Gren Bartley at the Criterion, Saturday January 8th, 2011... plus belated happy new year greetings...

Belated New Year's greetings to all... I'm off to see the mighty Charles Gayle at the Cafe Oto in a few days (see previous review here...) but ventured out on Saturday afternoon with Mr Marmion to Leicester, a kip of a place as we used to say in Dublin, but the Criterion is a great little bar and the attraction of a solo performance by one of our favourites, Gren Bartley was the main reason to drag us out of God's Little Acre for a few hours.
A fair crowd when we arrived, which would get bigger... the performance space is a relatively small room so lends itself to the intimacies of acoustic gigs. Gren was on good form – admitting that he had not played in public since before the New Year, he did not sound rusty at all. The usual exemplary picking on guitar and occasional banjo buttressed his voice which has been getting stronger down the years, a deeper emotional edge to it now. An eclectic mix of songs – from self-penned, old and very new, (i.e, the day before) to covers from Paul Curreri to Skip James via Leadbelly and Lonnie Johnson, among others. Criticism? One small one - perhaps a bit of throttling back on the mid-atlantic accent here and there, but that's a personal thing. What I do find fascinating is Gren's take on old blues numbers which he revitalises without slavish copying: coming at a diagonal almost from alternate bass 'folk' picking styles, the blue notes and runs are there but lightly inflect the songs rather than dominate. He's a fine writer as well, some interesting new stuff.

A lot of faces we knew there – these afternoon sessions are very much a meeting place for local musicians, especially now that the Phoenix lunchtime gig has gone down. Which means a lot of chat in the background but that's the nature of these gigs and the p.a. cuts through most of it – although we noticed Gren was turning it up as the afternoon went on and crowd lubrication levels rose. Nigel Lawson was at our table, asked up a couple of times to play some blues harp and acquitting himself well, some added value. (This is not Baron Lawson of Blaby, by the way, but the front man of local band Dangerous Dogs).
Relaxed, good vibes and good music...

Back again... fleetingly...

It's been a while, yes... blogging has been on hold for a few weeks as buried in editing and shaping a book, co-editing a web lit mag and also embarking on another house move... these restless aged beatniks, hey? But soon... lots of gigs to write about... the looming autumn and winter are shaping up well and the Mighty Marmion will be launching his new enterprise after retiring from the running of the old Pack Horse Club last December 'trailing clouds of glory' - Tapped But Settling, under which moniker he will be presenting a series of concert-type acoustic/folk gigs. Starting at Xmas with old friends GU4 for a mighty blast of acappella festive fourpart harmony wahoo. Deck the walls with sprigs of holly... Working backwards from the festive season (it's that kind of a morning) at the end of October I'm off to either the Colour out of Space festival in Brighton - or the Unsafe bash in Poole - a drag as they overlap so haven't figured out which one to choose yet. Last years Brighton festival was superb - as documented here, here and here...

Review: Pete Morton's Magic Christmas Tree at the Pack Horse, Friday, December 19th 2008... Farewells...

It is in the nature of the game – the wear and tear of organising music venues down the years eventually induces fatigue. Frank Marmion has lasted longer than most, running the Pack Horse Folk club with support from Dave Morton and his wife Joan. As a weekly venture, a brave even foolhardy exercise. From my own experience, a couple of years is about the burn out point – running our Club Sporadic every couple of months was enough stress! Frank's involvement with the club stretches back a good many years, since he arrived in God's Little Acre, up to the point when he took on the mantle of chief organiser when it would have folded otherwise. A sage move – committees seem to work best with established clubs that go for a monthly policy – time to plan and discuss things without the weekly urgency. One person on their own can be much more efficient in their delivery of class music than a mélange of people who often have little wider vision beyond their own narrow purist/ideological patch – let alone the financial nous to get 'bums on seats.' Without which the venture at some predictable point folds anyway. But the time came for Frank to move on – retirement looming, new adventures beckoning, uncertainty over the future of the pub which made future booking policy too much of a gamble – effectively he was not going to be able to run the place in the manner of his choice for much longer.

