Carry On Festivaling

          Once upon a time, a group of us were sitting around, talking about this and that, when the subject settled on music, and each of us in turn was invited to reveal their favourite genre. Now, this is a tricky question for the pedantically inclined, like me. What should I say? Jazz? Yes, but not all jazz. There are reservations, and my explanation, a potentially long monologue on its origins, history and variant forms would certainly have fallen flat on the company, buzzing as it was with snappy repartee. Fortunately for me – and everyone else – my turn never came, since a showstopper was delivered by the person who claimed that their favourite genre was “compilations”.

          I’ve just spent three days at a ‘boutique’ music festival that presented a jumble of genres. Although the headline was Jazz & Blues, the subtext added Soul, Funk, Latin, Cuban and Roots (whatever that is), a bit like a menu and not at all a bad thing if you like a varied diet. It was held in a park, in the centre of the genteel seaside resort of Sidmouth, Devon, where a famous annual folk festival, instigated back in 1955, still takes place. All that accumulated expertise has been applied to this newer enterprise and it shows. It was a slick operation, impeccably managed, quite unlike the original outdoor festivals of the Woodstock era to which I was drawn.

          In comparing Isle of Wight 1969 with Sidmouth 2025, I realise of course that, apart from the obvious and intentional difference in scale, much has changed in the fields of technology, event management and health and safety legislation. One thing that does remain the same, however, is that the audience – or part of it – comprises the same people. We’re just older, pickier and less inclined to leave things to chance.

           We went to those early festivals without planning for exigencies of any kind and we were not unduly inconvenienced by the frequent late starts caused by incompetencies, mishaps or the erratic behaviour of artistes. At Sidmouth, we all brought our own folding chairs, wore weather-appropriate clothing and would have grumbled like old gits if the schedule had been screwed up.

          Being on my own, I was free to choose, without compromise, which gigs to attend, which to shun and which to leave early should I find them uninspiring. It also left me free to pop in and out of the various pubs where fringe acts were performing and where real ales and ciders helped fuel the atmosphere of conviviality that fosters friendly exchanges between strangers – something that solo drinkers are particularly prone to.

          Whoever saw the market opportunity for niche, boutique festivals threw us senior fans a lifeline. With well-appointed facilities, a town-centre location and sensible timetabling, our age-related requirements are well catered for. I chose to stay in my campervan, a healthy twenty-minute walk away, but could have splashed out for a room in one of the many sea-front hotels. Either way, one could be tucked up in bed before midnight with never a pang of FOMO and ready for action the next morning at 11.00 prompt, artisan coffee in hand. Not everyone was of my vintage, but grey heads bobbed everywhere in time to the rhythms. When dancing did occasionally break out, the perpetrators were observably young, impulsive types – which does bode well for the future prospects of the artistes performing.

          Festivals offer more than just intoxicating live music – of whatever genre. The ingredients that make them enjoyable also include a friendly crowd, competent organisation, an attractive location and, of course, clement weather. They all came together on this occasion, so I’m encouraged to take a punt on the original – the Sidmouth Folk Festival. I still have a soft spot for folk and nothing to lose but the will to carry on festivaling.

 

A Tale of Two Barbicans

          The term ‘Barbican’ refers to a medieval outer fortification or defensive gateway, the traces of which can be found all over Europe. I was at two of them last week, though nothing remains but the name. In London, the Barbican Centre is a monster of a modernist, post-war housing estate that contains a cultural hub and was built at or near a former entrance to the Roman walls of Londinium. In Plymouth, the Barbican comprises the characterful streets surrounding the original docks below a medieval fortress, now given over to tourism and fishing.

          I’ve often dallied with the notion of living in one of the Barbican Centre’s flats, since they are not only to my architectural taste but also conveniently connected by walkways to cinemas, theatres, galleries, restaurants, a public library and a clinic. However, as I made my way last week through the brick-and-concrete maze in search of the (new) art gallery, I noticed that the infrastructure is showing its age and in need of costly repairs. The prospect of rising service-charges had a dampening effect on my erstwhile enthusiasm for moving in.

