Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 1

My last essay on here described the unexpected joy I have discovered in busking. That joy has continued although events have conspired to keep me away from it. A couple of weeks ago I had a problem that kept the van off the road for the best part of a week. Currently I have a cold sore. I don't get them very often and I don't know why this one has chosen the present time to appear. It is often stress induced or perhaps when I'm feeling a little under par. Neither is the case at the moment and it's simply a nuisance. The herpes simplex virus type 1 is also sometimes encouraged to put in an appearance after exposure to the sun or the wind and such exposure is definitely a hazard of my way of living. I sometimes get the feeling that other people think I am being a baby to let a cold sore interfere with my plans, but I do have my reasons. Firstly, I know how this works. I've been dealing with sporadic cold sores since childhood. It will have cleared up in a few days and I'll pick up where I left off at that point. In the meantime it is unsightly and I cannot help but be conscious of it in addition to all the other complexion issues I live with. The farmer laughed at me when I answered his question about not going out busking yesterday. Bleeding into my harmonicas is never going to be a good look and having to clean the poison out afterwards is an even less attractive proposition, not to mention how sore it would make my lip. I'm not medically qualified so I've always been cautious not to let the infection spread to another nerve pathway. I don't know if that's a thing that could happen, but that's why I remain cautious. Fortunately P gets where I'm coming from although as the two of us continue to be stuck in different countries any form of intimacy a non-starter.

However, between such events the busking has been an amazing experience. It hasn't filled the coffers by any measure, but it has brought in about £100 over the month of June. Unfortunately nearly £20 of that income has gone straight out again in car-parking fees and I've not always earned the fuel money to get to my chosen town, but it is nice to see a little money in the hat averaging around £10 for a session lasting up to a couple of hours. Of course, if I sang more I'd probably earn more, but I'm trying to listen to my body tell me when enough is enough. I overused my voice in the early 1990s and was actually mute for five months. I do not ever want to go through that again. I have taken some vocal coaching since starting this whole Marshlander project and that has helped. I think my voice is probably in better shape these days than at any time since the great and horrible silence. That was terrifying. I didn't sing for years afterwards and thought I would never sing again. However, I know when enough is enough. Singing outdoors without amplification is hard on the voice, so a couple of hours is usually my limit, even with frequent sips of water. Where possible I try and leave a day between sessions too. I know some singers continue in fine voice well into later life and still manage to tour. The great Arthur Brown is approaching his eightieth birthday and his voice is still in excellent shape. He once told me he sings every day. He used to live in a yurt and he would walk daily into town coaxing his voice to do its incredible thing. I have also spoken to Russell Mael who undertakes a routine that can be very wearing on his voice. He is well into his seventies. Strangely, Sparks, the band he runs with his brother, Ron, is entering into a period of popularity unlike any they have experienced in their fifty year career and it will undoubtedly bring them a lot of live work. His recommendation for voice care is plenty of sleep. I do know this, but sleeping well is a skill I have yet to acquire. That may explain the present episode of herpes labialis or maybe it is just the weather, and being under it!

I have mentioned some of the people I have met through busking. There is a balance to be struck. On the one hand I am there to perform, to sing my songs and to earn what contributions I can with the time I have available. On the other hand, people want to interact. Many have probably been cooped up for several months and may simply be venturing out into the world. On Thursday my new friend from the mobile food wagon wanted to shoot the breeze. A woman emerged from the shop where she works and asked to take my photograph to add to the local Facebook page, at least she was polite enough to ask. A young man came up smiling and put a couple of pounds in my hat and held out a sausage roll he had bought for me from the nearby bakery. Such generosity that has happened on more than one occasion, is the only thing that makes me feel uncomfortable about my exclusively plant-food diet. I don't want to appear ungrateful, so I usually accept proffered gifts with a smile and a thank-you. If I can't give them away to a more deserving person the fish are usually grateful.  

Wisbech is currently fighting off the imposition of a mega incinerator, the proposed structure is one of the largest in Europe, so I have undertaken to go into Wisbech once a week while the weather remains good and carry some information to try and raise awareness. Amazingly many local inhabitants do not know how this monster will affect their lives. I shall also have a separate pot for campaign contributions. I suspect many people have no idea how expensive this campaign is likely to become.

Thanks to Ruth Freeman for this photograph

Returning to another recently visited town brought three interesting encounters in one afternoon. A young man, younger than me anyway, clearly wanted to talk. He stood in front of me while I was singing; he swayed and asked questions. Concentrating on remembering song lyrics and chords while playing three instruments became an increasing challenge so I stopped and he chattered on. He asked if I knew any Pink Floyd songs and preceded to list a few of his favourites. I explained I felt on safer ground singing my own compositions. Then he went on to talk about Queen, clearly another of his favourite bands, David Bowie, The Rolling Stones ... Then he returned to Queen and Freddie Mercury and then Kenny Everett who, according to him was "bent as a bottle of crisps". That is one phrase I'd not heard before, but I wasn't going to let it pass.