The Pack was always a quirky, eccentric, scruffy place, scene of much great music down the years – and one of the musicians who has played there since he launched his own career back in the eighties has been Pete Morton, a performer who to my knowledge has always pulled a full house, not just because of the local connection but the plain fact that he is a superb artist. So: fitting that Frank chose to go out in a blaze of glory with Pete's special Magic Christmas Tree roadshow. Accompanied by Chris Parkinson on accordion, the surprise of the night was the other cohort – depping for Roger Wilson, a young – an extremely young – fiddle player called Tom Moore. (Certainly not from the bummer's shore: old Dylan reference/joke). Pete never fails to move me with the breadth of his humanity, passion and sheer sense of fun, always questing, never settling for playing safe. A lesson that many on the folk scene – and beyond – should heed. 'Make it new,' as Ezra said. 'Play what you don't know,' as Miles Davis said. Tonight: we had songs in Chaucerian English – 'Rock around the Clock' and 'Knocking on Heaven's Door' – which make you laugh out loud at the sheer zany chutzpah on display. Later, perhaps, when you consider the other songs in French and Platte Deutsch, you realise how much this man loves language – further evidenced by his moving tribute to the English poet John Clare, 'The Shepherd's Song.' (A song that kills me every time I hear it, as a lover of Clare's poetry.) Which works as a rough paradigm for part of what Pete is about. He somehow manages to pull off the trick of collapsing distance, which brings the past into a temporary contemporary focus. Writing in the 'tradition,' he extends it, rather than allowing himself to be subsumed by it, as so many other writers do. First world war, anybody? This song, about the peasant poet Clare, off to London to be briefly embraced by fashion, later to be dropped and end up in the madhouse, is a provincial's wry comment not just on a historical tragedy but more contemporary manners as well in an over-saturated media age. He also celebrates the humanity of the marginal – the clientele of a city centre pub in 'The Battle of Trafalgar,' family life – 'My Best Friend,' dedicated to his parents, the random encounters of 'Post Office Queue.' Via detours into such areas as Marc Bolan/T Rex, for the glam rockers (!) and some spontaneous Irish dancing and jiving in the audience by Cath M and her children, to close: after a soaring version of 'To be a farmer's boy,' buttressed by some mighty singers in the audience – what else? - 'Another Train,' tonight transformed by the backing of violin and accordion. An anthem of hope which means so much to so many – and if I am being corny here, so be it, hipsters, flipsters and finger-popping daddies...

The other two musicians: young Tom Moore displayed a ridiculous sense of cool for one so young, showing poise and no little elegance in his violin playing both on his solo pieces and as part of the ensemble. Chris Parkinson's mature skills on accordion widened the musical ground further, expanding Pete's performance in a fascinating way, providing underpinning and commentary that gave depth and a different array of colours from the usual guitar accompaniment.

A rambunctious, fun night, then, celebrating the end of this chapter in the Pack story. Glory be to Mr Marmion, especially in his choice of the Pete Morton Christmas extravaganza – a fitting way to go out to a packed house. There has been a club here on and off for over thirty years. But – there's another train, there always is... the stop press news is that it will continue in another form, on the second friday of every month. Some feverish work going on behind the scenes by Cath Mackie to make it happen. But for this incarnation – goodbye.

