FS25: George Collins

An odd and rather creepy song: George Collins kisses a ‘pretty maid’; George Collins dies; his girlfriend dies, and so do five other women. The end.

Bert Lloyd argued, I think correctly, that Child 42 (Clerk Colvill) and 85 (Lady Alice) are fuller versions of the first and second halves of this song, which in turn implies that this song once existed in a much longer and more detailed form. What we can draw from Clerk Colvill is that the ‘pretty maid’ was no such thing, but a malevolent mermaid or other supernatural being, who first enchanted and then poisoned the central character. Incidentally, I don’t think the text gives much support to the feminist reading mentioned on this Mudcat thread, according to which Clerk Colvill was cheating on both his wife and the mermaid, who was only taking a justified, if slightly excessive, revenge. There’s not a lot of sisterly solidarity in the old ballads, and where it does exist it doesn’t tend to include mermaids. Why everyone around Clerk Colvill or George Collins promptly drops dead is less clear; this may have been a later addition, in the general spirit of having people die for love. (Or, as Jack suggested on that thread, there may have been a subtext involving syphilis.)

I learned this from Tony Rose’s recording on Bare Bones. Given the subject matter, I wasn’t very happy with the lilting, dreamy melody Tony Rose used – it works well for him, but I found the contrast between what I was singing and how I was singing it too uncomfortable. I used the melody in Classic English Folk Songs (formerly the EBPFS), but changed the time signature from 4/4 to 6/8, added a repeat and put in a mixolydian flattened seventh to make it slightly darker (it’s the first syllable of ‘pretty’ in ‘fair pretty maid’). There’s something a bit nagging and uncomfortable about all the instrumental tracks I’ve used here – melodica, drone and an old Generation high-G whistle; again, this felt right for the song. (This is folk song, lad – nobody ever said it would be fun.)

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AS15: Jamie Douglas

Child 204.

This version is based quite closely on June Tabor’s version (retitled “Waly Waly”) on the album Airs and Graces. She did quite a lot of work on Child’s original, piecing together a version that works well from four or five of Child’s variants. I’ve made a couple more changes, pulling in two “Farewell” verses and dropping one of the floating “heartbreak and regret” verses, but by and large this is June Tabor’s Jamie Douglas.

I’m eternally wary of claimed factual origins for ballads, but it does appear that there was a historical Jamie Douglas who did send his wife back to her father as damaged goods. Beyond that, who knows?

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NS18: The leaves in the woodland

Not a folk song, but oh my.

This is the song that Peter Bellamy gave June Tabor – at the time, an up-and-coming singer with one solo album to her name – for The Transports. I don’t know, but I like to think that (a) he wrote it for her and (b) he wrote it for her after hearing her take on Jamie Douglas; the melody seems designed to showcase the kind of effortless vocal artistry that she displayed on that song. (Mine is strictly effortful.)

Peter Bellamy was, among other things, an extraordinarily accomplished writer in traditional styles; if, instead of giving this song to June Tabor, he’d faked up a nineteenth-century broadside and sneaked it into the Bodleian, I’m not sure it would have been discovered to this day. Perhaps the only element that’s out of keeping with the style is the unrelieved bleakness of the song, culminating in the numb despair of the last verse – it’s not easy listening, particularly for anyone who’s lost a loved one. Bellamy himself knew that feeling only too well.

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Week 24: The bonny hind, Sheath and knife

Two closely-related Child ballads for week 24.

The bonny hind isn’t about a deer. Despite describing a situation that most of us have never been in and never will, the story is horribly involving; the dreadful emotional bind of the central surviving character at the end of the song is stunningly vivid. Sung with melodica and flute; arrangement after Tony Rose.

Sheath and knife isn’t about hunting equipment. Although all the details are different, the narrative line of the song – and especially the awful final scene – are closely related to The bonny hind. Sung with double-tracking.

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FS24: The bonny hind

Child 50. If there’s a sadder song in the world, I’m not sure I’ve heard it.