"So am I, but it doesn't sound very polite."

He stared at me with a little uncertainty.

"You're gay?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied - more staring.

"You're an actual homosexual?" I guess he wanted to make sure I understood his terms of reference.

"Yes."

"And you're not afraid to say so?"

"Not these days. I wasted a lot of my life worrying about it, but life's too short for such things."

"You like men?" No harm in making sure I suppose!

"I like one man," I said.

"I don't know what I am," he confessed, "I've been with women, but I think I might prefer to be with a man." Mixing the + categories in LGBT+ he confessed, "I think I'm bi-questioning. I don't know how I would know for sure ..."

"You might have to try being with a man and see how you felt about it ..."

"I'm sorry, I'm an alcoholic and I really need to have a drink."

He wandered off. I carried on singing.

About half an hour later he returned. I thought he'd been to one of the nearby pubs. He took up a position right in front of me and swayed slightly more noticeably than previously. Then he reached into his bag and took out a small bottle of something that looked like a white wine although I'd never seen this kind of bottle before. He unscrewed the lid and underneath that was a seal that he peeled off so he could get at the contents. I asked him if he would mind moving back a little in case the contents splashed on to my instruments. 

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm really sorry."

He was contrite and sincere. I felt quite sad. This man was not really in control. He returned to his previous theme.

"I don't know why people say 'backs to the wall' when there's a gay around. You don't want to bum me, do you?"

I confirmed that I didn't and we had more conversation about manifestations of sexual attraction in the human species. I have never imagined busking could be an opportunity for counselling and after a while he retreated into the world of his own thoughts. As I started playing he crept closer again. I think he may have been a contributing factor to the reason there was no one else around to put money in my hat. 

"Would you like me to sing you a song about someone who doesn't really know if he is gay?"

He nodded. I struck up with "Cruiser" This time he joined me in singing. Obviously he did not know the song, but he was like a child who liked to guess the rhymes and at the end of every line he tried out some of his ideas. He was here to stay.

He needed a few reminders to move back a little so that other people could see, hear and approach to drop a coin or two in the hat, but he was definitely there to stay. The afternoon had more to offer.

Of A New Direction In A Third Age

I have a new career! The months of lockdowns, scaremongering, lies, isolation, separation from my partner and barely believeable truths in the news media have taken a toll. I had no idea that I had lost so much of myself during this pandemic. As already reported, all the work I had in the diary disappeared over a three-day period in March 2020. It was not replaced and 2021 has been very bleak professionally. 

I have always been a nervous performer and every gig I have ever played has involved an effort of will. Of course, once on stage some inner monster takes over and, once it's all over, I have been glad to have seen it through. I rather thought that making an effort to perform online like so many others have managed to do might help, but it didn't ... not at all. If anything it compounded my sense of insecurity. Pretending to project to invisible people was frustrating because I made just as many (if not more) mistakes. I tried recording videos to share online, but that hasn't worked either. The same holes in my memory manifest themselves no matter how well I think I know the material. I can lose a word, a whole line, a chord, even a rhythm and the whole edifice wobbles alarmingly. Any improvement has come with the speed at which I can manage to recover. Strangely, these losses are not predictable. They never appear in the same places. I've come to the conclusion that it's not actually having to face the audience that I find difficult, but something much more subtle and I have never really been able to pin it down. This is one of the reasons busking in the street has always seemed a masochistic way to behave. I have always admired people who have the courage to do it and wished I could be one of them, but I'm not ... or so I thought. 

A couple of years ago I was booked to play on a busker's trail for a local festival. I was surprised to find I enjoyed it, but I could never undertake it again without having somebody's "official" permission to set up and play. Then, ten days ago, something snapped. I had a moment of insight and sadness that so much of me that had been invested in working as a musician had been stripped from me. I had also lost what was left of my mojo and creativity. Very few new songs have been completed and only a few new ideas have been started in these lockdown months. I have been becoming even less visible than the singer of "Grey". No new work was being offered and I was slipping into retirement as an ex-musician. 

