Gary Hall’s Weblog

If you are to have any success writing the perfect English folk song in this day and age, your song will need to be directed at a specific target audience - which we refer to in the trade as the bushy beards, beer bellies and bad breath brigade. These are the kind of people who run folk clubs so they can get up for a few numbers during the floor spot each week and strut their bumptious stuff in alluring Arran knit wear and come to bed hiking boots, still think booing Dylan for going electric was a good call and despise any songwriter that is young, talented and struggling to drag the true spirit of folk music in to the twenty-first century.

Ok, now you know the level of common denominator you should be trying to appeal to, if you are still intent on having a crack at writing the perfect English folk song, you will need to adhere rigidly to the four following rules:

1) The song should possess the minimum amount of chords, so that the more musical members of your target audience stand a chance of learning how to play it.

2) The melody of the song must be extremely repetitive so that people who are pissed on real ale will still be able to slur along.

3) The rhythm and tempo of the song will need to be ‘half-hay friendly’ so that Morris dancers can shake their asses to it.

4) The lyrical content of your composition must be written in a faux Olde English style, tell a story about a character of little relevance to anyone in today’s society (such as a milk maid, highway man or pirate) and be slightly saucy and comical in a wink, wink, nudge, nudge say no more kind of way. The addition of a supernatural element is also a welcome addition.

Here is an example of a set of lyrics I prepared earlier, featuring a selection of the essential ingredients mentioned above:

Heathen Hotpot

Come gather round childer and lend us an ear
For a cautionary tale about culinary cheer
Based on a recipe by the milkmaid of doom
Who killed highwaymen and pirates with the food on her spoon

It tasted so good that no man could resist
Filled with mutton as tender as a bloody big cyst
With tatties and onions and a secret addition
Her dish became legend for its taste and nutrition

But all those that ate it would soon pass away
Writhing in pain and ruing the day
That they ever set eyes on the milkmaid of doom
And tucked into that hotpot from off of her spoon

For the milkmaid of doom were a witch in disguise
Who danced with the devil at full moon and high tide
It’s no wonder her hotpot were such a big hit
With Satan the caterer doing his bit

So the moral of this story is simple and plain
Never trust heathens in the catering game
Because the secret addition that folk thought were kidney
Was arsenic soaked sheep shit - try saying that line quickly

So long as you stick to these rules, and resist any urges you may get to breathe new life into this once highly regarded, yet now - thanks to these bodhran bashing bigots - mainly ridiculed art form, your efforts should reap rich rewards.

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