It has become one of the truims of the revival that good female singers are as rare as swallows in midwinter, and yet here Topic can give us two girls of real stature, Isla Cameron and Anne Briggs, both of whom refuse to tart up their singing with intrusive prettiness. They just sing the songs, dammit, allowing their voices to display the Lyrics and the lovely melodies as the gemsthey are.
And if anyone still thinks folksongs should be sung by castrati accompanied soulfully on the lute, let them give an ear or two to the shanteys on this record. Whether it's Harry H. Corbett's deservedly famous rendering of Blow the Man Down from his pre-Steptoe days, or Louis Killen's Heave Away Johnny from his recent Topic album of shanteys, these are tough, vigorous songs with enough rhythm in them to satisfy any beat fan.
The oldest song on the record is probably The Cutty Wreninvested with the right mixture of urgency and mystery by the Ian Campbell Folk Group. This strange ritual of the hunting, killing arid ceremonial dismemberment of a wren is still practised in parts of Britain on St.
Stephen's Day, and it is easy to agree with some folklorists who believe the sharing out among the poor in the last verse acquired a revolutionary significance during the Peasants' Revolt. But not all great songs are songs of protest, and A. Lloyd's Skewball belongs to one of the other great subject categories, well represented in the Topic catalogue; songs about sport.
There seems nothing spectacular about this particular horse race to catch the ballad-maker's fancy, but it's as widespread as the English itself, having passed also into the Negro tradition in America.
But this version is probably of Irish origin. They sing it to their own Irish pipe accompaniment. Album) Killen is the one singer to have two performances on this record which is an honour he deserves.
His Up The Raw is a miner's dandling song, to be sung while jogging a baby on the knee. He is accompanied by Colin Ross on the whistle. The only other singer who could successfully challenge Louis his supremacy among the younger singers is Enoch Kent, and the reasons for this can be heard in his powerful singing of Donal LP.
This brutal ballad also has a wide currency, but whereas some of the American versions raise the sort of embarrassed smile you get from audiences at the lesser kind of horror film, Enoch's chills the blood with its bitter story. This record is a sampling of some of the riches from the music of these islands which have found their way on to the Topic label, from the pioneering days when larger and prosperous companies would barely risk the occasional, tentative 78, to today when the chance of commercial success has produced folk sections in some catalogues bearing little relation to the meaning of the words.
In one LP, it is impossible to do complete justice to this richness, and there are omissions which I—and no doubt they—regret. But others are prepared to repair these omissions. In the meantime, I can hardly think of a better introduction to the complex and varied sound of folk music than this record. Icham of Irlaunde ant of the holy lande of irlaunde. This blarneying invitation to the dance dates from around ; already, the Irish were a musical nation but their troubles were only just beginning.
Some seven hundred blood-stained years later, the republic of Eire has finally and for good turned its back on Great Britain and sets its face resolutely towards America. Hopefully, Granuaile prepares her economic miracle which might at last provide enough work at home to keep her sons on their native shore instead of wandering the world.
The Ireland of the jaunting car, the Galway shawl, the white cabin nestling on the green hillside—this Ireland is fast disappearing as industry, including that specifically twentieth century industry, tourism, pulls the country's standard of living up to the level of the rest of Western Europe.
With the old ways, inevitably, die the old songs and dances except where there is enough love and enthusiasm to keep them alive. That is the way of the world. One deplores the death of so much grace and charm but the Twentieth Century is an inexorable goddess and she is also called Change. Changes everywhere. At a St. Patrick's Day concert, a showband tops the bill; they don stetsons to sing a Country and Western medley, homage to a cowboy songster.
A plump youth cavorts, blowing down his saxophone; and could he dance a hornpipe, do you think, that marvellous display of casual agility? Her voice is broad enough or sweet enough Album) sing Her Mantle So Green or the stirring ballad of Willie Fieilly but later she twists as the band plays a Monkees hit. From the stalls, a disgruntled ticket-holder cries: "Why don't you play some of the good old Irish tunes? So maybe change will not take everything away; maybe the beauty of the old music will be its claim for survival.
For, meanwhile, in Connemara, where the little fields are paved with rocks and the donkeys still pick their way over the bog on delicate hooves, perhaps gnarled hands are tuning a fiddle or an old man throws back his head and closes his eyes and begins to sing an ancient song in the Irish language in the dignified, complicated, old fashioned way. And change stands still and the passage and alterations of time cease to matter.
Wherever the Irish go, they take their music with them, and the Irish go everywhere. You can hear great Irish singing and music in Camden Town. In Birmingham. In Liverpool. In any town where there is a substantial Irish community. A Chicago policeman put together one of the best of all Irish tune books from the playing of Irish American musicians.