It was a beautiful Saturday, so I loaded up a guitar, drumkit, harmonicas and guitar-stool and drove the twelve miles into the town where I no longer hold the monthly Songwriters & Poets evenings of the pre-pandemic era. By the time I arrived the market was packing up. I thought I could just set up outside the Bookshop, but when I walked across town, the Town Square was almost empty and, better still, not on a slope. I rolled out my Ghanaian mat, made from recycled plastic bags, set up my drums and stool, slipped on my harmonica harness tuned my guitar and, for the next couple of hours, sang and played to my heart's content. It was such a liberating experience and I was not expecting that. This felt like the start of a new chapter. I cannot believe how much fun I had playing to mostly indifferent people. A few of them took a few minutes to sit on some nearby steps or on a bench just within earshot. Some people stayed for a few songs. Small children danced and jiggled, one was pulled on to the dance floor by a grandfather. A few people dropped coins into my hat and in that couple of hours I earned enough to cover the cost of the fuel for the van to drive there and back again to the boat or nearly enough for my next order of organic vegetables. I had gone over much of my current repertoire and I was thrilled. This was the first time I had played in such a long time that my voice was going and my fingers were sore. When I arrived back at the boat I realised I was also physically very tired. Although most people walked across the Square completely ignoring me that actually felt significant and important. They were completely at liberty to listen or not as they wished. Additionally I was not beholden to any promoter or event orgamiser and had no cause to feel the overwhelming responsibility of trying to ensure that whoever had engaged my services was getting their money's worth. I have always felt this responsibility to be a huge burden over decades of performing and I think it has been a big factor in ensuring I never sleep well the night before any booking. 

In the nine days that followed that experience I have been out busking six times and have loved each experience. I also took up an unexpected offer of a pub garden gig. Each time I've gone out I've met many new and interesting people. Some days have brought unexpected reconnection with old friends. Some people want to come and chat, to discuss my unusual instruments or tell me about themselves (Pink Floyd's lighting engineer, anyone?). Some people walk jauntily through the precinct in time to the music and with a spring in their step; some acknowledge with a nod, a smile, a wave. In addition to some generous coinage from a few passing folk, I have been offered food, stories of incredible adventures, the aforementioned gig (no money, but food and great publicity ... oh right, that old chestnut 😆), an ice lolly to cool me down when it was very warm yesterday and one person even bought some merchandise! Quite by chance one of my oldest friends, who's been living in Eastern Europe for years, happened to walk across the town square in West Norfolk on Saturday while I was singing. We first met some forty-nine years ago when he lived in London and this was the first time he'd been to Downham Market ... 

I'll never make my fortune busking, but it is good the days I break even. Only one day saw no money in the hat. Unfortunately I had to part with all the previous day's earnings to pay for parking. However, with magic like I've experienced so far I shall keep this new gig going while the weather is in my favour. 

Frustratingly, my van has developed a fault, which cannot be addressed until at least the end of the week, so I'm stuck on my mooring at the moment when I want to go out and play in the street. However, at least I can take some time to tell you about it all. For the first time I feel I am able to acknowledge myself as a musician rather than a fraud with musical aspirations and I love being completely independent as a performer. I have also started work on a couple of new songs. They may even get finished ...

Of TGIF, Monumental Weeks And A Move Afoot.

Friday is the day I go to an organic farm a few miles away to collect my week's order of vegetables. Most Monday evenings an e-mail arrives detailing what will be available that week. The weather has been challenging over the past few months and on this last day of April the ground in the Fen is caked dry and cracking. This follows the very wet and sometimes very cold winter. We've had very little rain and the temperature has been dipping into low single figures for weeks. 

Not a satellite view of an alien landscape, but the farm near here

Gardeners will know that they have not been able to risk putting out anything liable to be affected by low temperatures. I collected my order of carrots, cauliflower, beetroot, celery, spinach, purple sprouting broccoli, kale, leeks, rocket, turnips and potatoes, most of which were plucked from the ground yesterday. When I had a garden I never managed to grow anything nearly as interesting. There is an increasing variety available. How can I choose between the amount I can eat in a week and the variety I would like to buy?

Since lockdowns began over a year ago, my weeks have not really changed, but just occasionally a week crops up with a few differences. This week has been one of those different kinds of weeks. In short the following happened:

I had my second covid vaccination. I am now among the growing population quoted in the nightly news bulletins. I know of and have read about people who have experienced painful, debilitating symptoms after either the first jab or the second. I noticed nothing at all after the first and about twenty-six hours after my second one earlier this week I felt tired enough to retire early to bed. All now seems as back to as normal as anything gets in the marsh. 

