Strange weeks make strange blogs.

A stranger week than normal (that sentence is, of course, redundant).

So I thought I’d break the mould this week and use a different blog format.

Just the once.


When I was young and the world was a kinder place, there were rules. Even in children’s story books there was a code. Tiger’s said ‘Grrrrr’, burglars went ‘bah[1]’ and ghosts, well, they made a soft ‘wooh’.


These days the old rules no longer apply. For example, time was, that when an artist sang a song or did whatever they did – but did it well, the accepted rule was to applaud. In extreme circumstances it may be permissible to let fly a laudotory whistle; in some, more progressive Folk Clubs an occasional; “Yurp” may escape from the lips of an audience member unable to contain him (usually him, rarely her) self, lost in an ecstasy of approval.


That was before a ghost escaped from the pages of children’s fiction and wandered into a televised music show.


Now, it appears necessary to ‘Wooh’ at the artist. Not at the end of the song either. At any point in the proceedings at which a member of the audience considers approval is required – such as singing a note without autotune, picking up a microphone or similar deft stagecraft.


This X Factor X cretia has been a feature of televised music for a while – at least that belonging to the category labeled ‘popular’.

Or ‘mindless’.

Or just ‘Bad’.

This worrying development might have passed us little acoustic types by, but no club is an island and in the last few weeks I have heard my first ‘wooh’ in a folk club. True the audience had the good taste to drag the woo-er out into the street and hang her from the nearest lamp post, but the woo-ee, a young man in his first flush of guitar and singing a song in a mid Atlantic accent seemed to quite appreciate it.

Or even expect it.

I’m on next. Woooooh.


Another very quiet week in FG land, apart from a fair few gigs adding themselves onto the gig list. Fortuitously, none this week, as I managed another cold this week and have been doing an enviable Barry White impersonation, albeit one where Barry White dissolves into a fit of coughing after the first “Hey Baby…”. So yucky has this cold been that not even the recording has progressed too much.

The only time this week that we ventured forth was to the Songwriters Symposium run with velvet steel by Acoustic Chums jiva. We had to go along as we were doing the presentation for the evening.

The theme of the evening was presentation, which I took to be the whole business of presenting oneself as a singist, not just at a gig, but to the world. I felt a bit yack, so kept it down to an hour and a half.

Still it seemed to go well enough. At the end we got a nice round of applause and, naturally, a Wooh.


Normal service will be resumed.


[1] Except the ones that said “Oh Guv’nor, you got me bang to rights and no mistake”


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