Something Else - 9Bach hits Winchester

I’m not sure how to start this, but Wow! feels about right.

It’s just 48 hours since we got home from our terrific large sophisticated concert at the Barbican (see the previous blog) and we’re at it again, out on our musical adventures. The prospect before us however, couldn’t be more different or lacking in promise. We’re in a small, dark, battered and seat-less (aside from a single bench) back room to a tiny amiable pub of similar attributes behind the railway station in Winchester. The (highly competent) support act is gamely playing to about ten people, at the end of which he gets as much of a clap as ten people can muster, and we discover that six of those people comprise the main band for the evening. At least the ale from the bar at the back of the room is pretty good!

So… the six band members duly get up on stage and word goes out that the “main event” is about to start. After a short delay there is an influx from the main (i.e. tiny) pub of eight or nine people, phew - at least the audience has gone up rather than down, just! And if we add in the barman, the sound man and a roving photographer that makes about fifteen of us. Everyone stands coyly round the edges, clutching their drinks, terrified of the wide open space in the centre of the room. And then the music starts…

“We are 9Bach”, charismatic lead singer Lisa Jen Brown announces, and who with husband and guitarist Martin Hoyland form the core of the band. They hail from Bethesda in the heart of Welsh speaking North Wales, on the edge of Snowdonia, with the vast gash of the Penrhyn slate quarry dominating their view in contrast to the beautiful neighbouring Ogwen valley. Lisa sings in wonderfully soft and expressive Welsh (with one Greek exception), songs that are mostly interpretations of traditional Welsh material of generally weighty subject matter, which is perfectly complemented by the innovative slow and pulsing atmospheric sounds of the band with harp, guitars, drums, harmonium and frequent tinkles from xylophone and chimes which are extraordinarily engaging; gentle and powerful by turns, and highly evocative of the homeland. But if this is the context and the general sound, what is really astonishing is the quality and subtle creativity of the songs, arrangements and delivery. This is a class act.

The ever reliable fRoots magazine, ahead of the game as usual

After the first impressive song everyone is smiling, realising this isn’t going to be a duff performance. After two or three it’s broad grins and earnest concentration all round, this demands our full attention. Then comes the first of an outrageous number of spine-tingling “stop you in your tracks” songs that has my better half spontaneously standing up in excitement, not quite sure what to do with herself but knowing sitting on the bench is no longer satisfactory! The rest of the audience are similarly increasingly agitated and/or entranced and there is a growing awareness that we may be small in number but tonight we are some of the luckiest folk in the land. And so it goes on, innovative and bewitching throughout, interspersed with hilarious and unrepeatable banter between the band members, and increasingly the audience, often initiated by mischievous London cabbie and drummer (and token non-Welsh member) Ali Byworth. The emotional range and effect achieved is extraordinary, and the ultimate highlight is the stunning song Plentyn that Lisa herself has written after a visit to the aborigines of Australia, telling the appalling true story of the white man coming to take a mothers child away, and capturing the ensuing grief and despair. The piece as performed is a thing of astonishing beauty.

The understated, mesmerising first album from 2009

And then, too soon, it’s all over, and they’re off the stage and we’re shaking hands and having a good old natter. Lisa admits she’s thoroughly enjoyed the venue despite the turn-out; they’ve just played a couple of concerts in one to two hundred seat auditoriums in North Wales and found it a little too staid being spread out on a large stage which kills the banter within the band, and with the audience locked into their seats restricting the scope for dynamics and spontaneity and hence the atmosphere they clearly thrive on. Chatting to Martin he’s unassumingly chuffed to bits when we make clear what we thought of the evening’s performance, and that the new album Tincian has had rave reviews in the national broadsheets over the last couple of weeks; I waste no time in giving him a tenner for my copy. I’ve had their impressive eponymous debut album for the last four years and play it regularly, it’s extremely engaging in its unique understated way and many of its pieces were played this evening to great effect, but it has also always hinted at huge further potential – something that’s been finally realised in spades tonight and through the new release. Lisa and fellow singer Mirain Roberts ask sociably if we can stick around for a while as they are keen to extend the post-performance social – but with a heavy heart we have to make our excuses for the late drive home (a decision we naturally regret even more half way back).

The stunning new album... err, just buy it!

Walking through darkened Winchester back to the car the locals are turning in for the night, absurdly unaware of the uniquely special experience on their doorstep that they all missed out on. No it wasn’t a smart concert at the Barbican or Royal Festival Hall, it was something else.

 

For more information on 9Bach, including access to some nice videos, click on: www.9bach.com

A River, an Exhibition, and a Concert

It’s perhaps one of lifes underrated pleasures to simply sit outside the Royal Festival Hall, overlooking the Thames, sipping a good coffee on a summer Sunday morning with a cloudless sky and a cool breeze, before the crowds arrive and the heat builds. The place and the day are full of potential and we have a simple but interesting agenda, but there is no rush, yet; bliss.