I learned this from Tony Rose’s version on On Banks of Green Willow. I’ve sharpened up the tempo slightly – there’s a dance tune lurking somewhere behind that melody – but otherwise it’s a fairly faithful copy. The intro is played on flute and melodica instead of concertina, and the song is accompanied by a drone.

I don’t think accidental brother-sister incest has ever been better written; you can sense the dawning realisation in the lines where they call each other liars. I think the opening is particularly effective; the brother’s lines have a relaxed, expansive jokeyness which is horribly at odds with what’s about to happen (I am no courtier, he said, save when I courted thee). And everything he knows and his father doesn’t – and the bafflement of the father, and his final suggestion (“Tell you what, go and see your sister, that’ll cheer you up”…) Beyond words.

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AS14: Sheath and knife

Child 16. Like the Bonny Hind, this is a Child ballad about brother-sister incest; there are four of them in all (these two plus Lizzie Wan/Edward and The King’s dochter Lady Jean).

There’s an odd little network of resemblances among the four ballads. In Lady Jean and the Bonny Hind, the two sibs are unknown to each other and are horrified to realise that they are related; both Lizzie Wan and Sheath and Knife feature a long-term incestuous relationship, with pregnancy as the trigger for the crisis. The Bonny Hind and Sheath and Knife both focus on the brother’s state of mind after the sister is dead, and in particular the sheer impossibility of telling anyone what has happened; in Lizzie Wan the brother is unwilling to talk, but his mother gets the story out of him. The sister’s death is suicide in the Bonny Hind and Lady Jean, murder in Lizzie Wan and a kind of suicide-by-proxy in Sheath and Knife. If I had to draw a diagram I would say that Lady Jean and Lizzie Wan were composed separately, with the Bonny Hind developing out of Lady Jean (the brother’s awful conversation with his father is an improvement on the way he drops dead in Lady Jean), and Sheath and Knife combining the basic setup of Lizzie Wan with elements of the Bonny Hind. But this is speculation.

I learned this song from Tony Rose’s version on Under the greenwood tree. (He revisited it on the aptly-named Bare bones, on which it’s frighteningly powerful.) Something that struck me forcibly about the song when I sung it out was the contrast between the verses, which inexorably work through an incredibly grim story, and the endless repetitions of a pretty but rather dour refrain. Tony Rose tried to get round this by humanising the refrain, introducing variations – And we’ll never…, But they’ll never… and so on. I don’t think this is right; instead of a refrain that pulls back from the song, you end up with a song that leans in over it, repeatedly nudging the audience to remind them how sad it all is. (Doing it this way also means that people who are singing along need to think about where they are in the song all the time, when one of the great joys of chorus singing is losing yourself in singing the same thing over and over again. There’s repetition in our music and we’re never going to lose it, as a great musician once said.)

I think the refrain is dour and impersonal, and that, in this song, it should be: the climactic scene of the song (and the one that gives it its title) consists precisely of one character who has no idea what’s going on in the other’s mind, and one who is completely unable to reveal it (but too consumed with it to stay silent). A refrain that says, in effect, “Aye, well, these young people, all very sad” is horribly out of keeping with the raw emotion of the song – and that’s just what makes it appropriate. With this in mind, I sang the refrains as near identically as possible, and double-tracked them with another recording of myself to distinguish them from the main song.

As for the picture (on the Bandcamp page), yes, I know there’s symbolism in the phrase ‘sheath and knife’, but I also think that symbolism is more powerful if you’ve got the actual things doing the symbolising clearly in mind. And besides, I don’t think Bandcamp would like it if I uploaded a picture of the things being symbolised.

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Extras

Here are those album-only extras I mentioned. They can be played online, but can only be downloaded as part of their respective albums.

Indigo extras

The House of the Rising Sun (part 1): Dave Van Ronk-inspired melodica bongo fury

The House of the Rising Sun (part 1): Otway-indebted pseudo-satnav nonsense

white extras

On Ilkley Moor Baht ‘At: four-part harmony plus translation for the hard of Yorkshire

The moving-on song: two drums, six chords, no synthesisers

Blue extra

La belle dame sans merci: words John Keats, melody copland smith

Share and enjoy!

