The Tale of Amancay and Quintral

The Vuriloche peoples have it that to give another an amancay flower is to offer them your heart. This belief comes from a very old legend; read on.

Amancay (Alstroemeria aurea)

In time long gone by a Vuriloche clan lived near a place called Ten-Ten Mahuida. On maps today you will find it as Thunder Mountain.

The chief of this clan had a young son called Quintral. He was strong, brave and good-looking, and there was no girl in the valley, nor in the neighbouring valleys, who didn’t sigh when he pased, or tremble at the sound of his voice.

Quintral could have had any girl in the region to be his, but although no one else knew, he was desperately in love with a poor girl named Amancay, though he kept quiet about this as he feared that his father would never let him marry a girl from such a humble family.

What young Quintral never imagined in his wildest dreams was that Amancay was also hopelessly in love with him, but she had never said a word to anyone because she thought a future chief like Quintral could never love a humble girl like her.

This undeclared love was one day to be put to the test. A violent fever broke out in the valley, and soon half of the clan was dead or dying. Many of those who had escaped the deadly disease had deserted the village in fear of their lives.

Quintral was one of the first to fall to the fever. In his delirium he began to babble, and his father, who was sitting with him, heard him mumble again and again the name ‘Amancay, Amancay, Amancay …’.

The chief made some enquiries and didn’t take long to find out who the ‘Amancay’ was, and to discover the secret love his son felt for her. Thinking that the sight of Amancay might brighten his son’s spirits he ordered his men to bring her to him immediately at his son’s death bed.

But Amancay was nowhere to be found. On the advice of the village medicine woman, she had struggled painfully up into the heights of Mount Thunder. The medicine woman had told her that the only way to combat the fever –and save Quiltran– was to make a potion from a yellow flower that could only be found at the very top of the mountain.

With knees grazed and hands bleeding, Amancay finally reached the mountaintop.  In front of her she saw the yellow flower, its petals reflecting the yellow of the sun. She reached out to pick the flower, but barely was it in her hand when she heard a mighty roar of wind and her world went dark.

Raising her eyes she saw a huge condor standing before her. Each thrash of its wings raised a terrible wind as she cowered against the rock face.

Finally the bird spoke and in a voice of thunder announced that he was charged by the gods to protect the mountain and that she was taking away something that belonged to them.

Trembling with fear,  Amancay told the condor through her tears how the people in the valley were dying, especially Quintral whom she loved, and that the flower was her only hope.

The condor told her if she wanted Quintral to be cured from his fever she would have to agree to give up her own heart. Amancay could not imagine living in a world where Quintral did not exist, and if she had to give up her life in return for his; well, she did not care about her own life without him.

She tore open her bodice and shift and offered her breast to the Condor. in an instant the bird ripped out her heart with his strong beak. As her life ebbed, the last words Amancay were to pronounce were the repeated name ‘Quintral, Quintral, Quintral …’.

With Amancay’s heart gripped tightly in its claws and the yellow flower in its beak the condor rose, flying higher and higher on the hot air currents to where the gods live, to ask them to send a cure for the disease. And as the bird flew, drops of blood from Amancay’s heart fell like rain on the valleys and mountains.

In a moment, all the hills and valleys were covered with small yellow flowers, each one speckled with red stains. Every drop of Amancay’s blood had given birth to a small plant, the same plant that once grew only on the summit of Thunder Mountain, the plant we know today as the Amancay.

Reflections

Another poem salvaged from my school days. This has long been tucked inside my Wordsworth book, along with the Lucy poems – it’s about as derivative as it is possible to get, possibly to the point of litigation. Typical sixth-form clichéd approach too. By the date I can see that I had recently taken A-levels, Wordsworth being on the syllabus. But its one of the few connections I have with myself at that time.

Antique-Ebony-Hand-Mirror-M103

Reflections

This was the glass she used; her eyes
Once lay where mine gaze back at me.
Her gentle fingers once caressed
This very same carved ebony.

She sat upon this very seat
Where even now in sad despair
I weep to think of those soft eyes
I knew so well; I’d learned to care.

What means it now to her? She lies
With all the world her winding sheet.
And leaves her glass to me, a friend
Until in death again we meet

Málaga, 10 November 1966

Requiem for a King

I wrote this poem when I was twelve years old and just rediscovered it today. I’m posting this unchanged, as a tribute to my twelve-year-old former self. Terribly clichéd (it seems I was reading Mallory at the time), but there is something about it that lets me connect to the time I wrote it and what I was thinking and reading at the time. So no apologies, what it is, it is.

morte

Requiem for a King

In the year of eight o’ three
A noble king did cease to be
In England’s pastures green.
He had lived a noble life
Full of turmoil, full of strife
But now was mourned by just his wife
The noble King Arthur.

A score of years before, or more,
He had started England’s war
In England’s pastures green.
But now he lies upon the sward
With his hand clenched round his sword
The sweat and blood from off him poured
The noble King Arthur.

Several months before, that year,
He had married Guinevere
In England’s pastures green.
But now the girl beside him lay
At the ending of the day
As death did take his breath away
The noble King Arthur.

The very last words that he spake
Were ‘throw my sword into the lake’
In England’s pastures green.
Excalibur flashed through the air
It’s mighty blade dull, hard and bare
A hand shot up and caught it there
For noble King Arthur.

Then, as the night was drawing on
And moonlight on the water shone
In England’s pastures green.
A barge across the water flew
With Queen’s inside, the noble few,
And up to Arthur’s bed they drew
The noble King Arthur.

And as the shades of evening fell
‘Twas heard the tolling of the bell
In England’s pastures green.
The barge across the lake sped on
With its helm of black-necked swan
And then for ever he was gone
The noble King Arthur.

Written at Oakham, 1960

Me, I was blogging back in 1959 …

This article first appeared in the Oakhamian, a magazine for present and past pupils of Oakham School, in 2006. It has been slightly modified here to remove irrelevancies. 

Were you ‘blogging’ back in the 1950s and 60s? Because I was, but it may not be quite what you think .

Today’s blog (‘web log’ in full) is, as readers will appreciate, a recent arrival, only made possible by rapidly developing Internet technology. But in terms of Oakham School slang, the word had another meaning when I was there. To ‘blog’ was to misbehave, to fool around, and ‘blogging’ was inappropriate, mischievous, even bad behaviour. I don’t know how widely the word was used, or for how long, but it was certainly currency when I entered the Junior House in September 1958. And out of nostalgia I thought it would be interesting to ask what other school slang might still remain in OOs’ memories behind the cobwebs of dimly recalled youth.

