The Last Gin

Gin Trap Folk ran every last Tuesday of the month from September 2010 until January 2015. It was hosted by Steve Knowles - the singing Landlord - and Cindy,  seen here performing their duet 'What A Wonderful World' (and it certainly was)

 

 

 



and managed throughout with unfailing benign aplomb by Adrian Tebbutt (white sweater and folk beard below)

 

 

Perhaps prime amongst its unique features were the sing-arounds and shanties often led by Adrian, 'Jolly' Roger and Katie Fullilove's Fried Pirates, pictured here supporting yet another 'Gin Trap Virgin'

 

 

Nothing could stop this juggernaut of a folk club - except the closure of the pub - and in fact not even that as 'Gin Trap Folk' will phoenix from the winter chill at The Black Horse Castle Rising on Tuesday February 24th. Same time and vibe, different place. 

 

The Gin Trap song - words by this blogster; music by Show of Hands, performed by the Fried Pirates.

Sixteen silly seasons, four years at the Gin,

Forty eight nights gathered/ to play and laugh and sing

Pirates Jolly Roger, Adrian and Kate

Steve the Singing Landlord; Phil and Al his mate.

Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

        Em                                        G

      Thanks for all you’ve given, You gave more than enough

            D                                      G

      We spent the time together, In laughter and in love

         Em                                G                       D

      Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

Sitting by the fireplace

Digging every tune:

Robin like an Eagle

Above a cliff in June,

Beatle Al who ‘Can’t Do That’

But does - and makes it rock;

Dave who makes the banjo dance

Like a Grandfather clock.

Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

        Em                                        G

      Thanks for all you’ve given, You gave more than enough

            D                                      G

      We spent the time together, In laughter and in love

         Em                                G                       D

      Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

Let’s not forget the Virgins,

You know we’ve had a few,

Some Sue-i-tably violet

Some shouting shocking blue;

You don’t forget your First Time,

We all were virgins once:

Sick weeks anticipating,

Nine after-glowing months.

Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

        Em                                        G

      Thanks for all you’ve given, You gave more than enough

            D                                      G

      We spent the time together, In laughter and in love

         Em                                G                       D

      Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

The whole pub singing shanties,

An England not quite gone,

The mental chiming Christmas bells,

The drones and harps and trumps and gongs,

The instruments unheard of,

The many shapes and cries

Big Jim and Long Tall Vince and Joan

‘A woman half his size.’

Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

        Em                                        G

      Thanks for all you’ve given, You gave more than enough

            D                                      G

      We spent the time together, In laughter and in love

         Em                                G                       D

      Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

There’s Lou Reed Al, Paul Simon Dave;

There’s Gifted, Old and White;

The list of course is endless

But songs can’t last all night;

There’s teenage Billie Holidays

Dave’s vintage real ale folk;

And there’s you we’ve failed to mention…(call your name here)

And there’s Mike, our Prior bloke!

 Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

        Em                                        G

      Thanks for all you’ve given, You gave more than enough

            D                                      G

      We spent the time together, In laughter and in love

         Em                                G                       D

      Thank you all for coming, Thanks for turning up

Back here in the old place

I hope I still belong

Less of where I’m heading

And more of where I’m from

I burned too many bridges

It’s time to make amends

Raise a glass to all that’s past

To my family and my friends.

 

 



 

Mike Prior 

Lynn and Terry

Peter Smith and Son

 

Half the audience enjoying Crooning Al

(the other half of the audience is round the bend) 

Bluegrass Al

Crooning Al

Lynn of Wootton

Warwick Jones premiering 'The Ballad of Turnip Townshend'

Vince

David

Roy

John Fincher of London

 

 Me telling 'Our Long Tall Island Story'

 

Thanks to Mrs Warwick for the pix

 

The Gin Trap Folk Club September 2010-January 2015



Fiddlers' Hill Binham

From the Bronze Age to the Ballad Age was a very creative and collective event. It started with a new ballad written by me and Adrian Tebbutt. It led to the formation of a lively new folk band, The Fried Pirates, who now have their own website and itinerary - and to many other creative partnerships, books, songs, dramas and radio concerts featuring the participants for the rest of the year, and also to my new folk ballad about Binham Priory (below) which was retrospectively commissioned and is now part of Binham PDC's guided tours.

