scales are sturdier than petals. Easier, I find, to keep track of. They aren’t shy about taking up space.
Pine cones, when fresh, harbour winged seeds within their scales. Most of the ones on my bookshelf have long since shed their seeds, though if I look closely I can find a few hiding deep within the cone. If I put one in a bowl of water, its scales will close as it protects its seeds from the damp, inhospitable conditions. If I put it somewhere warm and dry, it will open again.
Respecting my own rhythms of dormancy and engagement is not easy. I have needed lots of rest this winter. So be it. The miracle of homeostasis continues deep beneath the surface.
There’s a time to rock out and a time to recover. We can rest assured that some serious rocking out occurred over the last year. Playing with the band at the Great Barn Festival, the Jericho Tavern, and Mrs Henderson’s were an utter delight. Also delightful was the opportunity to lead a songwriting workshop at Willowbrook Farm, not to mention banging a drum for the Whirly Band on May Morning. The Sometimes Band even managed to squeeze in some recording in November. I look forward to sharing the fruits of our labour in the fullness of time.
But for now, let’s sit tight. May we, like the pine cone, protect our nascent treasures from hostile conditions with a firm grasp. And when the weather clears – which it will – let us open and relax, sharing our creative offerings with confidence and abandon.
Like many a duckling, I was born in May. I have a deep fondness for the month – for the unadulterated green of it, the opulence of its blossom, the energising clarity of the sun’s rays. So perhaps it is no surprise that when I landed in Oxford, I was drawn to May Morning. I have dim recollections of affectionate encounters with inebriated Morris dancers in the wee hours, in what must have been 2008. The contrast between the drunken students in the streets and the purity of the choristers’ voices, ringing out from the top of Magdalen Tower at dawn, was exquisite. Even more glorious, however, was the experience of wandering past Radcliffe Camera towards Broad Street, where the over-educated hippies* I had met at the Catweazle Club presided over another sort of celebration.
This was the Whirly Band, founded by Andy Letcher and Groovy Su, and whatever the hell they were serving, it nourished me. I knew I needed more. Their energy reminded me of communities I had been a part of in the past – an arts camp in rural southern New Jersey, where I learned to play guitar, and the progressive school that was my home from home in the woods behind Rockville Pike, on the outskirts of Washington, DC. It was goofy, joyful, creative, purposeful, and adorned with greenery. The groove was sublime.
I didn’t make it every year, but May Morn has anchored and sustained me ever since. When my partner and I moved to Edinburgh, we celebrated Beltane with new friends. Our first year there, a fine woman I met at an antenatal class (and who now co-runs one of the coolest shops on the planet) even got us free fireside tickets. We danced like goddesses, with babes strapped to our bellies. All the while, I could keep an eye on the shenanigans on Broad Street, via the videos posted online by Bill Frizzell and others. And, like any good secure base, May Morn was unharmed by my departure, and could be trusted to welcome me with open arms as and when I was ready to return.
A decade or so later, in a moment of online boldness, I asked Bill how I might join the Whirly Band. He put me in touch with Jo Hamilton, who had taken over from Andy many years ago. I knew her vaguely, and admired her wholeheartedly, from hearing her play at Catweazle, and subsequent serendipitous conversations. I was tickled pink to be welcomed into the fold.
And then…well, Covid-19 demanded our collective attention. I had spent quite a lot of time thinking about the cultural significance of contagion in the UK, back when I did anthropology for a living. I really didn’t want to think about it anymore. But avoidance was not an option. Distraction, however, was a necessity. I printed out the Whirly folk tunes and waited, more-or-less trusting something magical would happen. I found solace in both the ancientness of the traditions and the loveliness of the people involved.
The first Whirly Band practice I attended was the first time since lockdown that I entered a domestic space belonging to strangers. And what a domestic space it was! Piles of books every which way you looked, of the kind I might have found on my own father’s or maternal grandfather’s shelves, addressing Deep and Serious Things. Children’s art, anatomical diagrams, and taxidermy specimens adorned the walls. It smelled of dough and garlic and even as the hostess disparaged the fact that they were just frozen pizzas, the spirit of maternal care was unsurpassable. Our host, meanwhile, boisterously offered each one of us our beverage of choice, insisting we choose from his beautiful collection of tankards. To be warmly welcomed into one the most surprising, learned, and love-filled spaces I have ever entered, after the social famine of lockdown, felt divine.
