Folkicious
So I go to the Green Man festival with Helga and Copacub and gang.
One night after a day’s eclectic set of entertainment from an electric one-man banjo band to black and white slap-stick celluloid played to pianoed Mozart to painfully exquisite songs of forgotten wars, past down from soul to soul over the reaches of time; we go back our camp and Helga picks up her guitar and starts to sing.
After a while, when I’d dosed into a satisfied slumber listening to her melodious strumming, a face emerged from the gloom, lit up from underneath by the candles we were sat around.
“What time are you thinking of playing to?” it said.
“I am not planning to stop at all!” Helga replied, her ember eyes still burning red with rage and passion of the evening and the song she had been singing just moments before.
“Can you just keep it down?”
“Yeah… we will keep it down!” The crowd said hoping to douse the situation.
“No! I want her to say it – her playing the music - her singing!!” the face said getting uglier by the word.
“No! I will not!” Helga muttered under her breath.
“Say it – your music is shit and I don’t want to hear it anymore!”
Suddenly the touch-paper was lit.
“Who do you think, the fuck, you are, telling me you don’t like my music? I don’t like your shit haircut; I don’t like your ugly face. I think they are offensive. Why don’t you shut them up!”
“Yeah – man – this is a folk festival – what are you doing, complaining about acoustic music being played around a camp in a traditional folk style, re-introducing codes of intercourse and our own personal emotional responsive adjustments to life in some way?” the crowd said in unison.
As the demon saw her attempted tyranny fade she disappeared into the night.
It is always good to have Helga around.
One night after a day’s eclectic set of entertainment from an electric one-man banjo band to black and white slap-stick celluloid played to pianoed Mozart to painfully exquisite songs of forgotten wars, past down from soul to soul over the reaches of time; we go back our camp and Helga picks up her guitar and starts to sing.
After a while, when I’d dosed into a satisfied slumber listening to her melodious strumming, a face emerged from the gloom, lit up from underneath by the candles we were sat around.
“What time are you thinking of playing to?” it said.
“I am not planning to stop at all!” Helga replied, her ember eyes still burning red with rage and passion of the evening and the song she had been singing just moments before.
“Can you just keep it down?”
“Yeah… we will keep it down!” The crowd said hoping to douse the situation.
“No! I want her to say it – her playing the music - her singing!!” the face said getting uglier by the word.
“No! I will not!” Helga muttered under her breath.
“Say it – your music is shit and I don’t want to hear it anymore!”
Suddenly the touch-paper was lit.
“Who do you think, the fuck, you are, telling me you don’t like my music? I don’t like your shit haircut; I don’t like your ugly face. I think they are offensive. Why don’t you shut them up!”
“Yeah – man – this is a folk festival – what are you doing, complaining about acoustic music being played around a camp in a traditional folk style, re-introducing codes of intercourse and our own personal emotional responsive adjustments to life in some way?” the crowd said in unison.
As the demon saw her attempted tyranny fade she disappeared into the night.
It is always good to have Helga around.
posted by h at
11:04 pm
2 Comments:
That statement in unison is an unassailable obstacle for the misanthrope who interjected upon your proceedings.
How can one argue against such lucid proof of the binding power of folk.
For that is why it is so named.
Richard Wilson should keep his aging sticky beak out of the affairs of others.
By
Ultra Toast Mosha God, at 10:16 am
I agree with the god of mushy toast,(I think) the elongated chorus in unison marks this out as great, and possibly even recordbreaking. The folk are getting wordy, the folk have learned to read, and the folk have been to university. We won't be fooled again.
By
bloggin the Question, at 11:25 am
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