A peaceful morning coffee before the culture and the crowds, Royal Festival Hall (18May14)

 

The perfect cooling-off facility, South Bank (18May14)

 

Loaded and ready for the onslaught, the outside bar at the Royal Festival Hall (18May14)

In the fine weather the Thames looks glorious, despite the tide being out. Folk are down on the “beaches” hunting for history or building sand castles where it’s not mud. Strolling eastwards along the South Bank it’s hard to stop taking pictures like all the foreign tourists, it all looks so damned good. The skyline continues to evolve and to be pecked away at by myriad cranes; it’s accumulating an increasing number of massive oddly shaped buildings all striving to be different. It’s getting a bit like grannies overcluttered mantelpiece full of nick-nacks, with even the splendour of St Pauls looking increasingly marginalised and lesser churches lost long ago in the deep canyons between the big new boys, with just the odd spire or tower top peeking out.

Looking downstream to Blackfriars Bridge and St Pauls (18May14)

 

Assorted new stuff on the skyline, solar-panelled Blackfriars Bridge in the foreground,  River Thames (18May14)

Arriving at the relatively modest Bankside Gallery, we dip inside out of the shadow of the looming monster of Tate Modern next door. An hour of soaking up the Original Prints exhibition by the Royal Society of Painter-Printmakers is inspiring and good for the soul, so much diverse good work. Top quality original art doesn’t come much more affordable than this and I have to lock my wallet away and fight multiple temptations; I escape unscathed. The father-in-law’s work looks good and has a sale denoted by a red dot, so some good news to report back on.

On the beach at Gabriel's Wharf (18May14)

Lunch under a tree outside the gallery and the tide is clearly starting to come in, those shores will soon disappear. By 1pm we realise we need to scoot, we have an afternoon concert to get to at the Barbican that starts at 2pm, and we haven’t been there before. Zig-zagging through the crowds on the now non-bouncy (booh) Millenium Bridge, past St Pauls and down narrow streets to the Guildhall we finally reach the huge, confusing yet strangely appealing Barbican. It’s a rather wonderful high and low-rise complex of offices, housing, schools, and concert venues with embedded lakes, fountains and plantlife – but a real struggle to quickly assimilate how to navigate to our desired Milton Court concert hall, which proves to be out the far side of the main set-up. Fortunately we get there with fifteen minutes to spare.

The foyer’s hot and we’re sticky, but it’s now time to chill out again and get ourselves into the right frame of mind for a very novel and varied concert. Fortunately the auditorium is cool and we have prime seats at the front of the circle.

US-based Nonesuch Records are a pretty discerning and eclectic bunch as music labels go, with high-brow signings such as Philip Glass, Steve Reich and the Kronos Quartet, which have not been my natural territory to date; but also the more accessible likes of Emmylou Harris, Natalie Merchant and, most recently and intriguingly, Olivia Chaney (see my first blog of the year). To celebrate 50 years in the business Nonesuch pretty much took over the Barbican last weekend to run a sequence of five concerts where they deliberately mixed up a considerable number of the artists on their books in various experimental collaborations, to force both musicians and audiences to reconsider their musical boundaries. And so to our concert, the fourth out of the five, with an impressive line-up that at least contained some known and partially known quantities, but also plenty of unknowns…
 

First up were the extraordinary Dublin-based Crash Ensemble, a “contemporary music ensemble” who I groundlessly feared might be of an irredeemably  “squeaky bonky” persuasion but who were actually utterly captivating in their 25 minute rendition of the wonderfully novel, varied and creative piece Gra agus Bas, with riveting gaelic singing from Iarla O Lionaird throughout (for whom the piece was originally written). I have previously encountered Iarla’s unique singing style (largely the much maligned traditional Irish sean nos style) from his work with Afro Celt Sound System some years ago but this performance brought home just how versatile and powerful it can be and the whole integrated performance brought a solid much-deserved ovation from the audience.

Then followed the main part of the concert, anchored by the impressive four piece Kronos Quartet who were themselves celebrating their 40th anniversary, and who kicked off with a wonderfully quirky piece where all members simply plucked rather than bowed their instruments – terrific funky stuff. The session then developed with individually capable singers and musicians Rhiannon Giddens, Olivia Chaney, Sam Amidon and finally Natalie Merchant coming on in turn to perform folk songs in conjunction with the Kronos Quartet. These performances had their highs and lows for me with the clear stars being, somewhat surprisingly, the newcomer Chaney and Giddens. Chaney in particular, perhaps because of her classical training, seemed to totally get how to gel with the Kronos Quartet and brought to their joint performances a compelling singing style which writhes and emotes in the most unique and creative manner - hers were performances that resulted in that very special magic you always hope for on these occasions. Giddens almost matched this with her versatile southern US sensibilities and styles and clear powerful voice, and her final gaelic mouth-music piece was particularly impressive, if a little disorientating – having previously heard the song many times but only via Scottish gaelic singers. Apparently North Carolina had the largest immigrant Scottish population in the US at one time and so she legitimately claimed the right to sing this piece.