          I was there to see sculptures by Alberto Giacometti set alongside work by the living sculptor, Huma Bhabha. The concept, I think, is to highlight ways in which the contemporary artist references their predecessor’s work. Perhaps it was crass of me to look for obvious connections – though I did see them and consider such comparison useful as a tool of appreciation. In any case, Giacometti resonated with me more than Bhabha, a case, perhaps, of familiarity breeding comfort.

          On that same day, and acting on a friend’s recommendation, I went to see an exhibition of traditional Japanese woodcraft. The narrative is that Japan’s scarcity of metal ores fostered the development of sophisticated techniques for joining wood without metal fastenings. That necessity, combined with dedication to the traditions of craft as a calling and the cultural and spiritual connections between the buildings – especially temples – and the trees from which they were constructed resulted in the exquisite execution of the most complex, effective and aesthetically accomplished wood joints ever achieved. I was in awe.

          The next day, I was back in Plymouth, just in time to catch the last few events marking Tree Week, a celebration of all things arboreal. I spent a couple of hours on a sunny afternoon under the trees in a re-wilded corner of a park, where there was Morris dancing and community-choir singing “Hurrah to the life of a country boy!”. Though I had missed events earlier in the week, there were some that I would not have attended anyway, i.e. those at the spiritual end of the spectrum, where therapies such as forest bathing inhabit a space outwith my predilections. However, as I observed an actual, orange-tipped butterfly settle on a brilliantly blue cornflower, I felt a faint flutter of kinship with nature, a glimmer of empathy with the Japanese ethic. The closing party that evening was at my favourite local café/bar and featured a specially composed musical whimsy evocative of forests and the sounds of nature. The duo, a guitarist and vocalist, applied their artistry to magical effect, luring me even further into the spiritual camp, despite my innate scepticism.

          The sun shone down again the next day, when I cycled over to the Barbican to savour another celebration, Pirate Weekend, a popular event in the annual cultural calendar. Pirate caricature was everywhere. Some of the outfits worn by enthusiasts were earnestly authentic, while others were determinedly comical. But the appeal of the theme soon wore thin for me. It could have been sustained by, say, a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan’s classic, The Pirates of Penzance, but perhaps that would be considered too highbrow?

 

What We Inherit

          It was the 80^th iteration of VE day that set me thinking about national heritage. When the last Gen-Boomer dies, there will be nobody left whose parents experienced WWII. To what extent, then, will the social impact of that war still be recognisable in the weave of our culture?

          History is open to both honest interpretation and cynical manipulation, so the essence of national heritage is not as fixed as may be supposed. Of the many examples around the world, the USA – self-proclaimed Land of the Free – will serve to illustrate the point. The government there has decreed the eradication of certain datasets from its websites and is currently in the process of taking over the Library of Congress, moves that are intended to take control of the ‘story’. Just how that accords with the definition of “free” is a moot point. Thankfully, I live in the UK, where, since 1945 at least, the majority likes to think it would never be fooled by an invasive creep of fascism such as that.

          I’m currently spending a few days in London, where our heritage is on display in spades, from the top-flight of royalty, down through the ranks of bourgeois traditions and lower, where it fizzles out into romanticised notions of working-class cockneys and the like. And, alongside all this sit the cultures of the most recent wave of immigrants, awaiting their time to become embedded into the mainstream institutions of British life.

          One such, the National Gallery, has recently had a makeover and a re-hang of its paintings. I went to see it – along with thousands of others – and what struck me was the fact that the collection is essentially Western European. What’s on display is the cross-fertilisation of styles and traditions. Yes, it’s a British institution but you would feel right at home if you were, say, French.

          Not so, perhaps, at the London Canal Museum, where my friend and I joined half-a-dozen other curious geeks delving into the uniquely British history of industrial development. Canals were built in Mesopotamia around 4000 BCE, but it wasn’t until 1761, when the Bridgewater canal brought coal into Manchester, that they really came of age. After 200 years, their economic value ebbed away, terminating at last, with the Big Freeze of 1962/3. Nostalgic volunteers kept the infrastructure from being lost and now they serve those who love them and live on them. All this is documented by the museum, a modest affair, run by volunteers and funded by entry fees and charitable donations, quite unlike the grandiose National Gallery that is free to enter, thanks to public funding. Is one of them a more deserving curator of heritage than the other?