Learning bourées and farandoles on the cuatro was a challenge, so when Alan Buckley pulled out as a drummer I leapt at the chance to switch to percussion. Trans-Atlantic Lockdown Love from my father-in-law turned into a gift of a Very Fine Drum. And getting drumming advice from my Dad on the phone reminded me of long, long ago, when I would sit on his lap and play the high hat with his brushes in our basement.
Being able to carry that beat forward felt like everything.
Playing with the Whirly Band in 2022 was thrilling beyond measure. Crowds, after lockdown, felt inherently unsafe. But I put my trust in the power of vaccines and fresh air, and remembered that every social encounter involves an element of risk. Welcoming the summer as part of a horde of jubilant humans was surely the right thing to do. The BBC wrote a wonderful piece about it with lots of lovely photos, which can give you a flavour of what it was like.
When I got the email from Jo in January 2023 saying she was stepping down as band leader, a pit opened in my stomach. “Oh no!” my littlest self was screaming. “Mama Bear is going away! Whatever shall we do?” I found myself typing into the void, inspired in part by a new year’s resolution to work a bit less as a therapist and nurture my music a bit more. I volunteered to help take things forward, if others could help me do so. Thankfully Joe Wass and John Rudduck stepped up, the former on pipes, the latter on bouzouki, guitar and inspirational banter. The three of us were just about able to fill Jo’s boots together.
Like so many festive occasions, the preparation was half the fun, and 2,643 times the work. The challenges of affixing the horns John had acquired to the hat I had worn for Armaleggan did, I confess, bring me to tears. But it was ok. Joe gallantly offered the use of his electric drill (not pictured), and Teru came to the rescue when I mangled the brim and was mired in fabric glue. We got there in the end.
Which brings us to May Morn itself. Sometimes things feel too magical to speak about. Which is, in part, why it’s taken me so long to write this blog. Long story short: it was stupendous. As I walked along the Cowley Road around dawn, I was approached by several strangers asking for a photo of me in my whimsical outfit with my glorious drum. OK, sure, I said, feeling a bit like a celebrity, or an employee at Disneyland. I taught a man from India the phrase, “Up the May!” only to then to be invited to say it into his phone, so his wife and daughter – in India – could hear me say it. I wondered if they could tell, or would mind, if they knew I was American. “You look like the embodiment of the spirit of May Morning,” the gentleman declared, awash with admiration. I was happy to accept his version of events.
The first half of Magdalen Bridge was easy enough to cross, but things came to a standstill at the other side, as onlookers gathered to hear the choristers from Magdalen Tower. I sharpened my elbows, reared my horns, and pressed forward, smiling at the festive folk with their green garlands pressing in the opposite direction. I even got a hug from Bill en route. My hat fell to the ground in our exhuberance, but the antlers stayed fast. Phew.
When I finally got to the steps, I felt awkward in that classic pre-gig way. I was relieved when it was time to start playing. Every member of the Whirly Band contributed their own thing, as only they could. We were tighter than we had been in any practice. The crowd was electric, spurring us on to new heights. John’s speech was just right. I was reassured to have Joe and John beside me, the former gently telling me to slow down at key moments, and the latter signalling me to rock out at others. Only once did I notice contradictory instructions. At which point I just deferred to my instincts, which felt trustworthy.
My favourite video clip of the morning was captured by Natalia, a wonderful musician in her own right and a regular of the Starling Sessions. We are playing the Bear Dance. I love knowing that as we were playing this tune in Oxford, a real black bear was causing gentle mayhem in my old neck of the woods. I like to imagine him grooving along, as he snacked on suburban refuse and reclaimed his space, before being driven to a less populated area of Montgomery County.
The whole experience made me feel better about the world, and my place in it.
Now I will leave you, Gentle Reader, with some digital treasures relating to May Day which my procrastinating self has unearthed over the last months. The ESL video is my favourite.