In 1958 Oakham was a small direct grant school, recovering from the war years and right at the end of the spartan regime that characterised the public school system. I was sent to Junior House at the age of just nine and my earliest memories there are of ‘new bugs’, ‘bear leaders’, ‘senior’s orders’ and punishments ‘officially’ meted out by the big boys (the eleven and twelve year old ‘prefects’), who gave us ‘bicycle rides’, ‘crumps’ and ‘clouts’ as the whim took them. I remember that one of the prefects had an electric shock machine which was used to administer shock therapy. (Later on in school life my study mate, a budding chemist, stored nitroglycerine in the roof, an equally horrifying memory now that I reflect on it, but that’s another story). But as for the shock machine; I can only give thanks to my guardian angel that it never occurred to the young tormentor to connect it to the mains. ‘Sneaking’ was out of the question and we bore our grief stoically.

‘Senior’s orders’ was a particularly galling experience. At its simplest, it meant that a ‘new bug’ had to do whatever a senior (i.e. a boy with longer time at Oakham than he) told him. Anything. I can remember in my first term being forced to lie in the old dyke that once ran across what is now known as Farside. It was the middle of winter and I was obliged to lie down in the freezing mud and slush because another boy – who was all of nine and three-quarters – so wished. This was senior’s orders.

Oakham in the late 1950s was Corps, Cricket, Chapel and the cane; fagging, cold showers and cross-country runs; the town largely out of bounds save a permitted visit to Tom Froud’s store in Choir Close where we could buy pomegranates and sherbet, and a little later to Stricklands, by the castle entry. At the age of ten I broke bounds to go to the only ‘record shop’ Oakham then sported, to buy Eddie Cochran’s ‘My Way’ (not the Paul Anka version made famous by Sinatra, but an earlier and earthier number) and was spotted by a member of staff. I guess he must have liked Eddie Cochran, because he let me off with a lecture, the main point of which seemed to be that the crime of being caught was more serious than the crime of breaking bounds.

Some of my school memories have a quasi-military flavour. I was senior scout in the school troop (not that there were that many of us) and with huge pride carried the flag at the County Jamboree. Some years later, dressed in paramilitary uniform (tracksuit top and CCF beret with cap badge removed) and carrying a lighted torch in one hand and an oak swatch in the other I marched under the banner of ‘Rutland fights for minority rights’. But my crowning military glory was raising the flag at the Annual Inspection, my colour sergeant’s red sash mirroring my flush of embarrassment when the flag looked like it wasn’t going to unfurl (fortunately it eventually did).

Why it was me raising the flag was a curious blend of laziness and nepotism. One of the best sinecures in school life was to get the coveted position of CCF Quartermaster. This involved little work other than convincing smaller boys that the ill-fitting kit and boots I issued them with were fine and should be accepted with thanks and forbearance but it kept me out of the rain and afforded me a key to the QM stores – fortuitously across the road from Chapmans – and thus a bolt hole for whatever mayhem occurred to me at any time of day or night. In hindsight, this prerogative was not abused as much as it might have been and was mainly a chance to go for a peaceful cigarette without having to look over my shoulder all the time. The fag ends found their way into a convenient screw top bottle.

I’m not sure now quite how I got this post but I sense that Jack Cox, master i/c the CCF, had a hand in it. He had been in the army proper with my father and it was in part Jack’s coming to Oakham that persuaded my father to send me there. Certainly he ‘looked out’ for me from time to time – on one occasion he told me to kindly hide the bottle a little more carefully; this at a time when being caught smoking was ample grounds for expulsion.

This generosity of spirit was missing when I was ‘gated’ for two weeks for the ‘offence’ of being seen talking to a girl in the town (Cathy Rxxxr of Manton, if she remembers). Actually to be fair it wasn’t exactly in the street but in the ‘tin mines’ where we used to go at weekends, on the road to Brooke as I remember, so there may have been some due cause, but it still rankles. So too does the fact that Oakham didn’t have female students when I was there, but for different reasons.

There were traditions too – although one never knows how much they grow with the remembering. Does anyone I wonder now remember the ‘Burley bum-basher bed walk’, a ritual in which one had to walk or jump on every bed in every senior boarding house in the space of one hour? I last performed this somewhat pointless feat, the logistics of which posed a serious challenge as I remember, trampling my way a little drunkenly through the dormitories of Deanscroft, Wharflands, Chapmans and School House on my last night at Oakham in June 1966. My colleagues in College House (in 1966 in its first year under the brilliant Chris Dixon, to whom I owe so much) were spared.

Looking back at all this now, it was another world. Why I was not unhappy defeats me, but on the whole I wasn’t. But I must return to my topic: the Oakham vocabulary of the 50s. Latin was still very much on the curriculum in 1958 and active in the schoolboy’s vocabulary too. Earnest preteens would call out cave (beware) whenever a teacher approached, while those with goods to dispose of would call out quis? (Latin for ‘who’, and for some reason pronounced ‘quiz’) to which the standard reply was ego (I, or me). If the article was undesirable the acquisition could be negated by retorting d, and to avoid this the person calling quis could qualify with no d’s – the whole point here being to get rid of (and avoid receiving) unwanted chattels.

These Latinisms would have been common to many schools. I would very much like to know what words (like ‘blog’) were peculiar to Oakham or used more widely. Did boys and girls in other schools used to say ‘bags I’ to claim something? Or ‘fains’ to exclude themselves? Were these expressions common in other schools, or are they native Oakham slang? If anyone ever gets to read this entry it would be fun to share memories and see what we can reconstruct.

As for the ‘Burley bum-basher bed walk’, I can’t be the only one now prepared to own up after almost fifty years. Or did I dream it all up?

 

Justice Buenos Aires style, 1970s

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Rivadavia Street is in the heart of the business centre of Buenos Aires, and it was in the early 1970s, in the fourth floor premises of a law firm in the low 600s of this Street, that some young atorrantes determined to crash in and grab what they could. Their minds were no doubt set on loose cash, jewellery and random luck – this was before even electronic calculators were common property and the latest technology was Telex (remember Telex?).