I applied and paid for my boat licence six days ago. This is nothing new for most boaters, but it is a new requirement in the Fen and it is my first time. Licences only became mandatory here following the Middle Level Act (2018). I have mentioned many times the disagreements I have had with the stewards of these waterways, The Middle Level Commissioners, and the fun and games I have had taking my grievances to both Houses of Parliament. If you've forgotten you can try to pick up the pieces here. The Byelaws with which I also take issue have still not received the approval of the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. It has been my contention that the licence cannot be imposed until the byelaws are in place. I've taken soundings from a number of authoritative sources and my contention may be built on sandy foundations according to some. The whole miserable process has been drawn out over the past few years. I had some pre-conditions which I felt were fair before I parted with my money. While the Byelaws are still not in place, including some dangerous requirements for single-handed boaters, there is evidence that work has been carried out to make safe some dangerous public moorings, while the navigation authority has actually constructed its first public moorings. These are four "rural moorings" - overnight stopping places in four locations. It will be interesting see how these are maintained. They do not consist of solid landing stages, but rather a reasonably straight piece of riverbank with the normal jungle of reeds and nettles cut back and into which five stakes have been driven - hopefully at a depth to hold fast when mooring ropes are tied to them. Here's how the one on the Sixteen Foot Drain, far from anywhere, looked last weekend.

 

The Rural Mooring on the Sixteen Foot Drain

At an estimate there should be enough space for two boats the size of mine to moor. I'll give it a go sometime soon I hope. The fact that similar moorings have apparently been constructed near Ramsey Forty Foot and further away from my home mooring and adjacent to Yaxley Lode and New Lode near Holme give me reason to venture further into areas hitherto unexplored, boat engine permitting! I just hope there are places to turn the boat round, because those last two places don't actually lead anywhere.

International Workers' Memorial Day was a couple of days ago. I was one of six people who gathered at the foot of the Thomas Clarkson Memorial in Wisbech to remember our fellows who have particularly suffered as a result of the covid pandemic. Socially distanced, restricted in number and fully masked we observed a one-minute silence and listened to some short deliveries of heartfelt sentiments. Last week I was working in a school for the first time in five months (which was itself the first time in nine months), so I wanted to remember in particular school staff who have worked right the way through the pandemic, putting themselves at risk with no sense of government priority in terms of protection for the workers, just the shrill cries of politicians wanting to get schools open again. Well here's the thing - for the children of non-school-based frontline workers, schools have never closed. Teachers have worked right the way through and many have had to learn new ways of working to provide remote learning opportunities for those pupils who stayed at home. I also felt I wanted to continue to draw attention to self-employed, sole-trader musicians who have not been allowed to work and are among the three million workers who have fallen through the safety nets of the furloughs, grants and loans the government has made available to the employed. My work supporting a teacher last week meant that the total of my earned income since January 2020 has come from four hours work and half a dozen album sales. I am lucky to have had sufficient savings to help me survive. Next month I'll be old enough to receive my state pension.

This week I have been working on a Marshlander website. Until now I have only been using Bandcamp, a couple of social media platforms and this blog. The new website is a new venture and coming along very, very, v-e-r-y slowly. Eventually I plan to migrate this blog and other information to the new place and, if I can get my head round how to do it, open up a Marshlander shop too. It's one of those "don't hold your breath" situations. When it's ready to share I'll put a notice to that effect on here.

Letters To A Kingfisher - 10

Dear Kingfisher,

Is this fate? I was sitting at a blank page giving some consideration to the title and you flew in and settled on a post about a metre away on the other side of the glass. I sat very still as a gust of wind blew you backwards off the post. It took you no time to recover and you resumed your spot. I reached very slowly for my phone to try and take a photograph, but you were too wily and leapt off the post veering over your left wing to dart along the top of the river again. This essay therefore has to be a letter to you.

I am aware that my letters to you are generally quite bleak. After more than a year I am tired of my own company and would love nothing more than to be able resume real contact with my lover, my family and my friends. Some of them are three miles away and others are thousands of miles away. P. is only seven hundred miles away, but he might as well be on the moon for all the likelihood we have of being able to see each other in the near future. However, I don't want this message to be bleak. My health is good, I have been out for a few strolls along the riverside, but most importantly, in the past few days I have been easing myself back into rehearsing and a little bit of composing too. An occasional melody has lodged in my brain just long enough for me to scribble it out in my manuscript book, something I always keep to hand, although it has not been required for much of the past year.

