A lot has happened since Shirley Collins played the Barbican back in February 2017. Both politically and personally. While that gig had the air of a celebration (I described it at the time as "a bit like an episode of This Is Your Life") with special guests, a fuller band, and all the pomp and circumstance the Barbican infers, last week at the Roundhouse saw a much more low-key performance. While it, perhaps, wasn't quite as memorable evening, it was, it's probably fair to say, a more honest, more folkier event.
Of course, there's always the possibility that my slightly lukewarm appraisal of this major talent and her fantastic songs is tempered by the fact that my evening was fueled by nothing more powerful than chocolate ice cream! Apart from the tasty halloumi burger and fries in the delightful Camden branch of Mildreds where I met my gig companions Mark and Dane beforehand.
It was the first time Shirley had appeared at the Roundhouse since a performance with Deep Purple and The Edgar Broughton Band fifty years ago, Shirley delighted in telling of the bemused faces of many of the heavy rock fans in the audience faced with Shirley, and her sister Dolly's, rendering of a selection of folk favourites.
Well, a lot may have changed in two years - but in fifty it seems not so much. Because this gig was, of course, an evening's rendering of folk favourites. After Rattle of the Stovepipe's introductory set of old American tunes, spoon playing, and musicianship so proficient it belies the slightly befuddled expressions of the slightly elderly gentleman playing it, it was time for Shirley, her compere Pip Barnes, Ossian Brown and his hurdy-gurdy, Ian Kearey, Dave Arthur, and Steve Coooper (the latter two both members of the aforesaid Rattle of the Stovepipe) to take the stage...
...and it's that hurdy-gurdy that we first hear. Setting a mounrful tone that will last for the next hour or so on The Split Ash Tree, we're led through a set of tunes from Lodestar and elsewhere in Shirley's career but it's noticeable that, at eighty-three years of age, she's delegating occasional vocals to some of the guys in the band this time.
It's understandable, I'd probably rather be tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa should I reach that age, but it does rather suggest her return to live music may not last much longer. That's a real pity because when Shirley does sing, as in the broken hearted Pretty Polly or the sparse Death and the Lady's tale of a "poor distressed maid", a "tombstone", and the "cold earthen clay", she's still in fine voice. In fact, any weakness in the voice proves, oddly, to be a strength. These are songs that have been lived and felt and, therefore, it needs a voice that has lived and felt to do them justice.
When Glen Redman comes on stage to do some very energetic, almost aggressive, morris dancing and Shirley blows him a little kiss, it's a sweet moment but, in some ways, it's a reminder that the Shirley Collins live experience has been downsized. At the Roundhouse we were treated to an entire morris (and a molly) team.
Last week's gig worked better during the occasions Shirley and the band stuck to the songs. Songs like Barbara Allen which are very much Shirley's meat and drink. Haunting reflections of love lost and, yes, lovers lost. Lost to war, lost to rivals, and, yes, lost to death. If there was a little something missing from this performance it didn't need to be covered up (and it rarely was - witness Shirley, at one point, forgetting her words and having a sweet laugh about it) but instead made a focal point. The Barbican gig may have been a great one, this was merely a very good one. That's enough sometimes.
Thanks to Mark for sorting the tickets for this gig and to him and Dane for the company. Was nice to bump into Rachel as well.
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