One has to assume that these three lads were not very good at their chosen métier. Their attempts to intimidate the receptionist with a length of piping and a replica pistol were rebuffed by two other staff members, members of the San Isidro Club’s first Rugby team, who had happened to follow the delinquents in and had little difficulty in overpowering them. The mismatch of four rugbier arms and six delinquent legs led to one escaped lad and two detained intruders.

The senior partners were quick on the scene and quick to arrange tea and biscuits (or the Argentine equivalent) for all concerned, and to call the local precinct to arrange for the young intruders, now cowed and compliant, to be taken away. Life, it seemed, was about to be restored to normal. Indeed, a sergeant and two patrolmen arrived with ten minutes or so, and, handcuffing the delinquents to a convenient radiator, took their tea and biscuits while appraising themselves of the situation. Then, without warning, events took on a different complexion.

All staff in the law firm were asked to leave the premises ‘for forensic reasons’, and duly and dutifully trooped down to the coffee shop across the road to await further instructions. The senior lawyers, more cognizant of police budgets and resourcing, had some inkling of what was coming; the younger staff had no idea at all, other than perhaps to reflect vaguely on just what ‘forensic reasons’ might mean.

The relocated law firm were all sitting nursing their coffees, somewhat subdued, when the shots rang out. Two shots, in quick succession. Almost simultaneously the bottom half of a two-blue police truck appeared in the narrow half window of the café that looked out onto the street. Eight legs and two stretchers emerged and made their way into the building; in no time at all they were back down in the street. This time the stretchers were substantially heavier and accompanied by six extra legs as the centipede steered its way into the truck. Two rear legs detached themselves and strolled across to the window of the coffee shop. A peaked cap bent down to give a thumbs up to one of the senior partners –it was now ok to go back up again– and the two-blue truck drove off quietly.

The report in La Nación was brief but to the point – two young criminals had broken into a city centre law firm and had been killed trying to shoot themselves out in a gun battle with the police. Fortunately none of the police was injured. One police regulation handcuff, still attached to a rusty fourth floor radiator stood for many years in mute contradiction. For all I know it stands there still.

 

 

Strange days revisited

The_Doors_-_Strange_Days-full-2

A random and colorful group of street performers are posing on the sidewalk in Sniffen Court, a residential alley off New York’s East 36th Street. What appears to be a dwarf in a light gray suit (or conceivably, if less likely, a small boy) is dancing energetically, Dylan like, only with two hands ‘waving free’. A stout circus strongman dressed fetchingly in an over tight black singlet and loose zebra-striped sarong is raising above his head what we must imagine to be a dumbbell as the view we have is cut off at wrist height.

Above the dwarf-child a white-faced man in a dark suit is juggling a number of red balls, his features screwed into a mask of intense concentration. Behind these figures another dark suited man concentrates on supporting a leotarded figure whose body is arced in a swallow dive as he balances precariously in mid air. At the rear of the group a straw-hatted man is stood to attention, arms raised as he solemnly plays a trumpet, for all the world as if he were alone and all around him non-existent.

Not all these people are actual street performers: I am reliably informed through my research that the photographer’s assistant is standing in as a juggler while the musician is a passing cab driver who is earning five dollars for his artistic contribution.

The curious scene I am describing is that shown on an old album cover I have propped up in front of me as I write, one which I loved when it came out and still fills me with nostalgia: Strange Days, by The Doors, recorded and issued in 1967.

Task Force

Written during BRAZTESOL Conference, Goâiña, Brazil, 1996

Comment, order, modify,
Classify and justify,
Infer, predict, identify …
All day long the teacher’s cry . . .

Off we go then, up the stairs.
Move the chairs and get in pairs,
Stand up, sit down,
Hands on heads, now turn around,
Head and shoulders, arms and knees,
Delete, complete, continue please,
What to do with kids like these …?

Alter, argue, group discuss,
Left your homework on the bus?
Here’s the question, where’s the answer,
Silent reading, info transfer,
First, last, compare, contrast,
Future, perfect, present, past,
Correct, deduce, select, produce,
Read the bit on language use

Find, fill.. replace, remove,
Make an effort, must improve,
True, false, right, wrong, no and yes,
Guess, success, don’t make a mess
Describe, expand, insert, corrupt,
Explain again, don’t interrupt,
Read the fable, make a label,
Leave your homework on the table,
Write a story, if you’re able

Transform, translate,
Commentate and demonstrate,
Wait, narrate and don’t be late,
Recall, remove, rank, match, tell,
Wait for the bell, Oh, very well …

Another slice of American Pie

This article was written in 1999 and published in the Educational Supplement of the Buenos Aires Herald. It’s a rambling, derivative and introspective reflection on a song that was seemed to be full of meaning when I first heard it. Later, when I was able to attempt a partial deconstruction, it hardly seemed worth the effort. I only put it up here at the request of a friend. But if you’re into 60s nostalgia, read on ...

It is now some twenty five years since Don McLean’s song “American Pie” hit the charts and yet it is one of those songs that has never quite gone away. I was fascinated with the song when it came out – I was at University at the time – and, listening to it again recently with some of my language students, I have once again come under its spell.

The song is irritatingly enigmatic and has been the source of much student debate over the years. Having to focus once again on the lyrics in an attempt to provide some essential background to my 1997 students (a ‘generation used to space’) I found myself needing to reevaluate some of the muddled thinking of the intervening years. However, the song certainly allows for multiple readings. Mine are no better or worse than anyone else’s and readers are invited to come back with their comments.

Throughout what follows extracts from Don McLean’s lyrics appear in italic script, with commentary in plain text.

The Song

Most people accept that the song was conceived as some sort of tribute to Buddy Holly and there are countless references to Holly’s life and sudden death in an aircrash in 1959. Further, it seems to lament the change in direction of rock and roll since Holly’s death – with the implication that if Holly had lived music and culture would have gone in a very different direction.

But I think McLean takes it further. On a broader scale, it describes the loss of innocence in a changing America through the iconography of popular songs and figures. Think if you like of the world of ‘American Pie’ as the traditional apple pie that Granny used to make – that kind of Technicolor, white picket fence, high school hop image recreated so well by David Lynch at the beginning of his film Blue Velvet.

Within the iconography (and, tantalisingly, outside it too), McLean would furthermore seem to be lamenting the lack of “danceable” music in rock and roll (remember this was recorded back in 1971) and perhaps relating that to the death of a line Buddy Holly would have followed (and been followed in).