Review: Steve Parry at the Pack Horse, Friday October 24th, 2008

A late decision to go out into the demi-monde of God's Little Acre, to the edge of the Artist's Quarter and Mr Marmion's Friday night acoustic extravaganza at the Pack. Tonight featuring an old buddy, Steve Parry, a solo singer whom I have not heard for some time. With the audience he seemed to have brought en masse from another watering hole we frequent to give him a cushion of support, this proved to be a very good night. Steve was always a distinctive singer with a very pure tone warmed with a slight vibrato that would indicate some voice training back when – certainly he has no problems negotiating his material without accompaniment, holding the keys and the individual forms of the songs with ease. Interestingly, his voice has roughened slightly, a huskier edge which transmits the emotional content well and balances off the purer side of his timbre. Some singers over-emote and try to push the song along too far – Steve avoids this by keeping a certain distance yet does not allow his technical skill to overwhelm his evident love for the range of material he performs. A tricky dance to negotiate – but he is fleet of foot, as it were, and has that rare ability to get inside his music... An interesting selection: from old bangers like 'Lord Franklyn' and less well known songs (to me) 'The Jolly Butcher' and Childe Ballad 'Young Allen.' To more contemporary stuff – a Roy Harper song, 'Every Day.' Climaxing on the only encore possible, the song he is probably best known for locally, a stirring version of 'The King of Rome,' Dave Sudbury's epic celebration of working class life in Derby just before the Great War, made famous by June Tabor way back. Criticism? He maybe rushes the odd song, which is probably a sign of nerves as Steve does not perform nearly as much as he should. But that's my opinion, no more, no less... The other interesting point I noticed was that, given that majority of the crowd were probably not devotees of traditional music – or solo singing – Steve gripped his audience throughout and not just for partisan reasons. Certainly, from where I was positioned I would have noticed the odd surreptitious roll of the eyeballs or attention dropping. Of which there was none. Food for thought – maybe the old stuff is not so esoteric when given a fair chance of display? But there again – the message depends on the messenger. Tonight delivered with skill – and grace...

Review: Don Partridge at the Pack Horse, Friday, 13th June, 2008

Onwards to belated review number two...

... the mighty Don 'Snakehips' Partridge, King of the Buskers, complete with one-man band and two guitars – the big twelve string and a six for more elaborate stuff returned to the Pack Horse after a five-year hiatus. Another national treasure like Jack Hudson, Don has a good few old friends up here from his tenure in God's Little Acre and environs a few years ago – some of whom were here tonight. If you have seen him playing on the streets, the indoor performance is somewhat different. For one thing, he can rein back a bit, not competing with traffic and outdoor urban noise. And this gives another side to his music – Don has always been a clever and sensitive writer of songs and those who know him just from the pop hits of yesteryear ('Rosie,' 'Blue Eyes' and the recently resurrected 'Breakfast on Pluto') may be surprised at his depth and reach. Don is also a natural raconteur with a fast wit, interspersing the music with tales of the roads travelled. Coming from folk music, yet broadening out to include songs like 'Black-eyed Susie,' originally an old bluegrass number that mutated into a big hit for Guy Mitchell. (I remember a long time ago he used to do 'Hey Baby,' the old Bruce Chanel track, in a similar move – he probably still plays it).















Others - a loping 'Streets of Laredo' (joined effectively on squeezebox by the other half of the resident musicians duo, Dave Morton), the old Bessie Smith tune 'Nobody knows you when you're down and out,' a soulful 'I've got you under my skin' which featured some nifty harmonica. Of his own songs, 'Trans-Canadian Highway' is a favourite, recollecting a journey long ago and his seven minute version of his setting of Alfred Noyes narrative poem 'The Highwayman' displays abundantly his musical ear – both sensitive and rousing as befits the story being told. The one-man band sound of bass drum, cymbals and harmonica fleshes out his guitar work to give a full and solid support throughout, translating well from the streets to the club. A fascinating night, with odd fluffs here and there but they did not marr the overall performance and are almost obligatory for a folk club anyway. Only criticism, the vocals may have benefited from a touch of amplification – I was straining a bit at the back occasionally. Having said that, most of those in front of me probably heard everything more clearly... So: Hail the King! (Also, mention should be made of Mr Marmion's new instrument, seen in one of the photos, forged from the body of a six-string banjo and chopped into – something else... nominations for a name are being taken. 'The banjo from the Black Lagoon' was one...