London
22 May 2015
Fortis Green, north London. A place of fertile musical soil. Back at the turn of the Sixties, Fortis Green was the manor of brothers Ray and Dave Davies, whose combination of gifted lyricism, overdriven Vox amplifiers and almost unrivalled songwriting ability saw them take the output of their ground-breaking – although never less than highly combustible – band, The Kinks, to the pinnacle of the decade’s musical achievements. No compilation or documentary on the decade is now complete without a playback of the band’s performance on Shindig in 1965 (Ray purring out the words to “You Really Got Me” whilst Dave conjures the spirit of metal from his freshly-razored speaker cabs like Dr John Dee wrestling with a semi-acoustic) or grainy colour footage of the beautiful people rifling through racks of guardsmen’s jackets and groovy A-line skirts in Carnaby Street, all to the strains of “Dedicated Follower of Fashion”. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the “Waterloo Sunset” and in the morning, we will remember them…
At the other end of the decade, in a pleasant but modest house named ‘Fairport’, which stands near the junction of Tetherdown and Fortis Green Road, something else of almost comparable world historic musical significance happened. Bassist Ashley Hutchings, resident of the house, started jamming with his landlord’s son, guitarist Simon Nicol, and fellow six-string enthusiast Richard Thompson. Initially, it was just a matter of a few fellow musicians struggling to emulate the sound of the American West Coast which had so captivated and inspired them: The Byrds, The Jefferson Airplane, et al., and Dylan too. Yet very quickly, the musical alchemy between the main protagonists, sparked further by an influx of incredibly gifted additional members such as the legendary Sandy Denny, started to produce something truly extraordinary.This ‘convention’ of musicians, by both luck and design, gradually began to invoke a sublime new creation into being, one which fused the ancient pastoralism and quiet malevolence of traditional British folk music with the new and more electric possibilities of Rock. They might not have been entirely the first to start the climb up this mountainside – The Strawbs were arguably already wandering around in the foothills – but Fairport Convention were the first to make it properly to the summit. If Lenin had once said that “Soviets plus electricity = Socialism”, then “Convention plus electricity = folk rock”.
And so, 48 years on, I descend into the bowels of The Borderline, a mere 20 hours after emerging into the night air from The Roundhouse after a brutal two-and-half hour aural pummelling from Swans. A very different experience tonight one may think; and, indeed, instrumentally it will be. Yet, as dark as Michael Gira’s thematic concerns have always been throughout his band’s 33 year history, such themes are – and always have been – the backbone of the English folk canon. Exploitation and power? Check. Murder? Check. Sexual cruelty and perversion? Check. In “Your Property”, Gira sang “I don’t exist. You control me. You’re corrupt. You deform me. You own me. You own me. I worship your authority.” One version of the traditional ballad “Matty Groves” – which dates from at least the 1600s and will be the penultimate song of the evening – sees its antagonist Lord Arden cut off his adulterous wife’s head and kick it against the wall in anger. To give Marshall McLuhan a slight headache, it’s the message, not the medium…Thankfully, though, tonight is mercifully free of all decapitation (save for the innumerable cider bottles at the bar), and Fairport launch into a set comprising new material from their recent album, Myths and Heroes, together with a selection of choice cuts from their historic and adored back catalogue.
Joking that the band need to start by focussing on the new material so that it will help shift the new album from the merch stall in sufficient numbers to generate the cash flow necessary to buy the diesel to get them to Guildford the next night, we are treated to a first half including Anna Ryder’s beautiful “Bring Me Back My Feathers”, Ralph McTell’s “Around the Wild Cape Horn” (whose text is taken from American sailing legend Irving Johnson), the elegant “Weightless” (which could teach the young things playing The Shacklewell Arms and Oslo a thing or two about guitar interplay), and the rousing instrumental “The Gallivant”, on which composer and violinist Ric Sanders really cuts loose.The band are obviously having fun, and their, ahem, more mature audience is right in there alongside them. Bassist Dave “Peggy” Pegg in particular is like some sparkling-eyed Aerial, there to keep the magic and the mischief permanently in the air. I notice, too, that whilst he keeps his graceful bass-lines snaking out into the room, Pegg never so much as even glances at the fretboard of his bass. It’s a small sign of how long these guys have been playing, and how much they are masters of their chosen instruments; yet is a collective virtuosity that is never a matter to foreground, never tiresomely paraded ahead of the material or the relationship with their audience.
Simon Nicol, pretending to receive word from merch HQ that the cash necessary to get to Guilford (“and then even on to Canterbury the next night”) has now been accumulated, then leads the band into some truly hallowed Convention turf: the almost never performed before “Farewell, Farewell” from Liege & Lief (we also get “Crazy Man Michael” earlier in the evening), at which gentlemen of a certain age across the room begin visibly to swoon.The main set closes with the aforementioned “Matty Groves”, which Nicol introduces by explaining: “You can tell that this is a folk song as it has 19 verses and two chords. If it had two verses and 19 chords, it would be a Steely Dan song.” It’s a great rendition too, the growling vocal conveying every last nuance of its tale of adultery, jealousy and murder. Given its cyclical simplicity and subject matter, it would be nice to see Swans tackle this one next time they’re in town…
As the venue is so full and the conditions onstage a little cramped, the band do not attempt to go off before reappearing for an encore, though Nicol does inform everyone that at least he had unplugged his guitar in a token gesture towards stage exit. They finish, of course, with former comrade Richard Thompson’s unofficial band anthem, “Meet On the Ledge”, and which point arms are waved drunkenly in the air, tears begin to be shed and everyone in the room spends just a little time thinking about where all that time went.Where indeed? But at 48 years young, Fairport Convention’s time was certainly not wasted.
-David Solomons-
