Briggs all camped out on a hill above the town. Word spread of a private gig the following night in a tiny pub down the road. It would be guest-list only, and furious lobbying began to make sure one secured an invite. There was a real sense that day of glamour and exclusiveness among these mostly unaccompanied traditional singers. The session was memorable: all had wonderful voices, a store of great songs and a vivid feeling for the past of rural England.
The Watersons and Annie Briggs were the superstars. The former were a real family: two sisters, a brother and a cousin with the rich blend that comes only from genetically matched vocal cords (Bee Gees, Carter Family, Everly Brothers, Crowded House, for example). With rough manners and strong Yorkshire accents, they effortlessly communicated authenticity, yet their harmonies drew as much from their own rich imaginations as from any deep-rooted Yorkshire tradition. Within a couple of years of their first appearances, they were the most popular turn on the folk club circuit. I was enthralled by Norma Waterson’s voice: it had the soulfulness of a gospel singer’s, yet was devoid of any Afro-American phrasing or texture. She wasn’t a conventional beauty, but I found her alluring.
Annie Briggs looked a bit like Patti Smith, with the same slim build, dishevelled brown hair and stubborn stare. She hitch-hiked to gigs and would disappear for weeks at a time. Her ‘act’ consisted of ancient ballads sung starkly with no accompaniment. She and Bert Jansch represented the tortured-genius category in the British folk world, but Annie seemed uncontrived, while I was never sure about Bert. She had no stage patter and in company was shy to the point of invisibility. (Sandy Denny’s ‘The Pond And The Stream’ conveys an awed impression of Briggs.) Like Smith, she retired in her prime to raise a family, then reappeared in the ’90s, powers intact. But in contrast to Patti’s reverentially awaited comeback, when Annie returned there were few venues or audiences for an unaccompanied ballad singer.
My brother and I spent a week after Padstow driving around the West Country. On one occasion we arrived at a medieval Welsh landmark called Tretower Court just as it was closing. The caretaker was so pleased to have foreign visitors that he gave us a private hour-long tour of the building. Aside from his explanation of the advantages of molten lead over boiling oil for scalding attackers either side of a battering ram (you can peel it off the bodies and reuse it), the most memorable moment was coming upon the huge door to the dining room. Gigantic oak beams were held together by three iron cross-bars. Two were beautifully smooth while the third was badly rusted. No need to guess which were forged in the twelfth century and which came from a modern foundry.
Further inspired by a Watersons recording session in Bill’s kitchen, I set off for Hull, where the three siblings lived together in a crowded flat. I think Norma was more bemused than excited by my attentions, but I spent a happy week with her, surrounded by song. She had warned me of her ‘serious’ boyfriend but refused to reveal more than that he was a singer who travelled a lot. One night, just before closing at the group’s folk club in the Ring o’ Bells pub, a handsome and well-known singer walked in unannounced and I saw the blood drain from Norma’s face. I whispered to her to give me a front-door key and a fifteen-minute head start and I would be on the road before they got back. I got the most adoring look I had had all week.
Half an hour later, I was standing beneath the orange motorway lighting with my thumb out hoping for a London-bound lorry. Finding a Yank by the roadside in darkest Yorkshire was entertaining enough, but as the night wore on and I climbed into my fourth truck, I started embellishing the tale in order to keep both the drivers and myself awake. Dawn found me on the A1 just north of London
The Watersons and Annie Briggs were the superstars. The former were a real family: two sisters, a brother and a cousin with the rich blend that comes only from genetically matched vocal cords (Bee Gees, Carter Family, Everly Brothers, Crowded House, for example). With rough manners and strong Yorkshire accents, they effortlessly communicated authenticity, yet their harmonies drew as much from their own rich imaginations as from any deep-rooted Yorkshire tradition. Within a couple of years of their first appearances, they were the most popular turn on the folk club circuit. I was enthralled by Norma Waterson’s voice: it had the soulfulness of a gospel singer’s, yet was devoid of any Afro-American phrasing or texture. She wasn’t a conventional beauty, but I found her alluring.
Annie Briggs looked a bit like Patti Smith, with the same slim build, dishevelled brown hair and stubborn stare. She hitch-hiked to gigs and would disappear for weeks at a time. Her ‘act’ consisted of ancient ballads sung starkly with no accompaniment. She and Bert Jansch represented the tortured-genius category in the British folk world, but Annie seemed uncontrived, while I was never sure about Bert. She had no stage patter and in company was shy to the point of invisibility. (Sandy Denny’s ‘The Pond And The Stream’ conveys an awed impression of Briggs.) Like Smith, she retired in her prime to raise a family, then reappeared in the ’90s, powers intact. But in contrast to Patti’s reverentially awaited comeback, when Annie returned there were few venues or audiences for an unaccompanied ballad singer.
My brother and I spent a week after Padstow driving around the West Country. On one occasion we arrived at a medieval Welsh landmark called Tretower Court just as it was closing. The caretaker was so pleased to have foreign visitors that he gave us a private hour-long tour of the building. Aside from his explanation of the advantages of molten lead over boiling oil for scalding attackers either side of a battering ram (you can peel it off the bodies and reuse it), the most memorable moment was coming upon the huge door to the dining room. Gigantic oak beams were held together by three iron cross-bars. Two were beautifully smooth while the third was badly rusted. No need to guess which were forged in the twelfth century and which came from a modern foundry.
Further inspired by a Watersons recording session in Bill’s kitchen, I set off for Hull, where the three siblings lived together in a crowded flat. I think Norma was more bemused than excited by my attentions, but I spent a happy week with her, surrounded by song. She had warned me of her ‘serious’ boyfriend but refused to reveal more than that he was a singer who travelled a lot. One night, just before closing at the group’s folk club in the Ring o’ Bells pub, a handsome and well-known singer walked in unannounced and I saw the blood drain from Norma’s face. I whispered to her to give me a front-door key and a fifteen-minute head start and I would be on the road before they got back. I got the most adoring look I had had all week.
Half an hour later, I was standing beneath the orange motorway lighting with my thumb out hoping for a London-bound lorry. Finding a Yank by the roadside in darkest Yorkshire was entertaining enough, but as the night wore on and I climbed into my fourth truck, I started embellishing the tale in order to keep both the drivers and myself awake. Dawn found me on the A1 just north of London
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