The Sidmouth Interviews by Hector Christie


Simon Ritchie: a man apart W


hile waiting for Simon I sit gazing at the statue of the Sidmouth Fiddler thinking how much it facially looks like Bob Dylan (circa Freewheelin’ days) and when he appears, (Simon, not Dylan), those idle thoughts turn to musing that he looks like how I imagine John Kirkpatrick’s grumpier brother looks (if he has one). Such flights of fancy prove oddly prescient. This is an interview that’s going to take in Punk Rock, Jimmy Shand, Spongebob Squarepants and God knows what else, (Simon as interviewee, is both unsteerable, and the king of detailed digression), resulting in a momentary urge to feed my notebook to an eavesdropping seagull.


The day before, when he’d asked, “Why do you want to interview me?”, I’d mumbled in reply, something about believing that what he does, he does for the right reasons. To explain: we inhabit a digital media world where every fool seems to have an opinion and where it’s often the loudest and most strident that is most regularly heard. Simon seems to personify the polar opposite, whether in his choice of material, style as a performer, or his passion for collecting songs from a group of people light years away from media interest, he doesn’t go for the fruit of the low hanging branch. His disregard for the easy route reminds me of comments made in an essay by A. A. Gill, about Morris dancers, who, “caper on regardless. To be a Morris man is to live a regardless life. These are men apart.”


The story of this “man apart” is all the more interesting given his previous involvement in the cynical, fashion dominated world of the London music scene, a world in all it’s respects so different to what he now does, that it’s almost comical to discuss them together. This involvement wasn’t just a “blink of an eye” flirtation either - he recorded with an Indie band and, from 1979 with them played The Marquee and other venues such as those in Camden or Islington that are still hip today. Nowadays, he’s a well known exponent of East Anglian music, as well as a solo singer, step dancer, and melodeon player


The Living Tradition - Page 12 The Two Bobs


His future direction(s) were signposted by those who were / became his heroes. Two guys called Bob loom large, (neither called Dylan). A friend took him to see Bob Davenport And The Rakes, and the impact of this was immense. As he describes it, “everything fell into place and made sense.” Simon makes connections effortlessly; earlier, for example, when discussing first hearing Jack Elliot’s Songs Of A Durham Miner he recalls thinking, “Fantastic. Roots, like all the reggae I’d always listened to.”


Other Heroes


“...I’d been trying to reinvent the wheel and here was the wheel still going round after years and years - you didn’t need management, synths, A&R men, pictures in the press, you didn’t even need to write the songs, they were already there, and better...”


with the Posh Band, and in other line-ups. He lives in Thaxted (past famous citizens - Dick Turpin, Gustav Holst) a market town geographically at the opposite end of the country where he first started out.


Born in Gateshead, he started out on mouth organ at about the age of five, and his earliest repertoire included Blaydon Races and Love Me Do. In those days he was into Lonnie Donegan, Jimmy Shand, and George Formby. Aged 13 he bought the Byker Hill album –“I knew where Byker was, and I was curious”. He also confesses


that, in common with the reggae music he then bought, it was cheaper by far than any other music then available. No epiphany followed, and by the age of 16 he was at Wigan tech, spending his years grant on the purchase of a guitar. Oh weep ye impoverished students of today, for these vanished days of freedom / irresponsibility (delete as you see appropriate!) From 1979-82 Simon played and recorded with the Nice Men, a band that came after punk, but didn’t fit easily into any category. The last of the original line-up to go, he finally quit in 1982.


The other Bob was Bob Cann, who he’d heard on record, thought was “a dead legend”, then, learning otherwise, went to see in Devon. Bob’s melodeon playing was inspirational, as was the instrument itself; “Wow- a Victorian acoustic synth”. The full importance of these people becomes clear figure when he recalls that, after meeting them he, “didn’t even get my guitar out of its case for 13 years... I’d been trying to reinvent the wheel and here was the wheel still going round after years and years - you didn’t need management, synths, A&R men, pictures in the press, you didn’t even need to write the songs, they were already there, and better.” He dwells on the memories of Bob Cann, before he goes on to talk about another melodeon hero, Mark Bazeley who in his book is now leading the field of all time greats and could be regarded as, “the nearest thing to Jimmy Shand we’ve had.”


The Laird of Auchtermuchty


I don’t mention that it is only in recent years, that to many, Shand has gained a new credibility. Previously, probably because of the uber-uncool White Heather Club, which was cringe-making to many Scots, no-one of a certain age would admit (even to themselves) to liking Shand. In more recent times, due to retrospectives, and an appreciation of music rather than image, led by people like Richard Thomson and Phil Cunningham, Jimmy Shand’s music is more highly respected.


Photo by Jill Banks


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