THE WEEKEND OF THE 8th AND 9th OF
AUGUST 1997 was one which gave everyone associated with Fairport
Convention, audience, crew, members past and present, much on which to
reflect. That this odd, seemingly unprofessional and definitely
un-showbizlike group could have survived thirty years in the ephemeral,
here-today-gone-tomorrow world of 'popular' music defies reason or
analysis. That it should still be drawing new people in, breaking
attendance records at the now institutionalised Cropredy Festival, even
to the point of having to turn latecomers away from this high point of
their calendar, is quite extraordinary.
The warmth and affection
with which the band is regarded by its loyal (but never uncritical)
following is perhaps for me the most significant thing that we have
achieved. I, for one, am proud to know so many of those faces in those
Oxfordshire fields, and to know so many by name and count them as
friends, sharing together the individual memories that collectively
define the spirit that is Fairport Convention.
Our attempt to
review the band's musical history, condensing 30 years and who knows
how many line-ups, LP's and CD's into six hours and sixty one songs was
never going to be easy or universally successful, but to have failed to
at least nod in the direction of each era of the group's past would
have been churlish. To have succeeded in capturing the attempt on
multi-track tape without mechanical or electronic mishap would have
been to overcome ridiculous, lottery- winning sized odds: so when it
came to mixing the tapes and selecting what could be included in this
triple CD memento, we did not have the completely free hand we would
have liked. It's the natural order of things that tapes run out at
crucial moments of musical perfection (!) and digital tracking goes
awry just as the final mighty chords pay off a magical rendition of
your particular favourite song. The rarely performed but oft-requested
'Fotheringay', for instance, ended up with only half the instruments
recorded. (Although Rob Braviner made sure they were heard out front on
the night.) And rather than dress up or 'improve and enhance' the tapes
in post-production, we present here what we have, warts and all. The
only song we played both nights was, predictably, 'Matty Groves'. The
wonderful Vikki Clayton, enjoying her socks off on stage, took the
exuberant liberty of inserting Sid Kipper's alternative verse "...and
how d'you like my curtains that I got in the sale last week..."
Overcome by her delight in her iconoclasm, she neglects thereafter to
included the sword fighting sequence which is at the nub of the
narrative: in her reading Matty walks free. (By the way, having sung
the song myself more than a few times and once in a while having lost
concentration, I know what this feels like. To date I've let him off
scot-free twice.) It would have been terrific to have intercut the
Saturday night version - with the WHOLE story - at that point and
closed the circle between the ersatz Liege and Lief line-up and today's
millennium-threatening band. But as luck would have it, the
indefatigable Mark Tucker, whose stalwart efforts throughout the
weekend resulted in the item you're currently holding, was forced to
change tape cassettes right then; so the possibility does not exist. We
must apologise if your choice would have been different from ours, but
we hope you'll understand.
What we have managed to do, however, is
hopefully capture some of the atmosphere of the weekend: Ashley's witty
and detailed potted history of Fairport's chaotic peregrinations from
60's Muswell Hill to late 90's Cotswold fringes, from Leonard Cohen to
Kristina Olsen by way of Child Ballads, Ralph McTell, and O'Neill's
Music of Old Ireland. Fairport have always been primarily a 'live act'
which makes occasional studio recordings, which is another thing that
separates us from the mainstream of the music industry where records
come first and the touring and performing are merely a way of promoting
the act's raison d'être, its 'product'. Our records are
souvenirs, more milestones than signposts. Postcards home, not travel
itineraries. |
Fairport Convention
The Cropredy Box
(Woodworm Records WRCD026)
OLD BOY'S XVI · 1997
SEASON
Hon. President Sir
Daniel Thompson
AR BRAZ D. · CLAYTON V. ·
SWARBRICK D. ·
THOMPSON R. · DYBLE J.
· LESURF C. · HUTCHINGS
A. · McTELL R. · ALLCOCK M. · DONAHUE J.
· PEGG D. · LESLIE C.
· NICOL S.J.B. · SANDERS R.
· MATTACKS D. · ROWLAND B.
CD 1
- Intro
- Wings
- Jack O'Diamonds
- Time Will Show the Wiser
- Mr. Lacey
- Suzanne
- Genesis Hall
- Million Dollar Bash
- Come All Ye
- Reynardine
- Matty Groves
And as for the bonus tracks: Ken
Russell commissioned us to arrange Percy Grainger's version of
'Seventeen Come Sunday' in the Fairport style (whatever that is...) for
his Channel 4 documentary overview of traditional music. We agreed on a
lyric and a three minute length and set to work. The closely related
tune in the middle is a Morris dance from Lichfield called "The
Sheriff's Ride" and was danced when we mimed the piece for the cameras
at the festival by Chris Leslie's son Samuel (to absolutely deafening
applause!) and we're all very proud to have been included, even in a
small way, in the work of one of the world's most gifted film
directors.
And as for the April fool tape... well it's fairly
self-explanatory, but the year was 1979, Swarb had sold his house in
Cropredy but was still living there waiting for the Fairport gigs (the
final ones, you must remember) to be over so he could move up to his
new home in Aberdeenshire, and I'd stayed at Peggy's house after a gig
somewhere the previous night. He and I had left Swarb and Ian Campbell
putting the world to rights with still a full bottle of Bell's to go at
about 4 in the morning and cooked up the idea of the hoax phone call
over our breakfast. We rigged up a cassette machine to an extension
phone and I made up an unscripted and highly successful practical joke
while the others listened in on the hi-fl downstairs. The loudest
laughter you hear at the end is in fact Gloria Swarbrick, who on
handing the terrible news and the phone to her husband ran,
ashen-faced, over the road to the Peggs' to tell us all about their
Grampian disaster, only to find us all colluding in what must have been
one of the most depressing moments of Swarb's long life. We toyed with
the idea of beeping out some of the vivid, fruitier language that
overcomes him when the game is up, but we hope you'll agree he comes
out of the ordeal terrifically well and you'll not be too prudish about
it and feel, as we do, that it's part of the bigger picture.
So
please, enjoy the flavour of the Festival. Relive it if you were there,
wish you had been if not. Forgive us our ragged harmonies and
occasional fluffed verse and (shock horror!) bum note, and keep on
coming back. We know we will!
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