Folk in Leigh - Healthy Life Essex

A power cut at The Peter Boat on the final day of this years Folk Festival may have muted the sound, but it didn’t dampen the spirit of the crowd who’d turned up for The Phil Burdett Band, Faustus and the Smoke Fairies. Even the rainclouds over Kent and the breeze whipping along the estuary were ignored.

 

Now in its 18^th year, I wondered why we hadn’t spent more time at the festival since moving back to Leigh in 1996. Riga Music Bar owner, Steve Cattermole (my brother-in-law) has done the PA at the Peter Boat for several years and we usually stop for a chat and a drink during our circular walk along the front.

 

But this year I wanted to soak up the atmosphere he always talks about, listen to complete sessions and the addition of four extra days provided plenty of opportunity. In the end Glen and I attended three different venues during the festival!

 

We shared our first ‘taste’ of folk with friends at My Kitchen. Ray and Sharna had been raving about this vegetarian eatery for months so when we learnt it was hosting an event with a meal, we booked one of the last tables.

 

The restaurant has the feel of a rustic Italian kitchen, the perfect venue to get ‘up close and personal’ with the acts. The clattering cutlery and occasional flashes of flame through the glass kitchen door provided the perfect accompaniment to the guitars of Lee Pankhurst and Ski and A Cappella of The Honeygales.

 

“There’s nothing like live music and good food,” said Sharna as we tucked into a meze of olives, sauté potatoes, spinach with poached egg and walnut tart, washed down with local New Hall wines. The delicious wholesome food nourished my palette, complimenting the music nourishing my soul.

 

Lee got our taste buds in gear with his repertoire of Woody Guthrie’s political songs. We travelled through bad winters, dust bowl experiences, ‘The Sinking of the Reuben James’, ‘My Daddy Flies’ and joined the audience participation in ‘This Land.’

 

The filling bowl of celeriac and butterbean soup matched The Honeygales main course of Bulgarian and Scottish Folk all, by their own admission, miserable songs.

 

“But mine were sad too,” said Lee as he sat with a table of diners after his first session.  

 

Ski provided the perfect dessert.  Christened “The Singing Angel” by Glen, she rippled through a selection of Vaughan Williams folk songs and ‘I Tell My Mind’ and ‘The Female Drummer,’ pieces written for the female voice.

 

As we stepped out into the balmy air, just before 11pm, I was content.

 

Friday at The Crooked Billet was a complete contrast; we arrived brolly-laden, to hear the words, “Two things you shouldn’t try, according to Oscar Wilde, incest and Morris dancing.” Then Paddy, Roy and friends launched into a set of Morris dances playing a few “bum notes” along the way. The rain pattered gently outside as more people squeezed into the bar.

 

I was transported between time zones; my mind peppered with images of 19th century fishermen and musicians meeting in the pub, then forward to the late 1970’s as ‘The Sailors Hornpipe’ captured moments of ploughing through homework in front of teatime telly and the frantic bobbing of last night promenaders at The Albert Hall. A perfect finale to our night out.

 

Without a doubt, Sunday is the best day at the festival. Friends travelling back from London in the early afternoon said that Old Leigh was heaving.  We arrived on Victoria Wharf around 4pm in time for English Miscellany and the North West Morris Dancers. The Cotswold Men performed ‘Nightingale’ with both sticks and handkerchiefs and, added the compere, “without the aid of a safety net.” Suddenly Oscar Wilde’s quote came flooding back; I enjoy  Morris dancing and hope this folk tradition survives, but that day I was in need of something more substantial.

 

As we edged down the High Street, Men Daimler proceeded to play the banjo from the entrance to Sara’s Tea Garden announcing “one for all you vegetarians out there, called Groundhog.” We paused for a moment…then moved on.

 

Joining the throng of summer-clad tattooed bodies, Folkie devotees, locals and day trippers piling up outside The Peter Boat, we met a flustered Steve; the schedule had been rearranged and performances were running an hour late.

 

The smoky sounds of The Phil Burdett Band matched the sultry afternoon air; a calm prelude to the next band arriving on stage as Ray and Sharna appeared through the crowd.

 

Faustus teased the audience with an Abba song during their sound check and had me wondering if this was what I’d been searching for. Good solid harmonies belted out sea shanties, with Saul Rose’s melodeon adding depth and colour as the crowd bobbed to the ceilidh rhythms and the Sophie Jane slipped through the creek. ‘Will the Weaver’ was followed by ‘Green Willow.’ Finding little to inspire from the 500 versions of this song, the band had spliced together the best bits to create their own version.

 

So I was brought back to earth with a bump when the Smoke Fairies came on. Hailed as Jack White’s favourite new band and the supporting act on Richard Hawley’s forthcoming tour, their ethereal music conjured up haunting woods. Theirs has a sad beauty, lost amongst the audience hum, suited to a more intimate venue. I felt slightly let down by Ashley’s introduction; for me their music never really got going, though sadly some of the audience did.

 

By then I’d realised my folk music had to have passion and power. Goldmaster All Stars were the perfect antidote, mixing the energy of Buster Bloodvessel, the reggae of UB40 and the big band sound of Madness. The newly refurbished Peter Boat heaved; punters queued for toilets and drinks with one ear on the stage. Maria Nayler had the crowd eating out of her hand as she swept through songs, dedicating one to Michael Jackson.

 

The sky tessellated into ribbons of grey and white as the band moved off the stage and the crowd deflated.

 

Steve relaxed into compere role for the final act, The Ugly Guys, made up of the lead singer from The Kursaal Flyers, members from Jerry the Ferret and Andy Farrell, who’s also one of The Hampsters. With their brand of Rolling Stones style music, they got the audience back on their feet. Sharna suggested some Sundown Mutlitmedia and we arrived at The Ship Hotel in time for the Open Mike session.

 

Performance poetry is absorbing to watch; totally personal, there were brilliant performances by Raymond about breaking up with London and a view of the Folk Festival written two hours prior, Christine’s brash and bold canvas shopping bags and ‘Gym Buddies,’ but my highlight was Simon Blackman.

 

His quirky observations, use of rhythm and odd, but workable rhymes are inspired, as are his titles; ‘At the Harold Pinter Petting Zoo,’ ‘Ode to Fiona Bruce,’ ‘Round Faced Lady’ and ‘Girl from the Chip Shop.’

 

At 10pm, we left Ray and Sharna and the crowd gathered along New Road. The long steps of Church Hill offered a chance for reflection as honeysuckle breathed its perfume through the temperate air and strains of music drifted from The Peter Boat.

 

It had been a wonderful week; from the intimacy of a Leigh Road restaurant, friends making music in a pub, the liveliness of a seafront stage and talented poets. What I like about folk is the completeness and passion of the human story told in song and verse, its skill in expressing  deep emotions and its ability to draw out some foot tapping from even the most timid soul.

 

This year’s Folk Festival has left me wanting more. I liked the informality, the intimacy, and as Ray so quaintly put it, even “the marshmallow moments.” It didn’t matter if there were a few bum notes or that The Honeygales stopped their madrigal when the harmonies didn’t work. That’s the charm, the spontaneity of live music. I loved the sea shanties, the crowd atmosphere, the families huddled round pots of seafood and trays of fish and chips, the dogs and children enjoying the sun; Leigh coming alive with summer music.

 

My only regret was missing The Famous Potatoes; they’d filled in at The Peter Boat during the power cut before we arrived. But then, there’s always next year.