15 f Ranting & Reeling I
don’t like to play devil’s advocate because it’s usually a euphemism for “being an annoying arse”. It’s a tac- tic often employed by people who precede unsolicited rudeness with the words, “Don’t take this the wrong way…” but after reading in the last issue of fRoots our editor’s gauntlet- throwing challenge for festival pro- grammers to take more risks, I became aware of a small nagging voice in my head. It told me to burn things. But it also asked: are we so sure there’s a wealth of talent that isn’t getting the exposure it deserves? Are there really the risks to take, or do we just wish there were?
We can all think of the odd one or two artists whose names should crop up more often than they do. But it’s always been thus. Let’s not forget it’s taken Alasdair Roberts over a decade for the tent flaps of the folk festival fraternity to part for him. And he’s as trad as a transvestite sailor. There are always peo- ple who should be booked and aren’t. But are there enough to significantly alter the advertised line-ups that have begun to decorate these pages? Is there an untold number of Alasdairs out there? It seems unlikely.
Like most things in life it’s probably
your fault. You, the public, with your ways. I’m not helping either.
I’ve sung the praises of Celtic Con- nections before. And by the time you read this I will have danced up and down Glasgow’s vomitty streets again, such is the effect that festival has on my endor- phins. Celtic Connections could never be accused of playing it safe in its selections. But when I look at my gig diary for the duration, the same names I see every year are there.
It’s me. I want to see them. I don’t want to take risks on my holiday because I risk ruining that holiday, stuck in front of a stage watching someone who sucks. And while I may have lost count of the number of times I’ve seen Julie Fowlis, she’s one of my favourite singers, she occasionally plays the bagpipes, and her new album Gach Sgeul is so good it makes me applaud like an idiot child. Why would I go and see someone else instead? That’s not human nature. Human nature has a cheese and Monster Munch sandwich every day for lunch. We are creatures of habit and I like all of mine (even the genital scratching). Our habits are who we are.
We can’t
expect change if we won’t change our- selves. And who wants to do that? It’s called a com- fort zone for a reason. What’s needed are new people on both sides of the photogra- pher’s pit. New people to make new music that’s better than the old music. And new people to watch the new music because they haven’t yet decided they won’t endure any band that doesn’t have Sam Sweeney in it (and why would you?) Let them take the risks and tell us about it later.
The problem there is that most new people are wrong about everything and have terrible taste in music. It’s why we don’t invite them to our parties.
My name is Tim Chipping and I have seen Lau at least 25 times. Anyone know if they’re playing any festivals?
Tim Chipping
The Elusive Ethnomusicologist I
t’s hard to describe my embarrass- ment when pedal steel guitar legend BJ Cole came to mine for lunch. Given that he was in my kitchen it seemed stupid not seize this golden opportunity to get the pedal steel languishing in my so-called ‘office’ (spare bedroom/ laundry room/ tip) tuned-up and ready for action. “It needs a good clean!” said BJ, clearly shocked. “I don’t know how to,” I splut- tered. I was actually alluding to the tricky-to-reach dust bowl under the machine heads, but the words sounded lame even to my ears. And anyway BJ was referring to all of it. Even the easily accessible bit under the strings.
My inner slattern had just been outed. I was consumed with shame as BJ swiftly rectified the situation. “You just need a cotton cloth, Elizabeth.” But for the tricky bit? “You wrap the cloth around a pencil and poke away.” Well I wouldn’t have thought of that, but then BJ, as I’d just learnt, always thinks ‘out- side the box’. Then things in my head got worse as I realised I hadn’t played for at least a year before we moved house, and not at all since we’ve lived in our new one – where we’ve been for over a year, even though it might look like we pitched-up yesterday.
When I first started playing – to meet a requirement for a Masters course in Ethnomusicology that demanded learning an instrument from a culture different to your own, I imag- ined I’d be good at it, in oh, five years say: saw myself moving beyond sliding up and down the frets randomly push- ing pedals and knee levers and going “ooh, doesn’t that sound nice!”
We all had to take a performance exam on our chosen instruments and I knew that my enthusiastic but murder- ous rendition of the Skye Boat Song (too complicated to explain) hadn’t gone down well – apart from providing a laugh – when John Baily, my lovely diplo- matic tutor said, as the last notes died away: “Well, that was brave Elizabeth!” I passed only by re-taking the next year accompanying my long-suffering teach- er, the wonderful musician and multi- instrumentalist David Ogilvy.
Would I keep going with the instru- ment, my examiners enquired? Oh yes. I love the sound, love that you can take great harmonic leaps in such smooth- slurred-easy-action. But in my head the complexity of the instrument got bigger and bigger and soon blocked out all
hope – so
despite my best intentions, my playing slipped away. I’ve always meant to take it up again, to play daily even if just for ten minutes
because prac- tice does make perfect.
And now here’s BJ in my house, cleaning my pedal steel, saying encour- aging things about it – offering to help me learn it! Playing it: he’s hope personi- fied. He talked earlier about how learn- ing an instrument throws you up against yourself. And I find it’s not just my inner slob that’s jumped up to point right back at me: suddenly one of the reasons my pedal steel is only now, in BJ’s hands, singing the sound it was made for is hor- ribly clear. I’m confronted by the fact I’m a big fat cowardly procrastinator. So I resolve here and now to seize the day. Every day… in a minute…
Elizabeth Kinder
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