The Ballad of Fiddlers Hill

Ye feasters up on Fiddler’s Hill

Where crossroads meet the harrow

Take care you don’t disturb the sleeping

Bronze Age burial barrow.

 

O shun this ground between dusk and dawn

Or live a dreadful tale

Of a Black Monk at the tunnel’s mouth

To turn your red lips pale.

 

Don’t follow the fiddler and his dog

To Walsingham under the hill

To lay the foul Benedictine ghost:

That fiddler lays there still.

 

“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler

To the cheering local crowd,

“Stamp time and follow my tune above,

For I play both brave and loud.”

 

And so he fiddled and so they stamped

His three mile course underground

But his fiddle stopped under Fiddler’s Hill

In the silence of the mound.

 

Each dared the next down the tunnel’s mouth

But none would dare themselves

And at midnight the fiddler’s dog emerged

Like a hound bewitched by the elves.

 

His tail thrust down between his legs,

His frame a shivering wrack,

He howled and pined at the dreadful hole

But his master never came back.

 

“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler

To the cheering local crowd,

“Stamp time and follow my tune above,

For I play both brave and loud.”

 

A violent storm drove everyone home

And when they awoke from sleep

The entrance was gone, the fiddler too,

Into a Nameless Deep.

 

The moral of this, and it’s old as the hill,

Is that mounds aren’t for tunnelling,

If a grave tune plucks the strings of your heart,

Keep the devil under your chin.

 

In this county of beet and barley and beer,

This county of fish and farrow,

There’s folk you can trust, there’s London folk,

And there’s folk who come out of a barrow.

 

“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler

And half his boast came true,

“Stamp time and follow my tune above!”

But he lost them half way through.

© Gareth Calway 2011

Dissolution Row: The Ballad of Binham Priory

Call their names from the rubble: Alexander de Langley,
Mad as a scholar – ‘here’.
William de Somerton, William Dyxwell,
Priors and bad boys - ‘here.’

A mad monk in solitary’s dungeon-chains,
Tortured to brake his devil;
Alchemy funded by holy sales,
Sieges, arrests and trouble;

Monks eating bran and drinking rain
Till King John raised the siege;
A wanderlust prior, administ-truant,
Deposed and then reprieved.

As the leaves of summer break in spring
From forest, field and tree
So let the spirit’s freedom burst
From the walls of this Priory.

The peasants were revolting here
In 1381
When Master Lister led the charge
And derring does were done.

‘Enough!’ he cried, ‘of fattened bishops
Fed on Priory rolls,
Enough of tenants, rents and lords
And serfdom’s heavy loads.’

‘I’ll join that fight!’ said Binham John Lister
To his name-sake of Felmingham
George whose Norfolk Peasant Spring
Brought mayhem into Binham.

‘As the leaves of summer break in spring
From forest, field and tree
So let the spirit’s freedom burst
From the walls of this Priory!’

In Norwich, the Bishop Dispenser caught wind
Of the peasants’ merry fire,
And the Fightin’ Bishop’s fist of stone
Killed it with his ire.

‘Lister of Felmingham, for sins against
Your betters and your King,
I’ll have your guts for my Bishop’s garter
And the serfs can kiss my ring.’

‘You can have my neck and guts’ said Lister
But my soul flies straight to heaven
When Adam delved and Eve span, ‘lord’,
What rents were recked in Eden?

‘As the leaves of summer break in spring
From forest, field and tree
So let the spirit’s freedom burst
From the walls of this Priory.’

The old order stood another six generations,
A flint face carved in art
Then Lister’s spirit came back to haunt
The Priory’s stony heart:

He laughed as King Henry’s Inspectors Called,
‘Found fault’ with the Priory rolls,
‘Down with these rood screens, saints and crowns
And idol Gods on poles;

‘Whitewash these saints from the walls of the nave,
A clear new page for the Word,
Your bishops’ bank is ruined now
There are no serfs to herd!

‘As the leaves of summer break in spring
From forest, field and tree
So let the spirit’s freedom burst
From the walls of this Priory.’