The music of this country is as inexpressibly various as the landscape, as stark as the Western shores, as lushly romantic as the green hills of Donegal. And as cheerfully convivial as the smoky interior of a Dublin pub. This record is a musical patchwork quilt of the beauties of Ireland, that most beautiful country. Here is music of all kinds. For example, the voice of Dominic Behan, poet, playwright, controversy rouser, entertainer extraordinary, with a Dublin street song, The Zoological Gardens, a real echo of that handsome, Guinness soaked city on the Liffey, and also The Castle of Drumboe, commemorating the tragic rising against the English in This is the tough, jaunty, irrepressible voice of the streets of Dublin; and the noble and ornate unaccompanied singing of Joe Heaney is the expression of the Western coast, the essential core of the Irish tradition.
Here the barren landscape of bog and stone provides little enough sustenance for the poor farmers and fishermen who eke out a precarious livelihood there and who still speak Irish Gaelic as their first language. Here, the classical repertory of Irish song has survived from the remote past to the present day. Joe Heaney, native of County Galway, sings a light-hearted love song in the beautiful but fast dying Irish tongue. Little work and less money drove Joe Heaney from Galway; the song Margaret Barry sings, Our Ship is Ready, has words aching with the sadness of the exile who must leave home and loved ones for the sake of bread.
The magnificent, roving tune intensifies the heartbreak of the words, "Farewell, my love, and remember me". Break for music. Michael Gorman and Margaret Barry also live far from home, in London.
Michael Gorman is one of the finest of all Irish fiddlers; Margaret Barry is a particularly fine singer but here she accompanies Michael Gorman with her distinctive banjo style while he plays a favourite hornpipe.
The Boys of Blue Hill. The uilleann elbow pipes, are so called because one doesn't play them with the mouth like Scottish bagpipes; instead, the flow of air is maintained by a small bellows strapped under the arm and pressed by the elbow. Unlike the Scottish instrument, the Irish bagpipe is a discreet-toned indoor instrument lending itself to delicate treatment. To round off this selection there is a collection of polkas, where Michael Gorman and Margaret Barry are joined by a group of expatriate musicians to create something of the joyous atmosphere of a ceili band.
And Margaret Barry herself sings My Lagan Love with all the flamboyant sweetness that is the essence of her style. Herbert Hughes, set to an old Gaelic tune. Margaret Barry's voice and style irradiate the florid Victorian diction, turning all to grace. Another notable singer, standing up for Donegal, is Paddy Tunney, poet and patriot, a fighting son of Erin, giving us a charming jig song notable for its wealth of references to the literary and political idols of nineteenth century Ireland, The Rollicking Boys Around Tandaragee.
The song signifies the revival of a nation. In the capital of the debated six counties, Belfast, in British Ireland, live the multi-instrumental McPeake family, whose sweet harmonies accompanied by the plangent tones of harp and uillean pipe, have become internationally famed.
Here, they sing a patriotic Irish song, An Durd Fainne, in the Irish language, and the nostalgic ballad they have made entirely their own. Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go. The picture of a hillside full of flowers is a charming place to end. Scotland the brave. Land of mists, heather and tartan; of porridge, venison and amber coloured whisky. The Scotland of the travel posters tends also to be the picture of his native land the exile takes with him to the four corners of the earth.
Or to England. Where he will sigh for lakes, mountains and the skirl o' the pipe, exotically romanticised by time and distance. And maybe he will quite forget the real flavour of Scotland, which is stern, ribald and rational all at once. The towns have harsh, forbidding stone faces although the countryside is so beautiful it wins the heart immediately.
But the Clyde is for building ships, Lanarkshire Henry Martin - A. L. Lloyd And Ewan MacColl - English And Scottish Folk Ballads (Vinyl for mining, and Scotland contains some of the blackest, bleakest industrial slums in Europe as well as so much physical beauty. A physical beauty which itself is often the price of depopulation. Bracken usurps the homesteads. Sheep nibble where the fiddler used to play for reels and flings.
The drift away from the country, the drift away from Scotland, is relentless. Who built Scotland's character? All sorts of people. John Knox, arch puritan, furious foe of licentiousness and frivolity. And also, parodoxically, Robert Burns, poet, radical and lover. David Hume, too, chief architect of the Age of Reason, who lived in eighteenth century Edinburgh, the Athens of the North.
Sir Walter Scott, who put Scotland squarely into the Romantic period, tartan and all, and helped make popular the glory of her traditional balladry. For the visitor, life is full of pleasant surprises. They serve you crisp, hot, delicious rolls for breakfast and call a leg of lamb a "gigot" as if they were pretending to be French, a relic of the "auld alliance", in the days long before the union with England, when Scotland and France presented a united front from two directions against that country.