The thing I dislike most about depression is the way it drains the will to do anything useful. I guess I've experienced a very mild dose recently, which meant that I did no playing. After a pause of several weeks it takes a little while for my guitar-playing fingers to start working through the stiffness, the tips to toughen up and my legs to build up enough muscle strength to be able to play some of the more demanding rhythms on my footdrums. I have a system for this. The first day I play two or three songs. The next day I might manage half an hour. By the fourth or fifth day I'm easily playing for at least an hour, but my fingers get sore if I go on too long. Once they are sore that makes the recovery more complicated. So it is a balance between regular and often as I build towards performance quality again. Of course, not speaking to many people, I can go days without using my voice, so that too needs rebuilding. I try to remember everything I learned from my friend, L., who took on the job of coaching me when I was taking on more Marshlander gigs. She has a lovely singing voice and has been trained by excellent teachers herself. Her lessons were both inspiring and helpful. I just wish that what she tried to teach me was firmly enough embedded in my practice so that I had passed the point of having to employ all the tricks consciously. Sometimes in mid-song I catch myself not breathing efficiently from the diaphragm or slumping into a poor posture as I balance the guitar on my lap and lean to allow my legs and feet to work efficiently on the drum pedals. I have spoken to the great Arthur Brown a few times over the years and his voice in his mid to late seventies is still in great shape. He used to have a routine for keeping his voice in good working order. He lived in a yurt at the time and would walk down the hill into town every day and exercise his voice as he walked. I wonder what the trees made of a burst of "Spontaneous Apple Creation", "Fire", "Time Captives" or "I Put A Spell On You". These days he lives in bricks and mortar, so I don't know whether that has affected his practice regime.

Anyway, after a phone call from a friend who lost his partner at the beginning of the year I have now forgotten what I wanted to tell you. So here are some photographs from some recent expeditions along the river bank. You'll know exactly where these places are.

                

                        

Love as always,

marsh

 

Of A Mentor, Neighbour, Colleague & Friend.

My eldest son recently sent me the news of the death of his Y6 (fourth year junior in those days) teacher's death at the age of ninety-one. E (Mrs B to kids and parents) was someone I greatly respected. I’m not sure that many people had the opportunity to know her in quite as many roles as I had - a mentor, one of their children’s teachers, a colleague, a neighbour and a friend.

I got to know E in 1977, when I was her student on my final teaching practice at a junior school in the Home Counties. We had actually met briefly a few times some years previously when she was herself a student. She had been widowed early and took on a job as a school secretary at a school within walking distance of her home. The head teacher, one of that rare old-school breed of wise and kindly men, realised her potential and encouraged her to train for the profession as a mature student. It was purely coincidence that we both trained to be teachers at the same college, though we were not there at the same time.

Each of my three teaching placements were in the same town and I remember much more about being E’s student than I do about the other two schools. This was down to E herself. Not only was she an exemplary teacher who was respected among her colleagues, but also her pupils were very loyal from what I could see. She suffered no nonsense from pupils, but I don’t remember there ever being a storm around her. You know how some people seem to generate noise simply by occupying a space? Having worked in hundreds of schools over the years I spent in education I've seen plenty of those but E was not that kind of person and not that kind of teacher. She was very patient with me as I tried to cope with the class she was forced to entrust to my care, and I aspired to be as good a teacher as she was. Watching me at work with her precious pupils must have been a painful experience for her. Whenever I observed her at work she was always impossibly methodical. I've never mastered that grasp of any area of learning other than in music and I never managed her ability to control classes containing a significant proportion of pupils exhibiting challenging behaviour (again with music being an exception). At the end of that placement, she invited me to join the class trip to York, so I suppose I can't have been a complete disaster. The college didn’t generally allow their students to act as accompanying adults and, by definition, free labour on school trips, but I went anyway. E had planned a great week - walks round the city wall and through the historic city centre, trips to the National Railway Museum, the Jorvik Centre, the Castle Museum the Minster and a trip out to the coast to look for fossils.  Our visit coincided with the triennial performance of the Mystery Plays and I asked for time to attend one of the evening performances. I've written more about that experience here. E asked me if I would take four pupils with me. She had four in mind whom she specially thought would gain a lot from the experience. As always she wanted the best for her pupils. The plays were not on the week’s itinerary for the trip because she realised that the majority would prefer the evening activities back at the youth hostel. I wonder if the four remember that show? A student would not be allowed to take pupils unchaperoned these days with all the extra safety protocols that have to be observed.
I was in my third year of teaching and I'd stayed in touch with E. She had moved to another school across town, closer to her home and was the one who let me know that a job had come up in her school. I’m pretty sure she had a word with the head, which helped secure me the strangest interview I've ever had. I received an invitation to visit the school and after a tour and a chat, there being no other candidates in evidence, the head simply said, "Well, do you think you like us then?" Apparently that was his way of offering the job, although I had to ask to be sure! 

