Black Country Ceilidh

          This is becoming an occasional blog. Sometimes things just

pile up and I can't find time - or energy - to write a blog too.
          This week I went to a Black Country Ceilidh. It was a spur of the moment thing. Somebody had said there was 'a folk club' at The Plough Inn, near Stourbridge. "Want to try it?" Davy asked.
          I was suspicious. "Is it real folk?"
          Davy said, "What do you mean, 'real folk'?"
          "Is it people putting a hand over one ear and singing about walking out one midsummer morning or leaving Liverpool?"
          "I can see how you'd want to avoid that stuff," he said.
          "No, that's the stuff I want. Will there be ballads about murder, and patricide, and infanticide and every other kind of -cide? And revenge. 'Cos that's my bag. I don't want country and western, or teenagers singing their own songs about how nobody loves 'em."
          "I was just told," he said with a sigh. "that there's live folk-music of a Tuesday night. Do you want to give it a try?"
          Cautiously, I agreed.  And, folkies, it was great. There must have been about fifteen musicians there, who had just turned up for the fun of playing and singing music they loved. Some had brought two or three instruments. There was a double-bass, guitars, accordians, melodians, harmonicas, fiddles, bodhrans, mandolins...

         I got talking to Pat - Hi, Pat! - who had brought her accordian along. She was still learning, she told me, but came along to join in and practice. Pat was modest about her ability but, to me, who can't play or sing a note, all playing seems like some kind of magic - and I admired her for having the nerve to get out of the house and join in.
          The leader of the group called on each member in turn, and asked if they wanted to play something. Nobody had to, but if they were willing, they named what they wanted to play, and led it, and the other musicians joined in. It was, in other words, a Black Country Ceilidh. Davy and I intend to tell another friend of ours, another Scot, who we are pretty sure will hurry over to The Plough with his guitar as soon as he can.
          I thoroughly enjoyed it. There was a quick burst of early rock and roll, and another of Richard Thompson, but there was enough walking out on midsummer mornings to keep me happy. Though as I learned most of what I know about story-telling from the Border Ballads, I don't think there were enough battles or murders. Maybe next time. And the jigs, reels and shanties made up for it.
          So if any of you are in the neighbourhood of Stourbridge and Wollaston, I recommend Tuesday night at The Plough.

The Plough Inn

154 Bridgnorth Rd, Stourbridge, West Midlands DY8 3PD ‎ 01384 393414

Images: Wikipedia commons.

CEILIDH!

‘Harken!’ cried the bard, and struck the strings of his lyre.  The mead-hall fell silent and listened.

          ‘With a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you,’ said Philip Sidney, in surprise, ‘ with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner.’

          It wasn’t only in the halls of the rich that people fell silent to hear a story.  In small towns and villages people gathered together in one house, to save on fuel and candles, as they sewed, knitted, repaired or made tools. The visitors brought food and drink with them, and to pass the time they told stories.  The Scots called such a gathering a ceilidh.  Growing up in the industrial Midlands, I never knew the word, but knew the concept: “Dad – tell us how you gave Gran’s best sheets to the rag-and-bone-man… Mum, tell us about the shop with the parrot…”

          The storytellers knew their audience, because they were part of it.  They picked up from the air whether the company wanted – even needed – a merry tale, an encouraging tale, an eerie tale, or a sad one, to let the tears flow.

          Words have power – I found myself writing about their power in my Ghost World books.

Some people believe this is only true of the past.  People now don’t want story-tellers, they think – now people have television and YouTube.

          I often go into schools and tell stories, and I can tell you authoritatively that this isn’t so.

          I have told stories to crammed rooms of 60 children, all of them sitting open-mouthed and round-eyed, holding their breaths.  You can feel the story buzzing in the air.

          I’ve told ‘Mr. Fox’ and had a group of technicians stop work to listen, and applaud at the end.

          I’ve watched as children with unfocussed eyes, unconsciously acted out the story, lost in their own heads.

          Words, and stories, have power.  When I describe Ambrosi’s listeners in Ghost Song helplessly acting out his stories, I described what I’d seen.

Cruikshank's storyteller

          A story springs to life when you tell it.  I’ve several times told what I thought was a mildly scary tale to a class, only to find that somewhere in the space between us, the tale took on ferocious strength.  I think: I can’t tell anymore of this!  It’s too scary! – But I can’t stop either, because of all those avid, listening faces.  A story has the onward power of a train.

          Story-tellers and listeners – story-tellers and readers – it’s a tight bond.

          Increasingly, publishers have been intervening, saying, 'this writer’s  last book only sold X amount.  We won’t publish any more.'

          Saying, 'Your central character’s a woman, so you must have pink and sparkly marketing.'

          Saying, 'Love the book, but you must make the gay character straight – readers don’t want short stories – don’t want novellas don’t want to mix sci-fi and romance – don’t want heroines over 20.'

          Story-tellers know what their audience wants because they are part of that audience.  The Marketing Department doesn’t, because they aren’t, and only read spread-sheets.

          One of the many things I love about the internet is that it’s putting story-tellers and story-lovers in touch again, with comments flying back and forth.

          Try ReVamp

          Try Authors Electric!

          Try ABBA

          The publisher is being shoved out the door, while storytellers and listeners crowd round the fire again – albeit a virtual fire on a computer screen.

          Ceilidh!  Pass the scones and whisky.

Website - www.susanpriceauthor.com 

          I'm afraid Blot is still asleep from last week...