Sons of Loki

I nearly break my newfound vegetarianism at the first hurdle. At the brand new temporary Co-op – new for this year – I briefly switch from Cheese Ploughmans sandwich to Ham Salad sandwich. Ham being made of pig, of course. I realise soon enough, and switch back – checking that my Mediterranean Tomato and Paprika crisps are, indeed, vegetarian friendly. And the milk? Am I to become vegan? I think not, I decide, thinking of all the cheese and milk that will then be denied to me.
I won’t be a serious vegetarian, I have decided. If I have the choice, I will always opt for vegetarian, never choose meat – but if it’s inconvenient – or just rude – or if I want to try sannakji or it’s some kind of rare experience that necessitates eating meat – then maybe. I am reminded of the Canadian single mother whom I met at a house party a couple of years ago: she was a vegetarian, but she hunted and ate her own meat in the Canadian forests. “I would never eat the crap you buy from supermarkets,” she told me. Despite the passive-aggressive attack on my eating habits, I had to agree that there was a certain logic in denying the meat-industrial complex your money and custom while enjoying the fruits of your wild-meat hunting labours.

It all came from when I bought a burger from the Blue Moon stall – in the same place as it always is, next to the rare breeds burger stall, across from the Greek halloumi stall – things NEVER change at Cambridge and everything is right back here in its rightful place in GPS-exact coordinates, from the arena to the beer tent to Hobgoblin Music and The Music Room – fighting their never-ending battle from either side of the concession tent – to the lemonade and hot nuts stall, to the club tent and the wicker man and the patch of mud next to the Yorkshire Pudding van.
Eating my burger, when my dad asked if it was vegetarian. “I suppose it is,” I replied. “Perhaps I will become a vegetarian this weekend.”

“The best people are,” said another man at the same table, in sunglasses and canvas hat. We chatted for a while, in that offhand way that people do at Cambridge. Everyone here is your friend – well, except the space hogs, or the gormless dude in the sunglasses and the Latitude t-shirt and the wooly hat with those dangly bits you wrap around your chin – alright, it was cool in January, but it’s July, friend – and the girls with Amy Winehouse eyeliner and backcombed hair – darling, if have the time to make your hair look that elegantly dishevelled, then you probably shouldn’t be here. But apart from those berks, everyone is cool. The stacks of unbought Mails and Telegraphs pile up by the newsagents. Random conversation breaks out over someone’s amusing hat or collection of badges. Everyone apologises for the smallest infringement. Children run about in that way children do.

We kicked off at the club tent, where folk legends The Waterson Family were talking to the audience about their part in the history of modern folk and the 60s revival. Norma, matriarch, felt that for folk to survive it needs an infusion of young blood and young people starting their own folk clubs, which just isn’t happening. I looked into joining a folk club in Leeds, but the prospect of playing to a roomful of over 60s did not entirely appeal, and it seemed that Norma shared that view. “It’s not to be pickled, this music,” said guitar master Martin Simpson, who had dropped in. “It’s alive.” I started to wonder about starting my own folk club, if no one else would. But it’s a big effort, to gather people, to advertise and organise. It can be done, of course. Perhaps if we really do start a folk band in Tokyo, Fran and Ella and I, then we can start a folk society at Leeds (assuming there isn’t one already).

That’s something I’ve always wanted to do, be part of folk music rather than just a spectator. You see folk bands here, from the youngest upstarts to the oldest legends, and they have one thing in common: they’re always smiling, giving each other looks on stage that say “I am loving this.” I want to experience that.

The music began with Genticorum from Quebec. They played in China to packed auditoriums of folk who perhaps had never even heard French before, they told us, and they were all, according to the lead fellow, shocked by the foot-stomping guitarist’s pants – a bizarre billowing Burberry pair.

They play old style reels, but in a “much drunker state of mind”.

Then a band of Scottish lasses – The Shee, solid folk with an exciting spin on things courtesy of tap-dancing Amy and her clogs: just something you wouldn’t get anywhere else. And reggae/ folk fusion from Edward II, who had me going “Ohhh it’s them” when they launched into their hit “Night Nurse” (something that happens surprisingly often at Cambridge, like when I realised that k.d. lang is the one who sang “Constant Craving”).


From rootsy reggae to English folk to ska, so very seamlessly, as if to make you wonder: is this even the same band?

The Waterson Family came on, almost feeling like old friends. I’ve never seen them before, apart from Eliza Carthy’s regular appearances at Cambridge, but I knew them from reputation (after all, they played the very first Festival, way back in 197-). “That last song we picked up from a sheepdog trainer,” explained Martin Carthy (a superb folk guitarist in his own right, incidentally). A pause. “Come to think of it, he was probably a shepherd at some point, too.” Laughter from the crowd. “I think you make it up as you go along,” said his wife, Norma.

It’s a wonderful atmosphere on stage, quick-witted banter between family and friends who have been playing together for decades. “Those were the good old days,” said Norma at one point, “just after the war.” Quick as a flash, her aging brother cut in: “Which war was that?” He went on to sing his own little song about the rise of automatic drinks machines: ending with the line “They’ll have to find some robots / Who will drink their fucking tea!” Then Susan Tedeschi does a cover of “Spanish Castle Magic”, complete with Hendrixian guitar solo by the lady herself. Oh, this is really too good.