At that school, my respect for E as a most exceptional teacher grew over the four or five years I was there. She was certainly the first person I knew who taught yoga in PE! In many ways she was very reserved. She never offered gratuitous advice, but was always willing to give her time if asked. She specially seemed to have time for her pupils and I am sure she remembered something about every one of the children she taught. While there I moved house from across the town and was very happy to end up as E's across-the-road neighbour. She was a always a very private person, so we still saw more of each other at work. Her beautiful garden always put mine to shame though. She found children fascinating and was a great observer of child behaviour. She once told me how, from her kitchen window, she had watched one of my children spending ages examining a flower in our front garden. Apparently he turned it this way and that and it came off in his hand. E was very insistent that he hadn’t done it destructively and under no circumstances should I chastise him! He was just turning the flower to look at it more closely. She was always on the side of the child and she invariably saw a funny side to things and had an endless stock of anecdotes about teachers and past pupils, which she’d relate (often doing the voices too) though, to be fair I don’t know how much her pupils saw of her humour … It was hilarious listening to her and a former colleague at her previous school, hold conversations or tell stories pronouncing words the way children mis-spell them. That was a skill that took a lot of practice!

When I moved away from the town to take up my first advisory post we kept in touch. Whenever I passed through the town, which was not very often, I would try and make a point of visiting her. I valued being able to discuss professional issues with her and she proved wise counsel on other matters too. She also had the most remarkable memory. Even decades afterwards in her late eighties, she remembered not just the pupils she had taught, but most of the pupils in the school. I’ve no idea how she managed that, because I cannot remember seeing her about the school very much. She was usually busy in her classroom with a pupil, a group of pupils, marking work or mounting displays - we did all those ourselves in those days there being no such people as Teaching Assistants. I should have remembered more of the pupils than her because I often worked throughout the school with musical activities as well as my own class responsibility but, whenever I went to visit her at home, we’d reminisce and her memory put mine to shame. She would keep me up to date with the achievements of pupils and former colleagues she knew about and through her I was able to re-establish contact with one or two other teacher ex-colleagues. I knew her to be very compassionate and supportive from personal experience. 

One day when I was visiting her at home she dashed out of the room saying she had something for me. She returned with a pastel drawing that she had framed and kept from the time I was her student. Laurence, one of her pupils, made a pastel drawing of a scene from the story of The Firebird I’d read to the class as part of a topic on “fire”. She was amazed at the perspective and maturity of Laurence’s drawing. The picture had been hanging in her upstairs office for forty years and she had finally decided to part with it and wanted me to have it. The picture now hangs on the wall in my galley where I can be reminded of her every day - and how calm she was when my fire topic “science demonstration” threatened to set the classroom alight. I’m sure the cleaners were finding bits of black ash for days afterwards.

Laurence's pastel drawing of The Firebird 1977 

It is very sad the way things are at the moment. The plan is to scatter her ashes in her native Caithness when possible. Someone like E probably has many people who would want to remember her and celebrate her life. She would also be very likely to deny in terms that would invite no discussion that anyone could possibly be interested enough in her to want to say or write anything. Somewhere inside, though, I suspect she might be just a wee bit pleased.

The Ballad Of Thomas Lewis

One YouTube channel I find amusing and occasionally instructive is Zelph on the Shelf. I came across this video they recorded a little while ago that refers to the same sad story that prompted me to write “The Ballad of Thomas Lewis” some eleven years ago. They discuss these tragic events that occurred in Manti, Utah in 1857. I first encountered the story in Jim Whitefield’s “The Mormon Delusion Volume 1” (Lulu, 2009, p.170). It cropped up again in D. Michael Quinn’s 1997 book, “The Mormon Hierarchy: Extensions of Power” (Signature Books) and again when I read the near contemporaneous account by John D. Lee in his devastating confessional work, “Mormonism Unveiled” (Vanderwalker & Co. facsimile of 1891, originally published in 1877).

A few years ago I wrote a blog essay on this story that seemed to haunt me and described how I came to write “The Ballad of Thomas Lewis” where I also explain one or two liberties I had to take in order to tell the story coherently. I intend for the song to be included on the next album when I get round to recording it. I’ve included the full lyrics of the song below. A few years ago I was introduced by an MC who warned the audience that I write songs that make men cross their legs. I think he was referring to the ballad.

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This is a reprint of part of an essay I wrote six years ago and about a song I wrote eleven years ago. I'm bringing it to the top of a pile because yesterday I watched a video on YouTube that discussed the subject that seemed to have such an impact on me many years ago.

