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.
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.
Heavy as it is was with pandemic worry, my heart couldn’t keep from singing when I set eyes on the flamboyant blossoms in front of Silvester’s Stores on Magdalen Road. It is a real treasure of a shop, run by the son of the man who established it decades ago. A hodgepodge of birdseed, hardware, crockery, and other domestic items, its over-stuffed shelves harken to earlier times.
Some of the stock may be older than I am, but they also carry fine, fresh specimens for the garden. I usually just linger there on the pavement, soaking in the uproarious colour before going on about my day. But since my days have become increasingly circumscribed by the walls of my own home, last week I chose three lovely primulas to call my own. I couldn’t help but hum as I walked down the street with the plants in my arms.
As I arranged them on the window sill in our bathroom, a little ditty entered my head. The next day I put my phone on the music stand of our electric keyboard and pressed record. I then went back and took some more footage of the shop and its environs, watched some YouTube editing tutorials, and, over the course of a few days, stitched it all together into a teeny-tiny film which I released on Valentine’s Day.
I hope it captures some of the delight these flowers have brought to me on these dreary winter pandemic days. I like to imagine the wonder and vitality of their little blossoms careening through the ether, conspiring to connect us in spite of the lonliness of lockdown.
A not-so-subtle analysis of the current political moment.
The idea for the song popped into my head one morning, fully-formed, as my percolating coffee burbled gently under the eerily calm voice of the newsreader.
As the day wore on, I imagined singing this new song at the top of my lungs at a Bastard English Session. This fantasy put a desperately needed smile on my face. Since I knew James Bell was interested in doing another video collaboration along the lines of Newcastle to Portsmouth, I plucked up the courage to do a one-take video and shared it with him. He added some wicked harmonies and recruited Calum Novak-Mitchell, Mick Phillips, Laura Theis, Trev Williams, Hannah Gray and Josh Robson-Hemmings (of Threepenny Bit) to join in the mayhem.
The awesome instrument Mick is playing is a nyckelharpa. It’s from Sweden.
Here’s hoping the tides turn soon. May the mean-spirited sh*tshow give way to a pile of benevolent compost, from which a new era might spring.
We did it! We actually did it! Our lockdown video is finally live. Thank you Hannah Gray, Jane Griffiths, Colin Fletcher, Tracey Rimell, and Joshua Robson-Hemmings for contributing your talents on flute, fiddle, bass, vocals and guitar. This project kept me going and only occasionally drove me up the wall. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, why not share it with someone who has contributed to, and/or alleviated your lockdown grumpiness?
samtwigg.net 