Perhaps now more than ever in the post-war period, we need ways of seeing past the things which divide us as a species, in order to reveal our common humanity. Singing in a group is one of those ways. It’s a universal experience – all humans do it, and always have done, as a way of building bonds of trust and mutuality.Read More
Last Chance to Dance is crafted with a toe-tapping nudge of anti-globalisation, anti-privatisation, anti-zero hours and pro-Corbyn message; their river of music has the rhythm of the earth in its boots.Read More
Linus Paul famously said, “the best way to have a good idea is to have a lot of ideas.” The same applies with song-writing: the best way to write a good song is to write more songs. But new songs need somewhere to be heard...Read More
The island is just awakening from its annual slumber, the green fuse of spring igniting and exploding through the crust of fallen leaves. The wind is strong, and the views of Georgian Bay and the start of the 30,000 Islands are awesome and inspiring.Read More
"If there ever is going to be healing, first there has to remembering, and then grieving, so that there then can be forgiving. There has to be knowledge and understanding." (Sinead O'Connor 1994)Read More
Participation in active music-making can be a way of enacting human rights which individuals or groups of people might be otherwise deprived of, including the right to be ‘free and equal in dignity’, to experience a ‘spirit of brotherhood’, to be part of a ‘family’, and to enjoy ‘rest and leisure’ (United Nations 1948).Read More
how do we actually know the value of music? Is the experience generated through our senses enough? How arts and culture are experienced may be essential to understanding their value, but is it sufficient? I suggest not.Read More
I’m hugely grateful to Lee Higgins, Jo Gibson and Ruth Currie at the International Centre for Community Music (ICCM) at York St. John university for the opportunity to give the keynote speech at the ICCM student research conference yesterday. The theme I spoke on was ‘libraries gave us power’ (thanks again to Manic Street Preachers), reflecting on my own research journey and what it’s like ‘coming out the other side’. I really enjoyed the opportunity to draw together a number of threads of my current thoughts about Community Music (CM). it’s exciting to be part of an international discourse about music, and hopefully making a positive contribution about what the purpose and value of music is in a complex and ever-changing world. Without getting overtly political, I manage to squeeze in some references to the alarming mobilisation of identities revealed in the recent Brexit and Trump shenanigans, and ask whether making music together can be one way of building bridges between us a species. Thanks to everyone who was there for a lively day of debate and dialogue, especially our students and graduates who did a fantastic job of demonstrating the benefit of studying CM at HE.
The practices of Community Music (CM) have tended to evolve in very practical ways, amongst communities of practitioners and their communities of participants (Camlin 2015b, p.236). Because of this, developing a ‘theory’ of CM practice through research has been elusive, and the endeavour of doing so viewed with suspicion by some of its practitioners. However, reflecting on my own experiences of developing a professional praxis - building a critical understanding of my own practice through doctoral study – I’m inclined to think that this kind of praxial development can help establish CM as a ’polyphonic truth’ within the Academy. There are a number of reasons for wishing to do so; as well as increasing the value of CM’s diverse practices as cultural capital, it also helps give our field more of a voice in current debate. The emergent turn in cultural policy toward more sophisticated methods of understanding cultural value (Crossick & Kaszynska 2016), participation and ‘everyday creativity’ (Hunter et al. 2016) speaks directly to CM practices, and it is important that as a field, we are able to contribute to and inform the shape of this discourse from a position of confidence and authority.
One way of seeing the fundamental changes to the field of music - and consequently music education - brought about in recent years by the transformation of music’s economic value through online distribution, is that of a ‘hysteresis’ (Bourdieu 1977, p.83; Hardy 2008, pp.126–144), where there is a time lag between changes in the field, and changes in the ‘habitus’ of the field’s occupants. However, while this ‘hysteresis’ is not confined to the field of music, building a critical understanding of what happens to our field as it undergoes the radical transformations it is currently experiencing, will potentially give us useful insights into our future cultural lives. The massive social, political, economic, environmental, cultural and technological transformations currently disrupting human experience across the globe will almost certainly increase in complexity over time, and what ‘music’ means to citizens thirty years hence is likely to be radically different to what it meant to citizens thirty years ago.