In other words Holly’s death cut off the promise of what Leibnitz would term a ‘possible world’ in which the development of music and concomitant lifestyle would have been different, more in keeping with what the conservative, Catholic McLean would have preferred.

Verse 1

A long, long time ago…

American Pie was released twelve years after Holly’s death and probably written a couple of years earlier.

I can still remember how /That music used to make me smile./ And I knew if I had my chance/ That I could make those people dance,/ And maybe they’d be happy for a while.

The social event of McLean’s youth would probably have been the high school hop, and the function of early rock and roll music was to provide suitable music for dancing at such events. McLean, like any other high school boy, must have often dreamed of being up there on the stage with his guitar and bringing happiness (albeit temporarily) to his fellow students.

But February made me shiver,

February is a cold month in New York at the best of times. But it was in February , on February 3, 1959, to be precise, that Buddy Holly died. His plane crashed in a snowstorm in Iowa, killing him and the other occupants.

With every paper I’d deliver,

Don McLean, like so many young boys, was a paperboy in his hometown of New Rochelle, New York …

Bad news on the doorstep/ I couldn’t take one more step.

.. and, like so many Americans, he first learned about Holly’s death through the morning newspaper . The irony of his delivering the paper is a subtle touch.

 I can’t remember if I cried/ When I read about his widowed bride

Holly had only just married and his young bride was pregnant when he died. Shortly afterwards she suffered a miscarriage (1).

But something touched me deep inside/ The day the music died.

In the plane with Buddy Holly were two other big name singers: Richie Valens of La Bambafame and a Texan disk jockey known as the Big Bopper (real name J.P. Richardson), whose only hit was Chantilly Lace. ‘The Day The Music Died’ can only refer to February 3, when they all perished together (2).

So…

Refrain

Bye bye Miss American Pie,

‘American Pie’ is alleged to have been the name of the plane that crashed but I have not been able to corroborate this. However, the name clearly implies good, respectable, American values. The end of the sixties had seen such a sea change is US society, with the summer of love (1966) being replaced by hard drugs, hard line politics and hard times. When Dylan tells us (in the early sixties) that “The times they are a-changing” he is heralding the end of the American Dream. Perhaps most importantly, JFK ‘s assassination (suggested several times in the song) marked the end of the age of innocence: like grandma’s apple pie JFK was to become a memory of another, supposedly better age and his death, like Holly’s, cut off another line of development.

Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry

Consciously or not, this line echoes a scene in the movie Mississippi Burning, showing three civil rights workers, who had been killed and left at the levee. But a levee could be a place for a party too – the point here being that the levee (like the music) has dried up. The Chevy is of course the all American car, symbol of the American dream, and the levee symbolises man’s conquest of the River. But things are no longer the same ….

Them good ol’ boys were drinkin whiskey and rye

A drink common in the South, otherwise known as a ‘Whiskey sour’ and the ‘good old boys’ the traditional, conservative, perhaps red-neck kind.

Singing “This’ll be the day that I die, This’ll be the day that I die.”

One of Buddy Holly’s best known hits was “That’ll be the Day”. It had a chorus containing the repeated line “That’ll be the day.. when I die”, clearly echoed by McLean here..

Verse 2

Did you write the book of love ?

“The Book of Love” is the title of a song recorded by the Monotones which was a big hit in 1958. Buddy Holly is not credited as having written it, but then again there may have been contractual reasons for omitting the credit.

And do you have faith in God above ? / If the Bible tells you so ?

“The Bible Tells Me So” is the name of a song recorded in 1955 by Don Cornell. The lines also echo an old Sunday School song that goes: “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so”. Another instance of conservative religion, perhaps, later to be contrasted with the disintegration and degeneration of society and the satanic references to Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones.

Now do you believe in rock ‘n roll?/Can music save your mortal soul?/And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Belief is of course about things that matter. Back at the hop the slow dance was a legitimate opportunity to get close to your partner, and was an important part of the youth culture of the time. The innocence of this time was slowly replaced by the violence, sexual and psychedelic revolution of the 60s and young people lost the ability (and desire) for dancing of that kind..

Well I know you’re in love with him / Cause I saw you dancing in the gym

Those were more innocent times, and times of greater commitment. Who you danced with was really important and was something sorted out long before the event. Young people usually came together, danced together and left together. The liberation and promiscuity of the 60s saw an end to that level of commitment.

You both kicked off your shoes

Dances took place in the gym, and the floor was a wooden basket ball court which had to be protected. (These events were sometimes referred to as “sock hops”).

Man, I dig those rhythm ‘n’ blues

Young whites began listening to black music in the fifties. By the mid 50s white singers were covering black rhythm and blues songs, and some black artists (e.g. Little Richard, Fats Domino) got into the national pop charts. In 1956 The Sun record label in particular fused black rhythm and blues with white country and western and this mix was essential to Buddy Holly’s new kind of rock and roll.)

I was a lonely teenage bronkin’ buck/ With a pink carnation and a pickup truck

“A White Sport Coat (And a Pink Carnation)” is the title of a hit recorded in 1957 by Marty Robbins and was typical male dress for the big night out. Even today the pickup is seen as a symbol of male sexual independence and potency. The ‘bronco’ is a common image from cattle country.

But I knew that I was out of luck /The day the music died/ I started singing…

Refrain

Verse 3

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own

I don’t know exactly when McLean wrote this song (it was released twelve years after Holly’s death) but it must have been about ten years since the aircrash which left the young people ‘on their own’.

And moss grows fat on a rolling stone

The main reference is probably to Bob Dylan whose “Like a Rolling Stone” (1965) was his first major hit. Dylan had been the seminal spokesman for a whole new generation and had turned his back on his rebel past and sat at home (i.e. stopped touring for eight years) . Perhaps the reference is more general, referring to the whole industry which was becoming increasingly capitalistic. At about this time the Rolling Stones took the hitherto unprecedented step of living a year outside the United Kingdom to save paying income tax, then at an excessively high rate. Given the invocation of the Rolling Stones later on the phrase is hardly fortuitous.

But that’s not how it used to be/When the jester sang for the King and Queen

This is undoubtedly a reference to Bob Dylan (the ‘jester’). The ‘King’ could well be Elvis Presley and the Queen very possibly ‘Connie Francis’. Some have Joan Baez, but I see no evidence for it. But Dylan did perform at a civil rights rally in Washington DC, not only in front of Martin Luther King but more importantly for John and Jackie Kennedy, commonly known in the media of the time as the king and queen of “Camelot” – the new age that was supposed (erroneously, as it happened) to be coming in.

