Ö÷²¥´óÐã

I read a long article in the Observer Review recently which warmed the old cockles somewhat. Written by Mark Kermode, the film critic, it extolled the virtues of a branch of the musical tree which many of us swung on in our musical kindergarten days - .

Like many kids in the fifties and sixties I cut my eye teeth on a cheap piece of Japanese plywood and some brass wire, sitting in our front room with the Play In A Day book, working my way through Tom Dooley and Rock Island Line, fingers bleeding and vocal chords shredded. My mother turned Two-Way Family Favourites up full blast to drown out what sounded like her first-born being stretched on the rack. Three chords, a load of Brylcreem drawing my hair up into a quiff and a Manchester/American accent singing songs about murder, booze and railway disasters. Heady days.

A dozen years later I was lead singer and blues harp player in the Eddison Bell Spasm Band with three other lads: Stephan on jug, John on Guitar and Dave on washboard. We played everything from Jesu Joy Of Man's Desiring to What's That Tastes Like Gravy?, though not at the same speed.

It warmed my heart when, a few years ago, I watched the great celebration procession at and saw Dave our old washboard player, marching along dressed as a Mafioso playing his washboard with one of Morris Dancing's more esoteric teams.Ìý

Skiffle, folk and anarchy - they go together well somehow.

Ìý

*ÌýÌý

Ìý

Ìý