If we are to develop a critical understanding of music – and music education – practices in such a rapidly changing cultural landscape, the role of the musician-as-researcher is therefore one to be encouraged. As an emergent voice in the Academy, CM has a great deal to offer this discourse, because its practices are broadly emancipatory, inclusive and accessible, all of which are key to understanding the future role and value of music in society.
Angie and I set off today on our familiar ‘circuit’ on the tandem - from home down the C2C cycle path to Egremont, then back up the glorious Ennerdale valley, the land of my ancestors. It’s been one of those hot August days that feels like it’s an everyday occurrence when it’s happening, but that you yearn for all the rest of the year once the memory of heat prods you into acknowledging that those few days in August? Remember those? That was the summer.
We called in at Egremont cemetery on our way past, not something we do that often, although we often shout ‘hello!’ over the cemetery wall in case Nana and Granda are listening out for us. Bizarrely, it’s twenty years since we buried my Granda Jon here, next to my Nana Mary who’d died two years previously. Twenty Years is a lifetime in itself. I’m not sure what they’d make of me now. At least I don’t have long hair any more. “Unnatural”, Nana used to say. When I tied it up in a ponytail to avoid her scorn, it was, “tidy. But unnatural.” I don’t have any hair any more.
Egremont isn’t Ennerdale, but you can see it from Castle Croft and Orgill, where Mary and her sister Janie finished their days. Or if you can’t quite see it, you know it’s there. Mary and Janie’s journeys took them down the valley to the nearest town, where they pretty much stayed. Every corner of every street contains a part of them - the cut-through to the Red Gra, the Cons Club, the bank - they were as much the town as the town was them.
Cycling back up Ennerdale, we stopped at the churchyard where Janie and ‘Mother’ Pearson are buried, past the tiny school where they all went as children, come rain or shine. As we pushed up the two miles from Ennerdale Bridge to Croasdale where the family lived back then, I thought about the long trudge for them to and from school each day, no bus to help them on their way. Coming up the hill beyond Wits’ End Cottage - my ancestral home, long-since sold into private hands rather than tenanted - I remembered Janie telling me about her weekly 10-mile slog on a pushbike with no gears from Croasdale to Turner How in Lorton where she was ‘in service’. Coming through Lamplugh back then meant avoiding the kids who’d come out and shout abuse - none of that these days.
My grandparents’ generation lived as quiet a life as they could by the time I met them - no surprises, nothing to further shake their souls beyond what two world wars had wrought upon them. Content to be content, lives contained by and held within as familiar and predictable a routine as could be hoped for. They planted their feet all over the rich earth around them, and told stories, shared jokes, sang songs to keep the darkness at bay. As a kid, I used to think that life here was slow, that nothing ever happened, that it was a long way from the bright lights, never realising that that was the point. I know that if I ever meet them again - in some half-waking dream, or a chance encounter between the worlds, we’ll look at each other and be full of a sort of aching pride: them for a future they could never have imagined; me for a past I could never have shared. This valley especially is full of my ancestors - I can barely turn a corner without bumping into them. To be honest, it’s probably one of the reasons I moved back here.
Mary, Janie and their sister Annie may all have shuffled off this mortal coil now, but each have descendants living no more than three miles from the cottage in Croasdale where they all grew up together. Today, we cycled past a signpost for the house that Annie’s daughter moved back to when she retired. We hurtled past Janie’s son’s cottage in the quiet hamlet down from The Leaps, where the only nuisance is the cyclists who come hurtling past. And then there’s me. All connected, all part of the same ever-unravelling story.
So, when I try to make sense of this whole ‘being human’ thing, I inevitably ask myself the question, ‘who am I?’, and I invariably think of all the people who came before me - characters in this story that started long before I was conceived. A long line of human beings each dreaming of a future they would never see. One of the things I am is a song-writer - I’ve written hundreds of songs, and I have hundreds more in the pipeline waiting for a breath or a spark to animate them - but really I only have one song to sing, and it’s the only song that any of us ever really sing. It’s the song that tells the story of where we came from and where we ended up. Being human is all about the bit in the middle.