This high Notre Dame of Norfolk shrunk
To a nave-sized Parish Church,
Abandoned wings sold off for stone
To men scarce more than serfs

But when Paston quarried the haunted pile
To build a house in the grounds,
A wall killed a workman and none to this day
Will build in Priory bounds.

Three miles to the West, Roman relics and smoke
Rise again from Celtic Earth
Like the re-appeared saints whose rooted gaze
Reclaim the walls of this church.

As the leaves of summer break in spring
From forest, field and tree
So let the spirit’s freedom burst
From the walls of this Priory.

Let the holy rain of autumn fall
From the solitary tree
And the grass grow wild and the four winds blow
Through the grounds of this Priory.

© Gareth Calway 2012


From The Bronze Age To The Ballad Age (original Press release of the event)

Bronze Age burial mound plays host to new music and art

A fortunate break in the weather allowed a long-planned collaboration between archaeologists, artists and musicians to finally come to fruition at Fiddler’s Hill, a prehistoric barrow mound on the boundary between the parishes of Binham and Warham in North Norfolk, on the afternoon of 8 July.

From the Bronze Age to the Ballad Age: Digging the Folk Roots of Norfolk was the brainchild of West Norfolk poet and author Gareth Calway. Gareth had been asked by folk musician Adrian Tebbutt to write a lyric about the legend of Fiddler’s Hill which he could set to music as a ballad.

The evocatively-named Fiddler’s Hill was recently acquired by the Norfolk Archaeological Trust and is now open to the public daily, free of charge. Its name comes from a local legend which tells how a tunnel once ran from Walsingham to Binham Priory. A brave fiddler named Jimmy Griggs entered with his dog, Trap, while others followed his music above ground. But silence fell as their course drew near to the mound and the fiddler was never seen again. People feared that the ghostly Black Monk had taken Jimmy and his dog, and henceforth the barrow was known as Fiddler’s Hill.

Time passed and the project grew as other people became involved: musicians, poets, an actor, a performance artist and a local prehistorian. All of them were fascinated by different aspects of the 4000-year-old burial mound. Their work together culminated not only in a live art event on the mound itself but also a public concert at Binham Memorial Hall that same evening. This allowed a longer programme celebrating different aspects of North Norfolk’s history and folklore to be presented.

On the mound, under skies that threatened rain, folk music trio The Fried Pirates (Adrian Tebbutt, Roger Partridge, Katy Fullilove) gave the first public performance of The Ballad of Fiddler’s Hill, which features the refrain:

‘I will play my way’, cried the jolly fiddler
To the cheering local crowd,
‘Stamp time and follow my tune above
For I play both brave and loud.’

In the lead-up to this big moment, Reepham prehistorian Trevor Ashwin recounted the Fiddler’s Hill legend and gave a short history of the mound, and Gareth Calway chanted two of his poems - chosen to relate to the site and the occasion - The Ballad of Fiddler’s Hill and the Iceni Chorus from his performance-poem Boudicca. Artist Imogen Ashwin had devised a new site specific performance piece, Bridge, which took place on the burial mound itself, accompanied by Katy Fullilove’s haunting lone fiddle.

That evening, the performers played to a full house at Binham Memorial Hall, with sets by The Fried Pirates and by singer/songwriter Mark Fawcett who was mesmerising as he performed Norfolk-themed historical ballads co-written for the event with Gareth Calway. Trevor Ashwin gave an illustrated talk on the prehistory of Binham and surrounding area and Imogen Ashwin showed a digital projection based on her performance piece Bridge accompanied live by Katy Fullilove’s solo fiddle. Gareth Calway and actor Dawn Finnerty brought the house down with a vibrant two-person performance of Gareth's drama Boudicca - ‘ the punk version of what happened in AD 61’! The duo also brought their magic to a ‘synchronised’ reading of Wood Dalling poet Kay Riggs’ English Heritage, a poem about Oxnead Hall.

The evening had commenced with the chanted lyrics of The Ballad of Fiddler’s Hill, and the ‘journey’ was brought to a close by The Fried Pirates’ performance of the ballad complete with its haunting tune.

Both events were filmed by Emma 'Captain' Withington, the hill event in an artful black and white collage.