And Edinburgh rock, which sounds as grim as granite, turns out to be confectionery, crumbly in texture and almost excessively sweet. This is something like the Scots temperament, which is not nearly so stern as it is painted. The legendary dourness of the race, on examination, is seen to be no grimness but a stoic courage, no dourness but passionate convictions intensely held. Not till the tenth century was the name "Scotland" applied to the country north of the Cheviots, and, in that century, the dialect of English that now seems to us to be the authentic voice of Scotland began to supersede the native Gaelic.
So modern Scots is really an importation from the north of England all the time. In fact, all through. On this record of the music of Caledonia, Dolina Maclennan sings in Scots Gaelic and Lorna Campbell sings a song translated into English from that language, nowadays spoken more freely in Scots settlements in the New World than in the Old. The Fisher family have a song in English, Joy of my Heart, a fine Gaelic tune, and the process has been reversed—its lyric praising the beauty of the Western Isles has lately been translated back into Gaelic.
During the Middle Ages and for a long time afterwards, the division between the Gaelic Highlands and the English Lowlands was a very real one. The bare-legged Highlander, garbed in plaids, slept on bundles of heather, fished, hunted and plundered cattle from the hard-working Lowlanders, who could not understand a word their wild countrymen spoke and were already living in towns and founding industries, like God-fearing people.
The Highlanders were tribal, clansmen bound in loyalty to their chief, living roughly in rough country, accepting no authority but the chief and largely dependent on him for their livelihood. By the end of the Middle Ages, English-speaking Scotland was a self-respecting member of the European community of nations but there always remained in the blue distance these natives who seemed like foreigners.
Despite the illusory bond of language, Scotland and England fought like cat and dog untilwhen James, the son of ill-fated Mary, Queen of Scots, became the sixth king of that name in Scotland and the first king of that name in England, Henry Martin - A. L. Lloyd And Ewan MacColl - English And Scottish Folk Ballads (Vinyl. One prince united the nations; strife, it would seem, was at an end. But the evil fortunes of the House of Stewart willy nilly involved the land from which they came.
The opening phrase of 'The Collier Laddie', for instance, is enough to take me back to the kitchen of the Salford slum where I spent so many of my early years, and the memory is neither vague nor general, but specific, minutely detailed. I am conscious of the smoke-and-steel-grey sky of a late autumn afternoon, and the clean, warm smell compounded of freshly-baked bread and a hot iron on damp clothes.
And I can hear the hypnotic rise and fall of my mother's voice as she works her way through a prodigious pile of ironing. And above all, I remember the sudden sharp sense of insupportable grief that I felt as the song entered into me and lay like a sharp stone against the cage of my ribs.
That kind of memory … and falling asleep to the sound of my father's voice weaving intricate patterns around the story of 'The Baffled Knight', or lying awake long after my normal bedtime, listening to the sounds of revelry from downstairs, as my parents and their friends argued and disagreed and sang and recited and sang again. I was most profoundly moved when the singing was a simple reflex response to a situation or a mood.
At these times the element of conscious communication was entirely lacking: instead there was communion. My mother could never achieve the necessary degree of communion when she sang at social gatherings, Hogmanay parties and the like, and, in fact, she rarely sang solos on such occasions, preferring to sing duets and two-part ballads with my father. He, on the other hand, had an almost uncanny knack of being able to retreat into himself and allow the song to take possession of him.
He had the craftsman's flair for being able to direct the whole of his attention on a detail, while his mind's eye was busy creating the whole design. At such moments the audience did not exist for him. This is not to say that he did not communicate; on the contrary, the communication was total because of his total personal identification with the song. He liked to drink, but he was never a heavy drinker.
Singing provided him with his own private form of debauchery. Just occasionally, maybe ten or a dozen times a year, he would feel the need to escape from the harsh reality of the iron-foundry, the treadmill of working-class family life, the dole queue and the bread -and-butter struggle.
On these occasions he would call in at the pub on his way home from work on a Saturday and come home in a cheerful daze, smelling of beer and tobacco.
After taking his mid-day meal, he would sit by the kitchen fire and whistle pipe and fiddle tunes by the hour, his right hand beating out the rhythms on the knee of his moleskin trousers. When he had exhausted his repertoire of reels and strathspeys, he would begin to sing: snippets and fragments born in the streets of Scottish industrial towns, country songs he had learned from his father and his uncle, Adam Stretton who claimed to have the biggest feet in all Scotland.
And then the big ballads. And that was the truth of if. He was away in that remote region where the most furious activity lies in the creation of minute variations from stanza to stanza in a twenty-stanza ballad. After three or four hours singing, he would go back to the pub and return home after closing-time with half-a-dozen cronies carrying bottles of beer. And the singing would begin again and the talk and the recitations and on and on into the small hours.
In this kind of atmosphere you absorb songs and an attitude to tradition, without being conscious of it. You use the songs as a private language for communicating with those elusive, and often mutually opposed, personalities which inhabit you. You do not think of them as 'folk songs', as interesting variants of this or that text or tune but as songs which possess, for you, the maximum reality.