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Week 23: Little Musgrave, Shady Grove

Little Musgrave, the main song for this week, is a Child ballad; not the longest by any means, but at 27 verses it’s quite substantial. I sing it unaccompanied. This version was recorded straight through in one take, with minimal editing.

Shady Grove is an American song, learned from the recorded singing of the great Jean Ritchie. I started out with one arrangement in mind but ended up with something quite different. Melodica (chords), zither (melody) and bongoes.

PS A succinct explanation of the title of the second song, seen on Mudcat.

Q: Is Shady Grove a person or a place?
A: Yes.

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FS23: Little Musgrave

This is the good stuff. The song, I mean; the performance is as good as I could get it, but I’m not claiming any more than that. But the song… what a song.

Child 81, and it’s what we now think of as a typical Child ballad: it’s longish, it’s bloody, it comes in several variants and it’s got a couple of unforgettable images. (Apart from the confrontation between Musgrave and Lord Barnard – both of whom display a remarkable degree of sang froid in the circumstances – I’m particularly fond of the verse beginning “Is not your hawk”; as if to say, why would you want to leave now, when your life’s about as good as it’s ever going to be? (She was right about that, of course.))

This version is based on Nic Jones’s recorded version, which in turn is based mainly on variant 81G. I’ve doctored the text in a couple of places, mostly using material from other variants; I wanted it to be clear that Lord Barnard’s page rode as far as the wide water (version D), and I wanted to keep Lord Barnard’s closing fit of suicidal remorse (versions A and G). The other thing I didn’t much like about Nic Jones’s version was the use of two different tunes, both rather unvarying. I spent some time trying to work out a tune that was interesting enough to sustain the whole ballad; this one came to me one day when I was hanging out the washing, more or less complete (although later I made some modifications – see below).

One final change: Helen Jocys, who died last Christmas Day, used to sing Matty Groves occasionally at our local singaround. It’s quite a different song (and considerably shorter), and begins with a line that isn’t in any of the Child variants: “A holiday, a holiday, the first of all the year”. I used to follow Nic Jones’s use of “As it fell out upon a day, as many in the year”, but got a bit fed up with it – partly because it means the ballad’s starting with two lines that don’t actually say anything, and partly because of a parody I saw on Mudcat…

Then it fell out upon a day
As it often had before
But Matty tucked it in again
And hoped that no one saw

Ahem. Anyway, I was in the market for a new pair of first lines, and there (one night) were Helen and Matty.

So thankyou, Helen. She was a fine traditional singer and a remarkable accordionist, who always seemed to have the biggest repertoire in the room. She was also a really nice person and supportive of singers who were just getting started (e.g. me). She’ll be missed.

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AS13: Shady Grove

This one surprised me.

The tune I use for Musgrave is my own invention as far as I’m aware, but it’s not the tune I first thought of. After reading that Fairport’s “Matty Groves” (which I’d never heard) used the tune of “Shady Grove” (of which I’d never heard), I looked for a performance of “Shady Grove” online and was lucky enough to find this one:

It doesn’t get any better than that.

Anyway, at the time I wasn’t entirely happy with my Musgrave tune; I liked the melody, but it had a rather plodding verse-speaking rhythm (“Musgrave to the church had gone to see fair ladies there“). “Shady Grove”, particularly in Jean Ritchie’s rendition, gave me the answer: that springy dotted rhythm gives it that bit more pace and interest.

When I scheduled in Musgrave for 52fs, “Shady Grove” was the obvious song to go with it – and when I got my zither, it was the obvious choice of accompaniment. What happened after that I’m still not entirely sure, except to say that if it is possible to make a zither sound like a dulcimer I’m not the person to do it. Anyway, it came out sounding about as unlike Jean Ritchie’s version as it’s possible for the same song to sound, without actually going down the death metal route, and when I first got it finished I was seriously considering junking it and starting again. Then I left it for a while, listened to it back again and… well, I think it’s OK. See what you think.

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