Dylan also played a command performance for the Queen of England, and the ‘jester’ may be a reference to his refusal to dress ‘correctly’ for the occasion. Of course it might also refer to his characteristic tousled appearance and pixieish demeanour caught in so many photographs of that time, perhaps most spectacularly on the cover of the LP “Blonde on Blonde”.

In a coat he borrowed from James Dean

Each time James Dean put on his red coat in the movie “Rebel Without a Cause” he was symbolising his up-front, in-your-face attitude to the world. Within a week of the film’s release you couldn’t buy a remotely similar red jacket in the whole of the United States. Dean and Dylan were both icons for the youth of their time. On Dean’s death Dylan assumed his ‘coat’ in more senses than one – if you look at the cover of his album “The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan”, Dylan is wearing Dean’s red jacket and the street scene is reconstructed around a famous James Dean Publicity shot..

And a voice that came from you and me

Bob Dylan came out of Hibbing, Minnesota, and was at first totally plugged into the American folk tradition. He hung out at the Gaslight in New York where he met all the contemporary folk singers – in particular Pete Seeger and the dying Woody Guthrie. Insofar as folk music is people’s music, then his song “…came from you and me”. But Dylan spoke for his generation in another sense, in a way that had never been possible before. With the advantage of a more permissive media, with greater reach, he said what had previously been unsayable. Songs like ‘Blowing in the wind’ and ‘The times they are a’changing’ may seem tame today but they shook the foundations of the establishment at the time. Dylan spoke for his whole generation, and his influence has been seminal, to an extent perhaps not always fully remembered today.

Oh, and while the King was looking down /The jester stole his thorny crown

Elvis may have looked down from the pinnacle of his fame but he was also on the way down, sinking into a life style that would end in obesity, obscenity and overdose. Dylan was a fast mover, ever an opportunist, on the way up. Why the crown (of the new ‘king’) should be ‘thorny’ is unclear, beyond the biblical allusion. (3)

The courtroom was adjourned, /No verdict was returned.

The only contemporary reference to a real court trial I could find was the trial of the Chicago Seven which seems too remote. It seems more likely that McLean is referring to the court of public opinion regarding what was happening to music (in this case symbolising values) and that the lack of a ‘verdict’ is a metaphor for general apathy and indifference.

And while Lennon read a book on Marx,

Perhaps this refers to the introduction of radical politics into the music of the Beatles (a metaphor once again for society as a whole). The conceit is of course based on the phonetic similarity of John Lennon and Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov (Lenin). Certainly the 60s saw a general growth and interest in communism (and a strong US reaction against it).

The quartet practiced in the park

Consistency and chronology would indicate that this refers to the Beatles playing in Shea Stadium, but why ‘practicing’ ? And why would Lennon be elsewhere ? A quartet could of course be any conventional rock band, or could refer to any other group of four individuals. I’ll take a rain check on this one.

And we sang dirges in the dark

When JFK died Network televison went off the air for 4 four days while the whole country mourned. The US was plunged into another kind of dark too – the dark of doubt, despair and uncertainty. The new order – new Camelot – was not to be.

The day the music died.

The death of the music this time seems more tied down to JFK’s assassination in Dallas, once again the death of an American dream as JFK exchanged hopes of a new Camelot for the Avalon of the west coast.

We were singing…

Refrain

Verse 4

Helter Skelter in a summer swelter

“Helter Skelter” is one of the Beatles song which inspired Charles Manson to order the savage butchering to death of  Sharon Tate and others in the hot California summer of 1969. ‘Helter Skelter’ in Manson’s world was to be the day in which the Blacks, at Manson’s instigation, finally rose against the white population in Los Angeles and slaughtered them all. Manson would then lead his dune buggy tribe out of the Hole in Death Valley and be welcomed as the new Messiah. Heavy stuff, mixed up with Satanism and drug dealing and rip-offs, certainly symbolising the end of traditional American family values..

The birds flew off with the fallout shelter

Fallout shelters were very much part of the cultural baggage of the Cold War era. There may be an additional play of words here with ‘falling out’ and ‘dropping out’. The birds (the pop group the Byrds) would also have ‘flown’ in the sense of their known drug use.

Eight miles high and falling fast

“Eight Miles High” was a hit for The Byrds in 1966. The song was banned, on the (undeniable) grounds that it was about drugs.. Both “Helter Skelter” (“When I get to the bottom I go back to the top”) and “Eight miles High” refer to the feeling of ‘flying’ or being ‘high’ on dope and the former can also be seen as a drug-induced description of rhythmic sexual activity. Songs didn’t used to be about things like this.

It landed foul on the grass

‘Landing’ is coming down or finishing a trip and ‘grass’ is marijuana. The Byrds, like so many rock musicians, fell foul of the law in this respect. The line also introduces a new strand, the metaphor of the football game.

The players tried for a forward pass

The metaphor is from football, but beyond that seems unclear. Depending on the game in question a ‘forward pass’ may or may not be illegal. The players may be musicians or sportsman. McLean is trying here to sustain a triple metaphor – the threads of music, sport and political repression – and I think he loses it. The reference is presumably there for those who can see it, but I can’t.

With the jester on the sidelines in a cast

On July 29, 1966, Dylan had a serious motor cycle accident in Woodstock, New York State. He was ‘out of action’ (and enormously silent) for nearly a year. ‘Sidelines’ neatly ties in the sporting metaphor with the marginalisation of Dylan, holed up in the Big Pink recording the Basement tapes, and ‘cast’ continues the double word play – it can be a ‘plaster cast’ or the ‘cast’ of a play in the sense that we all have roles to play in life and this was Dylan’s at that time. McLean thrives on this layering of ambiguity .

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume / While sergeants played a marching tune

‘Half-time’ continues the sporting metaphor but could also refer to a half-way stage of political change. The second line feeds in a new metaphor. “Sweet perfume” is probably a cynical allusion to tear gas and the ‘sergeants’ the Police and National Guard who marched protesters out of so many public gatherings (e. g. the excessive repression at Ohio State University).. At another level, given the multiple references to the Beatles, it obviously refers too to the “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” album.