Many stories of the early days of Mormonism have been obscured, suppressed or altered.  I came across the story of a young man called Thomas Lewis in my researches a few years ago in John D Lee's 1877 book, "Mormonism Unveiled".  Although the version I read was not recorded until some twenty years after the events were alleged to have taken place in Manti, Utah in 1857, I found the story compelling and affecting and it wouldn't leave me alone until I had done something about it.  I wrote "The Ballad of Thomas Lewis" to give news of these events a little nudge.  Although I perform to very small audiences I hope that poor Thomas' fate does not disappear into obscurity.  We learn something fundamental about the Mormons in the actions of the polygamous Bishop Warren S. Snow and of the better known polygamist, the so-called prophet Brigham Young who, on hearing from one of his brothers, Joseph, about these events told him that he was "of a mind to sustain" the bishop.  He told Joseph to say no more about the matter and let it die away among the people.  That statement alone was my red flag.  I have taken some liberties in the ballad.  For example, I cannot find any reference to the name of the fiancée of Thomas Lewis, so to help tell the story I have called her, "Mary".  The harvest references are also my fancy.  I think that one day I should annotate the song, because it contains many references the specific meanings of which will only be fully appreciated by people very familiar with concepts and language used among Mormons.  Many present day Mormons will have no idea about some of these concepts and I suspect that most Mormons today will never have even heard the story.  A piece of social history I wanted to reference was the utter callousness shown within many polygamous relationships.  I had certainly never heard of the revered early missionary, Heber C. Kimball, (who was responsible for converting many British people and encouraging them to emigrate to Zion), referring to his wives as his "cattle" until I started to read more widely.  If any of this is true, it is certainly no longer useful.

The Ballad Of Thomas Lewis 

by Marshlander (2010)

1. Manti, in Utah, eighteen fifty-seven.

Frontier thinking tainted by the cult.

The one true faith where brethren hold the aces

Hope, toil and zeal etched in saintly faces.

Young Thomas courted Mary.  So in love

Was he, he swore there’d be no other.  She

To him returned the promise.  They’d be wed

When harvest’s safely home, they said.

2. Bishop Snow “lived his religion”.  Kimball’s

“Cows” – his own herd growing like them.  Humble

Never his demeanour.  Even crueller

His approach.  He was no godly fellow.

The Bishop sought an increase to his herd;

He, too, began to woo young Thomas’s love;

But faithful Mary turned the old man down

The chase became the gossip all round town.

3. Several wives were clearly not enough.  He, 

“Builder of the Kingdom”, here on earth.  While

Shoring up the promise for hereafter.

Only misery; no hint of laughter.

He pursued his prize with gifts and jewels

She was flattered but refused each one.

He told her she would be first resurrected

On the morning of the most elect.

4. Faithful to her sweetheart she refused

Once again his wheedling and his cant.

The old priest swore an oath in tones so chill

That she would be his bride.  It was God’s will.

And when this clumsy pressure failed to change

The young girl’s mind, the Bishop grew more mad.

He told her, if she obstinate remained, 

That God’s will would be done and she be blamed.

5. He told her that young Thomas could be sent 

To serve the Lord in missions far away.

He told her, never would she see him more

If she continued to refuse God’s law.

When she again demurred he took him then

Straightway to see young Thomas in his rage.

He threatened excommunication.  Still

The lad refused to bend before his will.

6. By now the Bishop, thunderous with lust,

Called faithful men to counsel late one night.

When Thomas entered in that meeting hall

He surely never saw what would befall.

When he came in the lamps went out and all

the heavy men piled in; then held him down.

The Bishop, with his knife and n’er a nay,

Fast severed off Tom’s manhood where he lay.

7. He snarled and spat, “I gave you every chance

To let me have young Mary for my own.

As punishment for thwarting of God’s plan

She won’t want you now you’re not a man!”

The butchers left the scene with Thomas still

Left lying on the table in his shame.

But Snow stopped in one final act of gall

To nail the severed trophy to the wall.

8. “Let all men learn obedience to God.

The Lord will not be mocked by any man.

Celestial marriage and eternal life,

My just reward, with Mary as my wife!”

Let the matter drop and say no more about it

He was called of God as a Judge In Israel

Let the matter drop and the people soon will doubt it

Ever came to pass, ever came to pass, ever came to pass ...

"The Ballad of Thomas Lewis" Copyright Marshlander.

As with many of my songs I set myself a musical challenge as well as a lyric-writing one. Some years ago I heard a discussion on the radio between two composers describing the difficulty of setting Shakespeare's words to music. It was mainly to do with the rhythm and meter. It was a fascinating discussion and I thought that one day I must have a try to see just how difficult it is to set text written in pentameters. By no means are my lyrics Shakespearian in quality, but they are certainly written in pentameters i.e. five feet in each line. I thought at first that I could get away with writing in 5/4 or 5/8, but I couldn't make that work. In the end I settled on squeezing the text into a waltz. When I sing the song I daresay it sounds to some as though it tumbles out as a stream of consciousness. That's how it often feels to me. As if that weren't enough I decided to risk minimal use of chords and see if I could still hold the listener's attention. I think the accompaniment on the repeating D major and C major chords encourages a meditative dorian feel. It appears the listener is either absorbed into the story or simply falls asleep ...

