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CAMBRIDGE FOLK FESTIVAL


Everywhere you went at Cambridge people were asking the same question. In the loos, at the campsite, the duckpond and the falafel stall there were musicians, stewards, hotshot radio presenters, the occasional drunk Geordie in a comedy hat… they all beamed cordially and posed the big one… “Did you see the Quebe Sisters?”


There was no excuse not to see them


really. The Texans with accents you could drown in were here, there and everywhere and after the 15th commendation from a new best mate I’d never met before, I caught them performing a whirlwind set in the club tent. There they were smiling beatifically – Grace, Sophia and Hulda Quebe – all gleam- ing teeth and southern hospitality, perfectly synchronised fiddle bows, immaculate three- part harmonies and vigorously polished introductions – positioned between two chaps in stetsons (rhythm guitarist Joey McKenzie and upright bass player Drew Phelps) whipping through their paces with eagerly polished zest.


They’re the Andrews Sisters-meets-Bob Wills-meets-Hank Williams, blending blue- grass, western swing and jazz in a slightly unnerving Stepford Wives persona. Glorified novelty act or authentic revival of a proud Texan fiddle tradition? The buzz reverberat- ing around Cambridge overwhelmingly sug- gested the latter.


Indeed there were plenty of other bor- derline novelties to ponder, not least the Jolly Boys dealing out Pinball Wizard, Hey Jude, Hey Joe and Angels in Jamaican mento style so heavily caked in charm they were equally hard to resist. He was the oldest act at the festival, but Albert Minott’s yelps and grunts still lifted the roof. A comparative youngster, Seasick Steve also threw himself into the fes- tival spirit, mixing blistering blues with cheesy showmanship, while spending Friday afternoon playing Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee songs with some street musicians.


From the vast selection of good-time big bands to the interesting array of audience head wear (Sunday was officially ‘hat day’) this was a refreshingly smiley Cambridge. With truce declared over the fabled blanket wars and big screens (though not that big) introduced for the first time, there wasn’t too much to moan about and what initially seemed an unexciting low-key bill came alive as this much maligned festival rediscovered its charm and beauty.


In this context, croaky old Kris Kristoffer- son fitted admirably. His guitar playing was primitive (and out of tune) and his presenta- tion wayward, but hell, we adored him just for being Kris Kristofferson, delivering bruised classics like Me & Bobby McGhee, Sunday Morning Coming Down and, best of all, Casey’s Last Ride while appearing gen- uinely overcome by the warmth of the wel- come. “Are you this nice to everyone?” he asked, all wide-eyed.


Half-sensual champion of poets and half- matronly minister of silly dances, Natalie Mer- chant performed an elegant set that will remain long in the memory – but then that incredible voice was always going to seduce the campers. She could certainly use some


The Quebe Sisters Band


dancing lessons from Rokia Traore, though an overload of mundane rocking out disappoint- ingly blighted Traore’s intrinsic vibrancy.


There was plenty of feel-good music from the Irish contingent of Lunasa, Dervish and Sharon Shannon – linking up with born- again rockabilly star Imelda May – while there’s something innately edgy as well as uplifting about the string band joy spread by Carolina Chocolate Drops. There was a dire, unprofessional Sunday night set from Harper Simon, whose place near the top of the bill would have been better filled by fellow American singer-songwriter Joe Pug, who’d invigoratingly opened proceedings the previ- ous day. As Simon departed, the recorded sound of his dad Paul filled the marquee and we all wondered where the genes had gone.


The home-grown fraternity fared well, notably Jackie Oates, Seth Lakeman, The Unthanks, Julie Fowlis, Breabach, Imagined Village and Show Of Hands. The most wel- come surprise, though, were The Burns Unit (Karine Polwart, King Creosote, Emma Pol- lock, MC Soom T and Future Pilot AKA) with a thrilling mix of folk, pop and hip-hop which sounds great on their new CD, but is even better live.


Cambridge was grinning from ear to ear


by the end. Colin Irwin


SHRADDHANJALI Queen Elizabeth Hall, London


At the risk of banging an old drum, for many people the live moment is where musical magic really happens, where the unexpected occurs. If any concert thus far in 2010 looked set to send sparks flying heavenwards, it was Shraddhanjali. The word means ‘tribute’ and Shraddhanjali celebrated Alla Rakha, famil- iarly called Abbaji, one of the greatest rhyth- mists of historic times, on the occasion of his


tenth death anniversary. The concert, put on annually by the London-based Allarakha Foundation, had an added poignancy. His wife, Begum Allarakha died in 2009. It had been her intention to attend.


The son of the famed classical dancer Sitara Devi, Ranjit Barot opened the evening solo. He played a differently configured set of western kit drums live to pre-recorded tapes/ samples such as Invocation’s recordings of the South Indian shawm, the nagaswaram. Shawm sonorities continued in Hamsad- hawani – it uses that South Indian raga as its launch-pad – thanks to an unbilled Tim Gar- land on soprano sax. Closing the first half, they were joined by sarangi player Sabir Khan. For the piece entitled 6/8, drums, vocals, tenor and soprano saxes and sarangi played against a backdrop which sounded like popping a can of musical Alphabetti Spaghetti and pouring out its atonal contents of metallic static, creaks and clanks. It was in a similar spirit in fusion drumming terms to, but a far cry from, Alla Rakha and Buddy Rich’s 1968 collaboration, Rich À La Rakha.


The second half began with Barot’s com-


position Song For Abbaji. The three musi- cians featured in the first half were on stage but this time they were with Zakir Hussain, one of Alla Rakha’s three percussion-playing sons. Many consider him the greatest tabla player of his generation. However well they played, there was almost a sense approach- ing anti-climax, of greater things to come. And, come they did. Sarangi maestro Sultan Khan had sent his lad Sabir to do the busi- ness and he really did do the business. The evening went from very good to off the meter of excellence. The sheer economy of Hussain’s finger brushings, the tales he told through tabla onomatopoeia (cannon salutes, the chaos of crossing an Indian street, a deer in startled flight being exam- ples) through to hallucinatory, ultra-fast pas- sages revealed him as beyond compare.


Ken Hunt


Photo: Philip Ryalls


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