(pause for artistic effect; hence double line space)
Whirrrr, Click, Sproiiing!
It’s Windy Miller!
So began Camberwick Green, the great socio-documentary of the late 1960’s. Featuring gritty characterization and fluid animation, the series (and it’s bedfellows Trumpton and Chigley) gave the nation much to remember.
Which has nothing to do with acoustic music.
Be Welcome, Gentle Reader and read on.
“Drew, Drew, Barney McGrew…”
Hands up if you involuntarily supplied:
“Cuthbert, Dibble, Grub”.
Normally, I am not interested overly in your involuntary supplies, but on this occasion, it serves to make a point.
And that point is????
Your lyrics must be memorable.
In fairness it also helps if you hear/see them a couple of hundred times and you are five at the time, but the principle remains.
That means writing carefully.
Which is something I have become interested in lately; how to get my story told, efficiently, decoratively and in less than thirty-seven verses.
Told you we weren’t really folkies.
To that end, FG is taking a break this week. We have been performing three or four gigs a week (some Care Homes, but a lot of the big show) for the last 15 months without a break on our own, so we thought…
So it is a Log Cabin in the woods for us. Quite literally. And I imagine that there will be no t’Internet and probably no phone signal.
We will be moving about so will pick up such abuse as the world decides to hurl our way, but the fact remains that the guitar player and the singer will be quietly chilling for the week.
Naturally, we will be trolling along a guitar and a flute, and a bookful of ideas. We have nearly fifty bookings for shows next year, mostly for “Stories II, a String in the Tale”, so we’d better get it written. And to a decent standard too, which explains the book of ideas and the carefully sharpened pencil. We have a number of new songs bubbling, so as well as watching the world go by, we will be busy with the songs.
A sort of Folkman’s Holiday.
This week has been particularly stupid. As well as a number of shows – four I think – this week gone is the busiest in my working for The Man schedule, helping to run the biggest ICT conference in the North of England. And very good it is too, if you like ICT.
Or Computing, as it now prefers to be called, bless it. </sarcasm>
So into that fairly manic mix, we played to a packed house at South Shields Folk Club last Sunday. That was, in fairness, partly due to the fact that the club had been relocated to a smaller room, but it’s nice to claim that we played to a packed house. We shared the night with a lovely trad gentleman whose name has disappeared, and we did the second half of the night. Very nice and lovely warm reception, good fun too! Thanks to The Wrinkly Wroadies for taking the photos. Pauline now has a new chair which is lower, and therefore kinder when she hits the floor at the end of the evening.
Actually, is usually about halfway through the afternoon, but…
A couple of Care Homes later, we arrived at Ponteland U3A. A hundred-ish patrons wondered what we were up to, but to their surprise, the gig was a real humdinger. We had a good day and it really zipped along nicely. Sound was good too in the hall. So it was a great show, and some nice words afterwards, including, unusually, the invitation to write a song on a specific theme – that theme being Red Kites!
Well, you never know…
The King’s Head and Washerwoman’s Legs Folk Club Christmas Party is nearly upon us. Chairman Dave likes to have in in October, lest there be any confusion with the season, fun or enjoying oneself. However Dave does like to provide an entertainment for the evening so he uses his phone during the year to video guest artists for a ‘Christmas Special’. At the end of a night, he hastily erects a bauble laden Spruce, and festoons the artist with a gaudy streamer bearing the festive legend “Police – do not cross” and gets them to sing a happy song.
(A happy folk song is one in which the body count is kept to manageable proportions and the heroine does not actually die in the first verse.)
Then they sing the song at Dave’s, by now wobbly, phone.
I hope it goes better than last year.
It seems that Dave had the phone the wrong way round, so guests were treated to a 45 minute spectacular of an artist singing distantly in the background while they got a close up zoomed right up his nose.
All of which musing and rambling means it’s time for one thing.
Click. CLICK, whirrrrrrrrrr
And so as the marionette of fate looks up to find that there IS a God, but as in so many cases, there are strings attached, I notice it is the end of this blog.
Until next time Acoustic Chums,
 It’s not the Avon Lady.
 Please do your own jokes…. Oh, you have.
 Or, according to some, musicians.
 I thought of that one…
 Somewhere, somebody got that; which means you are a sad as I am. </comment>