They are your songs and as much part of you as your hands, your legs, your eyes. And the way you have heard them sung, and learned to sing them yourself, seems to be the only right way of singing them. To say that there are as many styles as there are singers is begging the question. Folksingers adapt, improvise, change and occasionally create new material, but they do all these things inside the tradition, and subject themselves to the disciplines of that tradition. Furthermore, the changes, adaptations and improvisations are the result of the singer's assimilation of the traditional forms and of his need to assert himself as a member of a species which refuses to live by bread alone.
In short, the compulsions which drive him to the act of creation are no different from those which drive the true poet, the true painter and the man who carves stone because not to do so would be to repudiate his hands.
These are the compulsions which drive the true folksinger, not the easy money, the fat TV contract, or the dream of being in the top twenty.
It was, I suppose, inevitable that the folksongs revival should produce a legion of smooth operators, five-and-ten percenters, top-twentiers, goons, gimmickers, gagmen, third-rate comics and what-have-you … It has also created a small army of people who feel that there is something unique and beautiful in their traditional songs.
Not unnaturally, they want to sing these songs. First of all, one must listen. You cannot afford ever to stop listening. Listen to every traditional singer whose records you can get hold of, but most of all listen to yourself while you are singing, listen and stand in judgment.
Get all the information you can about the songs you want to sing, and I don't mean merely the kind of information that tells you which variant of which tune, and so on. This latter is important to the scholar, but it is not the kind of information which will help you to sing a song better.
More important for the singer is to know which kind of circumstances gave rise to a particular song and what that song has meant to the traditional singers in whose mouths it has been polished and shaped over the years.
Then you must decide how to sing the song. Myself, I divide my repertoire into two main groups: rhythmical songs, whether with or without choruses, and free songs, where the emotional tension is built up slowly each verse adding its quota to the total charge.
Aug 10, · 50+ videos Play all Mix - ewan maccoll & a.l. lloyd - a hundred years ago YouTube Ewan MacColl & A.L. Lloyd - A Hundred Years on the Eastern Shore - Duration: Celtic & Nordic Folk Songs Ewan MacColl's dicography. Record information: Ewan MacColl & A.L. Lloyd - The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, Volume IV (Riverside RLP /). WLP Ewan MacColl, A.L. Lloyd - The English And Scottish Popular Ballads (The Child Ballads), Vol. 1. A.L. Lloyd, Ewan MacColl. released Lord Randall (12) WLP Ewan MacColl - Scots Folk Songs. no details. WLP Various Artists - Southern Mountains Folk Songs And Ballads. Bothy Ballads Of Scotland, Ewan MacColl, Discography at theBalladeers. THE CARD SONG comes from the collection of Frank Kidson, who obtained it from a soldier who had heard if in India during the s. Originally each verse was sung by another member of the company, who emptied his glass halfway through the stanza. Ewan MacColl & A.L. Lloyd discography and songs: Music profile for Ewan MacColl & A.L. Lloyd. Genres: English Folk Music, Sea Shanties, Scottish Folk Music. Albums include Blow Boys Blow - Songs of the Sea, Blow Boys Blow: Songs of the Sea, and Bold Sportsmen All. A.L. Lloyd, Ewan MacColl, vocals Alf Edwards, concertina (1, 3, 5, 6, 8, 9) Reissued with additions in English & Scottish Folk Ballads: Related recordings: English & Scottish Folk Ballads (Topic TSCD) The reissue on CD is available from Topic Records: Thanks to Reinhard Zierke for the information from his extensive frasvesivimetse.skodarligeburmantpovazmirapabe.co's discography. In , Topic Records released the original version of this album with A.L. Lloyd and Ewan MacColl singing and Alf Edwards playing concertina. The CD expands that album with additional material from the Topic back catalogue of A.L. Lloyd, Anne Briggs, Louis Killen, Mike Waterson and Norman Kennedy. out of 5 stars Lousy CD-R re-issue of a great album Reviewed in the United States on March 15, Five stars for the performance - a real classic (at least if you like folk icon Ewan MacColl's vocal style) - but one star for the Smithsonian Folkways production of this straight re-issue of the original Folkways album (the first of a 3/5(1). Jun 20, · This is the follow up series to Argo's poetry and song 4-volume set for Primary School children, Rhyme and Rhythm. The 14 volumes in this series were aimed at Secondary School children: volumes for year olds, vols for the age group, vols for year olds, and vols The Singing Sailor, Ewan MacColl, Discography at theBalladeers. Sleeve Notes. The songs on this disc we either work songs, shanties or diversionary songs, foc'sle songs or forebitters, sung during the evening dog watch, when the men gathered round a squeeze-box in the foc'sle or, in fair weather, sat round the bitts or around the fore-hatch.
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