We all got up to dance / Oh, but we never got the chance

In 1966 The Beatles gave a concert in Candlestick Park but as it became impossible to control the crowds the performance only lasted 35 minutes. Another interpretation here that ties in with the song’s running thread would be that the ‘sergeants’ (the Beatles) played a ‘marching tune’ (i.e. music you couldn’t dance to), rather than the ‘dancing music’ Buddy Holly would have developed if he had not died so young. Or perhaps the ‘sergeants’ simply represent authorities that prevented young people from ‘dancing’ (read having a good time) in public.

‘Cause the players tried to take the field, / The marching band refused to yield.

The multiple reference continues throughout all this verse . Politically, the reference is to protesters at Kent State where the ‘players’ (students), tried to take control of the ‘field’ (campus), the ‘marching band’ being the Ohio National Guard. In terms of the rock and roll thread (and the song is after all a potted history of pop music) I think the reference is to a failed attempt by the Beach Boys who in 1966 attempted (with their brilliant, underrated album “Pet Sounds”) to supplant the Beatles hold on the industry. The Beatles of course, like the Ohio National Guard, stood firm.

Do you recall what was revealed, / The day the music died?

What was revealed ? I sincerely have no idea. Maybe this is enigma for enigma’s sake. Or McLean is again being a little too esoteric ? Answers on a postcard please ..

We started singing

Refrain

Verse 5

And there we were all in one place

This just has to be Woodstock, 1969, the Festival. You just had to have been there !!. We all were. If you missed it, rent the movie – it’s a historical document. Nuff said.

A generation lost in space

Spaced out’ was a common 60s euphemism for the effects of drugs. Hippies also tended to be seriously alienated from their parents, and thus a ‘spaced out’ hippie could be doubly lost. ‘Lost in Space’ was also the name of a pretty naff TV series in US in the late 60s but I somehow can’t see McLean alluding to that.

With no time left to start again

Too much drugs ? Grown up too quickly ? The American dream irrevocably lost ? JFK and his new Camelot gone. The music that could never go back to where Buddy Holly might have taken it ? All those lost opportunities, lost chances, the what if’s have no future chance.

So come on Jack be nimble Jack be quick/Jack Flash sat on a candlestick/’Cause fire is the devil’s only friend

The Rolling Stones first hit was called “Come on”. Another major hit, “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”, was released in May, 1968 and the Stones’ presumably would have sung it at their Candlestick park concert. ‘Sympathy for the Devil ‘was another Stones song of that time and the Grateful Dead had a song called “Friend of the Devil”). “Jack be nimble Jack be quick/Jack Flash sat on a candlestick” is a children’s nursery rhyme which makes the allusion even more dramatic.

Jack is also the first name of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and  McLean picks up on the earlier reference to fallout shelters here, with the candlestick representing an ICBM armed with a nuclear warhead. In Kubricks’s 60’s film “Dr Strangelove” Slim Pickens plays a Texan Air Commander who sits astride such an atomic device when the bomb release won’t unlock and rides it to his death and the destruction of the known world.

Such hell and brimstone (fire) are the province of the devil, which leads us neatly back to the Rolling Stones …

And as I watched him on the stage My hands were clenched in fists of rage No angel born in hell Could break that Satan’s spell

.. who played a gig at the Altamont Speedway in 1968. They were perhaps naive, but on the advice of the Grateful Dead they put Hell’s Angels bikers in charge of their concert security. In the confusion of the night a certain Meredith Hunter was beaten and stabbed to death by the Angels to the background of the Stones playing ‘Under my Thumb’ (4). The Stones also had an earlier album (of appallingly naff psychedelic trash) called “Their Satanic Majesties’ Request” and it would seem that McLean is not altogether happy with this aspect of the Stones’ artistic career.

And as the flames climbed high into the night /To light the sacrificial rite

Still in Altamont, Jagger prancing around on the stage while bonfires (common at rock concerts in those days) provide the background for the sacrificial murder of Meredith Hunter .

I saw Satan laughing with delight

The only conclusion can be that Satan here is Mick Jagger. Don McLean is said to have had a strict Catholic upbringing – if he really wanted a return to traditional American apple pie and Sunday School values then he may be vehemently laying the responsibility for the tragic death of Meredith Hunter at Jagger’s door. More likely the Altamont incident is a convenient peg that serves McLean as a metaphor for the malaise of the age, and Jagger is the vehicle, a conduit, rather than the devil incarnate..

The day the music died / He was singing…

Refrain

Verse 6

I met a girl who sang the blues

Would you believe Janis Joplin…..?

And I asked her for some happy news /But she just smiled and turned away

… who OD’d on heroin on October 4, 1970. Yet another music myth whose potential was cut short. Actually, Joplin was already past it – her Woodstock performance demonstrates the fact quite clearly – despite the smile, her lifestyle of drugs and alcohol had little happy news, and like Elvis, there was no way to go but down. And out.

I went down to the sacred store/ Where I’d heard the music years before

The “sacred store” could be that Mecca of the Sixties, Bill Graham’s Fillmore West, one of the great rock and roll venues of all time. But it could also be the local record store – ‘sacred’ because it is a repository of the old music – which in the good old days often used to let kids listen to records in the store without buying them.

But the man there said the music wouldn’t play

There’s no demand for the old music, perhaps. Or kids have to pay to hear it now. Or things just don’t work any more. Whatever. The point is, it’s all over.

And in the streets the children screamed/ The lovers cried and the poets dreamed

‘Children’ here refers in part to the ‘flower children’ of the sixties, (free) loving and dreaming their way through the end of the decade and crying in pain and anger as they avoid the batons of police and National Guard troops. There seems to be an echo here too of one of the most horrific images of the Vietnam War – the much published photograph of children running down a village street, on fire, after a napalm attack on their village.

But not a word was spoken/ The church bells all were broken

Everyone saw what was happening, no one was prepared to condemn it. Just as the broken bells can no longer produce music neither can the dead (i.e. silent) musicians. And broken church bells imply a neglected church, in which the old religion (music) is no longer observed.

And the three men I admire most /The Father Son and Holy Ghost

Obviously the Biblical reference stands, and ties in with the other Christian threads. It could also be the three singers killed in the Iowa plane crash – Holly, The Big Bopper, and Valens. Once again, something doesn’t quite gel here and one is left with the feeling that meaning has become subordinated to a snazzy rhyme scheme..