          Hillaire Belloc (funny name for an Englishman) said, "When you have lost your inns, drown your empty selves – for you will have lost the last of England", a quote that leaves open to question the definition of the essence of England but strikes trepidation into the heart nevertheless. However, I’m happy to report that despite numerous pubs shutting down these past few years, my research indicates an ability to adapt ensures the survival of the species. In London, at least, many a corner pub has embraced the gentrification of its locale by turning into a restaurant with a posh menu, while managing to keep a traditional façade and a decent pint – albeit at a fancy price. Others have doubled down on the booze, like the Southampton Arms in Kentish Town, where traditionalists gather to savour real ales and ciders and eschew continental innovations such as lager.

          The demise of Gen Boomer is certainly nigh but, on reflection, I don’t suppose the memory of VE day will die with it. More likely it will just get stirred into the muddled mix of memories and myths that we experience every day: that, apparently, is our nation’s heritage.

 

Life Cycles

          A five-hour train journey can be a great opportunity to get stuck into a book, which is exactly what I did last Sunday, albeit the book I chose was not an uplifting tale of heroism, romance and happy endings: it was quite the opposite. Sam Freedman’s Failed State examines the dysfunction within Britain’s political and institutional systems. If it weren’t for the fact that the author proposes plausible remedies to our disastrous governmental establishment (the book’s subtitle is Why Nothing Works and How We Fix It), I would have been both outraged and depressed by the end of the journey. Only the power of hope kept me from falling into the slough of deep despond, on whose edge I habitually teeter in glum pessimism at the state of world affairs. To make matters worse, I was on my way to a funeral.

          Well, to be precise, it was a cremation, followed by a funereal ceremony in a church to mourn the death of a 93-year-old man. It was the second time in a month that I had been in a crematorium, so I could not help but notice the architectural similarities – the uncluttered room flooded with natural light, the muted colour palette and the high ceilings – which seem to provide appropriate, respectful settings for proceedings, whether they be sad, muted or determinedly non-morbid. Whichever the chosen mode, there is high quality audio-visual equipment to supplement the spoken eulogies. Moreover, having been at a secular ceremony earlier in the month, the differences between it and the religious variety seemed to me to be incidental to their purpose, which is the public expression of mourning.

          We travelled home by road, stopping over at Salisbury to visit an elderly relative, now in the care of a nursing home. During the journey we contemplated the news of the death of an equally elderly friend and the prospect of attending the memorial celebration of her life. The knowledge that none of us is far from death resides, usually, at the back of one’s mind and comes to the fore only at times such as this. However, for the millions of humans directly affected by wars currently being waged around the world, or for those living precariously without adequate food and shelter, it must be an everyday preoccupation. Such is the relative ease and comfort of my own life, that I must occasionally remind myself of my good fortune.

          While at Salisbury, I had time to visit another of the ancient sites near it, Figsbury Ring, which is thought to be the remains of an Iron Age hillfort superimposed on a Neolithic henge. There are no signs of buildings, just concentric rings of mounds, in an elevated position spanning about six hectares. During the few days of my travels, the weather had abruptly bypassed spring and turned to full-on summer, so that I stood there in full sunshine and with birds, bugs and butterflies as company, the only other person in view having walked away with her dog.

           I inhaled deeply the antiquity of a place that humans had begun to fashion five thousand years ago. I cannot compute how many generations have died since then, but the contemplation of the number puts a perspective on how short and insignificant one’s lifespan is, no matter how much one might wish otherwise. And, until recent times, death came either unkindly or untimely to most people as a matter of course. This had been a fortified settlement, so I imagined battles in situ were not uncommon.

          But that was two days ago. Now, back at home, I watch the crane in the boatyard over the water putting all those leisure craft back into the sea, where they will float through the summer months, their crews either oblivious to or escaping temporarily from the failing state and their own mortal limitations. We all have to find ways to enjoy life while we can.