In spite of its being March in England, we managed to have a glorious, sparkly, magical night at the Jericho Tavern. Have a look!
Like many things in Oxford, the place is steeped in history. The current pub was built in 1818, on the site of an inn dating back to the 17th century. A conveninent place to lay your head, if you were approaching from the north and the gates to the city were shut for the night.
In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the venue was part of a thriving music scene, with Radiohead and Supergrass making serious waves and signing record deals. (When they played at the Jericho, Radiohead was called On a Friday. Learning that fact brings me joy.) Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, I was learning to play guitar, discovering the Indigo Girls, and organising* school music shows. Also writing songs and making jokes with my friends like, “Bumper? Sticker? I hardly know her!” They were, on the whole, Good Times.
Anyhow, I hope you like this song, which I wrote in Chicago, recorded in Middleton Stoney, and now swims through the ether – in this video, but also on Bandcamp and Spotify. I have mixed feelings about Freud, but I have learned a lot from him over the years. The title is very much a reference to his work. Also a way of making peace with longings that pull me in 360 degrees, all at once.
Singing Discontent with the Sometimes Band at the Jericho Tavern was an absolute thrill. My thanks to our incomperable host, Sam Taplin, for holding the space and gathering us all together.
Here’s to surviving March – even adding a bit of sparkle! Bring on the spring.
*I find making decisions about using American or British spelling very stressful. I could tell you more about why, but I suspect our time is better spent in the company of good music. Just watch the video.
Creatively speaking, 2022 has been both understated and brimming with life.
After pining for FloFest during two years of lockdown, it was a joy to sing there once again. It was particularly special because my Washingtonian mother and Berkeley-based best friend were able to be there, too. The cold and the rain could do little to dampen our spirits. I even caught the tail end of the dog show.
Rocking out on a canal boat was another musical highlight of the year. We entertained a bustling audience at Mount Place in Jericho, where there was beer on tap and sausages aplenty. Consuming both as I listened to Owl Light Trio fortified me for our set, as did drinking in our idyllic surroundings. When it was our turn to play, Colin Fletcher traded his guitar for his upright bass, transitioning seamlessly from Owl Light to Sometimes Band. His public debut with us was an exhilarating success, if I do say so myself. The audience was warm and receptive, and the setting was relaxed, professional and joyous, complete with mischievous children cavorting just about out of earshot from the stage. Thank you Towpath Productions for another magical gig.
Photo by Clare Rourke
Speaking of magic, the Howard Street Sessions never fail to transport and delight. But the one last November was, for me anyhow, extraordinary. Ben Smith (of Band of Hope and Acoustic Ballroom fame) opened the night with mesmerising loops of fiddle and guitar, pressing all the right buttons and pushing his artistic boundaries with bravery and grace. Then came our set. It included some new material, a sing-along classic, and glimmering finishing touches of raw beauty from Jane Griffiths on fiddle. This on top of Colin Fletcher’s sauntering bass, Hannah Gray’s melodious flute, Josh Robson-Hemmings driving guitar, and Tracey Rimell’s luscious harmonies. The Sometimes Band were in fine form indeed! I felt an instant connection with the audience, who were singing along – heartily, beautifully – from the very first song. I was riding a wave of deep contentment as I listened to John Smith close out the night. Sitting two feet away from him singing Salty and Sweet is a memory I will always treasure.
Over the past year, there has also been a fair bit of songwriting. Walking into town along the river, playing with a tune and a phrase or two as I watch the seasons change, is both energising and consoling. Even when – especially when? – the effort to leave the warmth of a winter bed felt positively Herculean, and the nettles were covered with frost.
So things have been gently but steadily bubbling away, as one day unfolds into the next. No huge tours or record deals. I have a day job I love, and a healthy family. I am grateful for both. But I also need music, and music is so much more satisfying when you share it. I have deeply ambivalent feelings about self-promotion in a digital landscape that is designed to fuel insatiable desires. But I will continue to throw my hat into the ring, in my own little way.
Thank you for joining me in this life-sustaining project. I hope you also find ways to nurture your creative spirit in the year ahead!
samtwigg.net 