Letters To A Kingfisher - 9

Dear Mr Kingfisher,

Thanks for coming to see me this morning. I know you were too busy to stay long, but there was just time for a greeting before you had to go.

In two days' time it will be precisely one year since I have seen my lover and partner, P. Being apart and in different countries for all this time has been horrible. Not as horrible as catching covid I suppose, but we have to play the hand we are dealt. I am so looking forward to being allowed, and feeling safe enough, to go back to France. This period of enforced isolation has been not so different from my normal life in many ways, but in others it has proven very difficult. I am frustrated that I have not felt able to make good use of the time to work on musical projects; I certainly have enough half-started songs to finish. I've put that down to mild depression, something I do know about, but again that isn't the whole picture. I think the lack of purpose is what hurts most. If I have a performance coming up I practise and rehearse. I am not so consistent without the focus. I have also really missed going to see and hear live performances and I think that has also affected my productivity. I try really hard to avoid plagiarism, but a live show is often a stimulus for new musical ideas to begin rattling around in my head. I think it is the joy of witnessing music making in real life. A new idea may manifest as something "in the style of" and, only rarely, do I have to discard that idea completely because it turns out to be a copy of something I heard at the gig. I only have to discard it if it is irredeemable rubbish. The ideas have not been forthcoming, so I've not been writing much.

As always, there are conflicting items of news. I have a sense of optimism that the lockdown may begin to ease next month. As things stand it may be a further three months after that, before I can pick up where I left off a year ago. Of course, nothing can be set in stone, but there appears to be more optimism that we are on the mend. If, however, relaxing the lockdown rules also leads to increased cases of covid I really don't know how I'll deal with another lockdown. It may not go well. Of course, it helps that this week the sun is shining and I can power my devices, including this laptop, through my solar system. It is by no means warm, but I can wear shorts fairly comfortably outdoors. On the pessimistic side, I wonder if the weather is simply much nicer than it ought to be. It is March and I am wearing shorts. What will the temperature be like in high summer? We have had a lot of rain over the past few weeks and even more wind, but has the rain fed the aquifers sufficiently? So yes, it is wonderful to be contemplating the possibility of freedom of movement ...

Freedom of movement, there's a phrase. My next visit to France, whenever it happens, will be under very different rules and international relationships. I have no idea how the routines I developed for travelling to and fro will be affected by the fact that my movements are now subject to rules that haven't existed for the past forty years. Travelling to the USA has always felt more like travelling to a foreign place than travelling to France, but I fear that France may begin to feel more like a foreign country now. Whenever I mention a concern on a social networking site my trolls appear. One writes detailed responses that never seem quite to address what worries me and he usually admonishes me along the lines that I should have more "faith in my country", "depends whether you are a glass half-full or half-empty ..." kind of way. Yadda-yadda, yawn. Covid has complicated the whole picture with regard to leaving the European Union in an ill-tempered and discourteous way, but the figures seem to suggest that the effect of covid on people's livelihoods has been exacerbated by the negative aspects of Brexit.

The past weekend has brought to the headlines another important aspect of freedom of movement. I don't want to get into discussion on some of this, because I don't have a valid contribution to make. As a white male in my senior years my place is primarily to listen. I have heard female members of my family talk about some of their fears and experiences of being out and about on the street. I realise that some places feel very off-limits to them and the tales I have heard make me ashamed to be a man. The fact that I am constantly checking myself to ensure I don't add to the litany of acts exhibiting "toxic masculinity" is nothing compared to having to look over one's shoulder all the time and have to decide whether or not it is safe to walk this road or that, to challenge the cat-calls, the overt or soto voce insults, acts of intimidation, sexual or physical abuse apparently random and so casually committed, or ignore them. Until everyone feels safe going about their own business we do not have a free society. Being imprisoned behind the walls we have erected for our own safety is not acceptable.

This weekend we witnessed the police giving us a taste of a dystopia into which we are crashing at speed. It would appear that women holding a peaceful, socially distanced vigil were kettled and attacked by the police. The Home Secretary is pushing through legislation to curb our rights to express dissent. If the events of this past weekend are anything to go by little distinction in future may be made between holding or taking part in a vigil, a protest, a rally, a demonstration or a full scale riot. Under the proposed legislation it would appear that all these will be classified as acts of public disorder. These proposals to curb the freedom to express dissent are the most serious breaches on our liberty to assemble freely since the second world war.

So, Mr Kingfisher, what's going on in your world? I assume you are sprucing up your nest in preparation for this year's brood?

Here are some daffodils I photographed on the river bank recently. I hope you enjoy them.

Best wishes,

marsh