47 f
at the back of Boots. Yet they are also cool. “If you want to do ‘New Romantic’ danc- ing,” they say, “please remain in your seats,” before belting out the Eurythmics’ seminal ’80s soundtrack Sweet Dreams.
This followed Wheatus’s millennium
anthem Teenage Dirtbag. And then came a ‘classical tune-up,’ some interpretive dancing, Appalachian spoon playing, a song from Southern Italy, an Ennio Morri- cone number complete with whistling and David Bowie’s Heroes, with a motoring bass – all featuring fine and quirky arrangements.
Given this is a folk festival, I’m rapidly moving the goalposts in my mind that con- tain what folk might be…
“Aren’t they brilliant?” says my mum.
There is no spontaneous ukulele jam here, so we wander off along the seafront in search of an early supper. I’m hoping to bump into Phil Beer to catch up a bit, but feel shy about texting. Show Of Hands are festival patrons so are no doubt really busy. Looking round it’s like the bit in the film where everyone says “I’m Spartacus!” There are so many people here milling around the stalls that look like Phil Beer and it’s impossible to spot the real one.
So we seat ourselves in Prospect Plaice with a fine plate of fish and chips, where everyone looks like they’re my mum’s con- temporaries. I’m later told that whilst there are people of all ages and tons of well-attended activities for kids, the aver- age age of festival goers is “probably 68.”
A couple much younger than that sit beside us: Debbie and Martin Mckeown.
“Is that a ukelele you’ve got there Maureen?” he asks my mum. “May I see it?” Approving of its tone, Martin plays and sings and the diners in the ’Plaice’ join in. He runs a ukulele festival on the South coast usually and tomorrow is running a session on the beach. “Come and join us, Maureen, 3 pm. On the Esplanade, along from the Bedford Hotel.”
B
ut right now we head off to Blackmore Gardens, passing the lovely old church, to find festival stalwarts The Old Swan Band all set to deliver a stomp- ing ceilidh. My mum and I sit at the side, the band strikes up and we tap our feet to a polka. It feels very happy as the dancers whirl by – and again there’s that sense of time slipping. It feels like we’re in a Jane Austen novel but with looser clothes and, unlike everyone else in the room, no clue about the dances.
And then a stranger, who becomes David Goddard, asks me to dance. I demur. I can only do windmilling-hands-in-the-air disco dancing. “Go on Elizabeth!” says my mum and I’m whisked away into a Kennet Jig as David kindly talks me through it. And it’s such a lovely feeling to be danc- ing and a part of it all. It feels so warm and inclusive.
But my mum and I have a date with Les Barker and it’s back to the Ham Mar- quee. I knew folk could be dancing. But poetry? Hadn’t occurred to me. Again the
Police Dog Hogan
place is packed. Everyone joins in with repeat verses like choruses that are funny and clever and seem to spring from a well of compassion. Barker nails social issues that resonate with now. Repeating lines like “We stand four square behind our message/ But we don’t know what it is,” we experience folk in action as social com- ment whilst it binds and uplifts us in a sense of community.
And when we all repeat, “I am not a
sheep,” I don’t know it, but I have spoken too soon…
We wander over to the cellar bar in Kennaway House, which during the week hosts ‘fRoots presents A Cellar Full Of Folkadelia’, entertainingly compered by Tim Chipping and Steve Hunt. The artists involved are all exploring the boundaries of folk. Outward-looking and brilliant, many have featured in these pages at some point. I catch some lovely harmonies courtesy of Kit Hawes and Aaron Catlow, and later the excellent Tim Jones & The Dark Lanterns and some extraordinary improvisation mixed with German classical elements, thanks to Rock Of Eye.
The polished chains of office lure me into a council reception by the bar in the Ham Marquee the next morning. The civic dignitaries, heartily swigging pints, are enjoying the results of the licensing agree- ments they’ve made to ensure the week will flow well. The Town Council, the District and the County Council all weigh in with solid support for the festival, which has been happening in Sidmouth since 1955.
Andrew Moulding, Chairman of East Devon Council, tells me how he loves the fact that this festival attracts artists from all over the world to Sidmouth, who per- form their own traditional music but also “resonate with UK tradition”. He points to the traditions represented from Canada and America, from France and Eastern Europe and Africa (including Senegalese kora master Diabel Cissokho) and loves too “all the impromptu music on the seafront and in the pubs.”
T Les Barker
he programming, quietly mas- terminded by Alan Bearman, is very much on the Womad prin- ciple, “where,” Steve Hunt (also in charge of press) tells me that “traditional performers from travelling families are as much a part of the proceed- ings as, say, Police Dog Hogan.” And, he reiterates, “This festival is outward-look- ing, inclusive, with artists performing tra- ditions from across the world.”
And like Womad, the access here to fantastic first-class tuition, with workshops in literally everything and anything that’s appearing this week, is phenomenal.
There is something to suit everyone from the youngest child to the eldest pen- sioner. These include but are not confined to workshops in theatre and performance, dance, writing, singing, storytelling and poetry. There are choirs and vocal groups you can join. There’s even a ‘paint your own gypsy caravan’ workshop. And of
Photo: Kyle Baker Photography
Photo: Kyle Baker Photography
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