 

For me young Sam Amidon’s engaging folky singing and guitar/fiddle playing, which I think in its more normal contexts would be a winning combination, appeared to struggle a little at times to fit with the string accompaniments of the Kronos Quartet. On a few occasions his playing seemed to clash directly with the accomplished Kronos sound and his voice sometimes didn’t seem to have quite the heft required to get the desired impact out of the songs. But hey, this was an experiment and success is not always complete or unequivocal in such situations, nothing ventured nothing gained.

And so to Natalie Merchant. Her name on the bill was probably responsible for a fair number of ticket sales and as a long-term devotee it certainly influenced my decision to attend. As such her arrival on stage was keenly awaited and, reflecting this, she was held back until last. Rather surprisingly however, it turned out (for this member of the audience anyway) to be the low point of the afternoon; not only did she do the shortest of cameos with just two rather downbeat songs but she tripped over the words on the first one and had to sheepishly restart it –something you and your audience can recover from if you’re doing a full concert but more tricky within such a brief appearance. And talking of appearances (and I’m not one who normally worries much about such things), Merchants dress sense continues to confound even me, coming on as she did in what can best be described as a Nora Batty influenced combo (non-UK readers may wish to Google this name – a key British sartorial reference point). I was genuinely trying to discern for a while if she had rollers in her crinkled hair!
 

And so we strolled back out into the sunshine, and through the narrow London streets back to the river, with much to cogitate on. It was a brave, adventurous, stimulating concert with many different things to appreciate and contemplate, which is rather more than most performances achieve, …which I think makes it a considerable success.

In love with the South Downs, finally

Jammed onto a south coast train full of shoppers heading for Brighton last Saturday, the appeal of our days plan was not immediately apparent. Subsequently running the gauntlet of the pedestrian death-trap that is suburban Worthing (so many mini-roundabouts!) as we headed north from the station, things weren’t much better, until a rounded green hilly horizon hove into view. An hour from the station and it’s all change; we’re at the ancient hill top fort of Cissbury Ring, a peaceful elevated haven half a mile across, and the panorama is spectacular. The south coast from Beachy Head in the east to the Isle of Wight in the west is spread before us, with the sea all asparkle. To the north are the sensual rounded undulations of the gentle dip slope of the South Downs proper, whose inherent chalkiness means that that all farming impressions register clear and bright, the effect being extraordinarily, if unintentionally, creative and arresting to the eye. Tracks are etched in pure white, ploughing with the lie of the land results in bright brushstrokes in sweeps and patches, while crops are interspersed in abstract shapes. It’s almost as if the farmers are intent on some large scale piece of modern art. On the skyline some miles off is the distinctive tufted clump of trees of the sister hill fort of Chanctonbury Ring, our ultimate (i.e. lunch) and equally atmospheric destination on this walk.

Looking to Chanctonbury Ring (left skyline) from Cissbury Ring. (3May14)

Unreservedly savouring the views and atmosphere of this day, I had to acknowledge that I have finally fallen unequivocally for the South Downs. I may have lived near them most of my adult life but as an evangelical devotee of wild and high mountain country, my walking visits to the Downs have too often been beset with the mindset of modest expectations and enthusiasm, i.e. it was the best I could do to mark time until my next fix of “real” hills.


South to the sea from Chanctonbury Ring. (Oct12)



My appreciation of the Downs has slowly built through frequent walks with my better half, who as always has a much less prejudiced take, and as a result of frequent cycling forays in the lanes around and through them; always a delight, even if climbing the steep northern scarp slopes is an often tough proposition! And I really must get into the whole mountain biking thing for which I have finally registered the Downs are tailor-made (hence all those happy mountain bikers I keep seeing enjoying themselves, doh!)

On the chalk and flint, approaching Glatting Beacon from the west, on a cold early spring day (1Apr13)

Another substantial influence has been the discovery and delight in various cultural connections. The beguiling shapes and patterns of the hills have excited many artists, and perhaps no one has done better justice to this than painter Eric Ravilious. His is work I can’t get enough of, in its sparing sweeping elegance that beautifully matches the nature of the Downs. Once familiar with his approach it’s hard to walk anywhere on the chalk without seeing echoes of his work everywhere you look, a case of nature imitating art, or is nature the true art and his paintings simply a  beautiful acknowledgement of that? Whatever, familiarity with Ravilious’s work simply adds substantially to my appreciation and enjoyment of the Downs.

Walking the chalk lanes near the Trundle, north of Chichester, in high summer (Jul10)

I also find the beautiful evocations of Edward Thomas’s The South Country rattling around in my head whenever I’m out on foot or awheel in the rural south east generally, but on the Downs particularly. Thomas used to walk long and often, and almost obsessively, to stave of the depressions that dogged him throughout his adult life, and although probably his most upbeat work, The South Country does still have a touch of melancholy about it. Indeed that melancholic tinge extends to both Thomas and Ravilious insofar as both were to die far too young, in the First and Second World Wars respectively, just a handful of years after producing the fine works that sustain myself and many others now and into the future. Perhaps paradoxically however, there can still be no more uplifting company than these two men when striding out on the Downs and taking in the sweeping forms and vistas.

Legacies of the perfect walking companions