They caught the last train for the coast/ The day the music died

The west coast has long been a place where all the weirdo cults seem to thrive, and all the hippies gravitated there, mainly to San Francisco and LA.. If the “three men” were Holly/Bopper/Valens, and going to the coast means ‘passing over’ then this repeats the conceit that the music died along with Buddy Holly.

In Celtic mythology dead heroes depart to the West for a better place (e.g. King Arthur sailing off in his barge to Avalon), so the three dead singers (‘players’) could be making a similar journey. On another tack, if the US had always been God’s own country and the US people had had God on their side from Independence to the end of WW2 at least, maybe this marks the end of God’s cooperation, and he has abandoned us to stew in our own hedonistic juices. In simple terms, God just split.

And they were singing…

Refrain (2x)

Conclusion

“American Pie” has been one of the most talked about and analyzed songs of the post-war era.. In it somewhere, if you can get at it, is a complete history of rock and roll but it is wrapped up in such ambivalent and esoteric imagery that it lends itself to endless interpretations.

McLean himself has consistently refused to explain the song but he has let slip a couple of hints:

‘When I first heard “American Pie” on the radio, I was playing a gig somewhere, and it was immediately followed by Peggy Sue. They caught on to the Holly connection right away, and that made me very happy. I was quite interested in America – I still write about the different aspects of America – and to me, something was slipping away and I couldn’t quite put my finger on how to express it. I was sitting up in this little house where I lived and I just started to write this first verse about the day I cut open this bunch of papers [when he was a paper boy] and saw that Buddy Holly had been killed. The memory unlocked a whole bunch of things. Suddenly the song wrote itself…’

And again: ‘I can’t necessarily interpret American Pie” any better than you can,’ ( LIFE magazine, 1972). ‘Buddy Holly was the first and last person I ever really idolized as a kid. Most of my friends liked Elvis Presley. More of them liked Presley than Holly. But I liked Holly because he spoke to me. He was a symbol of something deeper than the music he made. His career and the sort of group he created, the interaction between the lead singer and the three men backing him up, was a perfect metaphor for the music of the ’60s and for my own youth’.

Twenty-five years later, McLean’s legacy gives us a complicated yet fascinating vignette which speaks not only about his own youth but about that of a whole generation.

Bibliography

  • Billboard Book of Number One Hits, Bronson F, Billboard, 1985
  • Encyclopedia of Pop, Rock and Soul, (rev. ed.), Stambler I, St. Martin’s Press, 1989.
  • It was Twenty Years ago Today: An Anniversary Celebration of 1967, Taylor D, Fireside, 1987.
  • Return of the Straight Dope, Adams C, Ballantine Books, 1994, p.398.
  • Rock Chronicle, Formento D, Delilah/Putnam, 1982.
  • Rock Day by Day, Smith S and the Diagram Group, Guiness Books, 1987.
  • Rock Topicon, Marsh D et al, Contemporary Books, 1984.
  • Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock & Roll, ed. Pareles J & Romanowski P, Rolling Stone Press/Summit Books, 1983.
  • Rolling Stone Record Guide, ed. Marsh D & Swenson J, Random House/Rolling Stone Press, 1979.
  • Smiling Through the Apocalypse: Esquire’s History of the Sixties, ed. Hayes H, Esquire Press, 1987.
  • The Sixties: Years of Hope, Days of Rage, Gitlin T, Bantam Books, 1987.

Footnotes

  1. A connection has been suggested with the story of Billy Joe MacAllister who jumped off the Tallahachee Bridge in Bobby Gentry’s song Ode to Billy Joe. Certainly there are a number of surprising coincidences too recherché to go into here but these are most likely the result of wishful thinking.
  2. Another country singer, Waylon Jennings, relinquished his seat at the last moment as therewas no space for the four of them. To this day he has refused to discuss the event.
  3. McLean uses the thorn image again in his song about Van Gogh, Vincent, with its hauntingly beautiful (and frustratingly enigmatic) lines: … a silver thorn a bloody rose, lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
  4. Incorrectly recorded by many as ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. The incident is recorded in the movie “Gimme Shelter”. The Stones dropped the song from their concert repertoire for about ten years.

The Red Rose and the Briar

A brief look at the ballad tradition, with special reference to “Barbara Allen”

Traditionally and historically a ballad is an oral narrative poem with no attributed author, sometimes recited and sometimes sung, occasionally to the accompaniment of a musical instrument. The heyday of the ballad was the late Middle Ages and the most prolific area was that of the Border Counties of England and the Lowlands of Scotland. Indeed it is common to talk of ‘Border Ballads’, even though in time they have spread throughout most parts of the British Isles.

We should be careful to distinguish between the traditional Border ballad and the later ‘street’ or ‘broadside’ ballad. The former comes from a preliterate, rural community, tends to the tragic, romantic and heroic, frequently contains elements of the supernatural and is often contained in tenuously connected narrative fragments. The street ballad comes later, is urban, comic and realistic, passed around a literate society in printed form and tends to have a more leisurely and detailed narrative delivery. We shall concern ourselves in this article only with the first kind.

Our knowledge of the English ballad today is largely due to a certain Prof. Francis James Child, who in his five volume collection The English and Scottish Popular Ballads (1882-98) has left us the definitive ballad canon, consisting of 305 Ballads in 1000 versions. These are songs once sung by milkmaids, nurses and ploughmen: popular music in the real sense of the word, music of the people, authors unknown.

Child’s studies encompassed both the British Isles and North America, where the settlers took their customs with them, often living in closed communities with little contact with the linguistic and cultural mainstream. One often cited example is that of the pockets of communities in the Appalachian Mountains who when ‘rediscovered’ at the turn of the twentieth century were still speaking a variety of English that was in all effects that of Shakespeare’s England. In many cases they had also kept the songs and customs they brought with them from the various parts of England they had fled.

While Child is the undoubted authority on ballad texts his counterpart for the collection of ‘tunes” was a certain Bertrand Harris Bronson, who in his four volume publication The Traditional Tunes of the Child Ballads, published in New Jersey between 1959-72 collected an enormous variety of different musical versions. Together with his UK counterpart Cecil Sharp of the English Folk Song and Dance Society an amazing amount of fieldwork has been done, tracking down elderly people in isolated rural areas who have maintained an oral tradition that includes songs first mentioned more than five hundred years ago. Fortunately much of this material has now been recorded and is available for consultation through the Library of Congress and other similar organisations.

Some characteristics of the ballad

 The tale and the tune were of equal importance. The ballad was made for singing but the ‘story’ was predominant. There was a set of standard images, metaphors and conventions familiar to the public who therefore knew what to expect. A parallel can be drawn here with audiences attending Elizabethan or Jacobean theatre who also knew what was going to ‘happen’; the strength of the play (or ballad) lay not only in the telling but also in the retelling of a familiar tale.

Most ballads seem to be medieval in origin. At this time society was largely illiterate and it was not until the Eighteenth century that ballads began to be collected in written form. It is because ballads come from a pre-literate era that there tend to be so many different versions.

While originally the events behind many ballads may have been local the story will have spread more widely. Presumably travelling people, the equivalent of today’s buskers and ‘travellers’, moved from town to town and a good story-teller or troubadour would have been able to count on getting his supper.

People in medieval England and Scotland were more mobile than is often supposed and the versions carried around the country by travelling balladeers would have been oral, not written. Ballads would have travelled slowly, as there was no mass dissemination through the national media as today. But the ‘essence’ of the ballad will gradually have made its way around the country, even if the form suffered many changes.

The ballad has a stylistic and thematic clarity. The themes are simple: revenge, unrequited love, mistreated maidens, philanderers getting their comeuppance, etc. Roles are on the whole polarised into good and bad, black and white.

Essentially the ballad was made for singing; they can be considered narrative songs with a metrical structure that made them easy to memorise. The oral tradition with its consequent call for memory skills led to certain stylistic features: vocabulary conventions, simple and predictable rhymes, incremental repetitions, obligatory epithets, magical numbers, nuncupative testaments (see below), commonplace phrases, a strong reliance on dramatic dialogue, etc.

These features helped to make the ballads easy to remember. The oral balladeer, unlike more ‘literary’ poets, depended on prefabricated formulas which would provide him with a convenient mental package in which he could wrap his narrative. This, easily fixed in the brain, was equally easily passed on, but what was passed on was the ‘shape’, not the form. New singers would adapt the shape to new circumstances, personalising it and making it comfortable to them, yet the ballad remained recognisable.

On different occasions the same performer might modify some aspects of the form but the shape of the song remained recognisably the same – orally transmitted and orally transmuted[1]. One Elizabethan song, Lamikin (Child 93), is printed by Child in twenty-two different versions but they all tell essentially the same tale.

What happens is that the narrative macrostructure remains intact while the stylistic microstructure changes. This is hard to understand for those who live in a literate society, but a good analogy is a joke which remains constant and recognisable although there is no fixed way of telling it.

Music

 The scales on which many folk ballads are based differed from the major and minor as used in Western music today. Some belong to the family of what are sometimes called ‘Greek’ modes. Some of them are considered ‘gapped’ scales (certain steps being consistently absent) while others seem to belong to no classifiable system whatsoever.

In the earlier part of this century US Professor of Music John Jacob Niles made an extraordinary recording of some of the Child ballads to the accompaniment of a home-made dulcimer. Very rare today, two albums are available on the Folkways label and his falsetto singing style may give a fair representation of how some of these ballads once sounded. Other recordings have been archived at the Library of Congress and by the English Folk Dance and Song Society. In Britain today there is a strong revivalist movement in traditional folk music and much is available on disk, cassette and CD.

Style

The verse structure is typically abcb and 179 out of the 305 ballads in the Child canon follow this pattern, with a and c being four-stress and b being three-stress lines. We see this in Mary Hamilton (Child 173 I), Geordie (Child 209) and Barbara Allen (Child 84) to name but three of the best known ballads. There is a tendency to repeat the last line of each stanza.

The typical ballad metre has quatrains which alternate iambic tetrameters with iambic trimeters and it is probable that the form was once a fourteen syllable couplet which later split into the common eight and six syllable form.

Such a split may well have brought an increasing tendency to rhyme the first and third lines as well as the third and fourth, giving the abab structure present in many of the later ballads. Nevertheless, given the enormous dialectal variation around the country, the idiosyncrasies and idiolects of each individual singer and the extent to which the language has changed over the centuries it is hard to do more than make an educated guess as to how they would have sounded.

Ballads commonly contain a ‘refrain’ which is poetically decorative, easy to remember and musically essential. This is echoed in carols, folk stories (e.g. Little Red Riding Hood with it’s frequently repeated “who’s been …ing”) and sagas.[2] We can see this refrain today in Bob Dylan’s song A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall (recently revived by Edie Brickell) where he has the recurring lines

Where have you been my blue-eyed son
Where have you been my darling young one

in which a dialogue between mother and son is patterned very closely indeed on Lord Randal (Child 12), with its

Oh where have you been, Lord Randall my son ?
O where have you been, my handsome young man ?

although the narrative development differs [3].

Rhyme schemes are generally predictable and often sound forced to a modern audience – ‘bower’ & ‘honour’, ‘warm’ & ‘bairn’, ‘narrow’ & ‘sorrow’ & ‘tomorrow’ – although these usually present no problem when sung. These reflect sound changes that have taken place in the language but the conventions remain and are followed today as part of the tradition even in more modern ballads. One example: in the relatively recent The Wild Colonial Boy the word ‘wound’ (injury) is made to rhyme with ‘ground’ [4].

Although the music is generally subjugated to the words – in fact most ballads were originally sung unaccompanied – the ‘tune’ can sometimes (although admittedly not always) be very melodic. Joan Baez exploited this aspect of the ballad very successfully in the sixties with a series of studio recordings of the Child ballads. As for variety, one ballad, The Maid Freed from the Gallows (Child 95), was registered by Bronson with 68 different tunes. There is a very definite tendency, however, for the melody to be simple and repetitive, and it is interesting that Blues, although not sharing the same melodies, often shares the same external structures. A fascinating bridge between the traditions of the folk ballad and the blues can be found in Bob Dylan’s deliberately monotonous Ballad of Hollis Brown, which echoes many conventions of the past while remaining firmly rooted in the dust bowl present Dylan inherited for a while from Woody Guthrie.

The narrative tends to be very dramatic (see text of Barbara Allen in box) with an explosive situation and highly volatile characters. Something simply has to happen and does. There is a clear parallel here with the fatalism of classical tragedy.

Tales may not be new. Indeed, generally they are not, but like classic tragedy they can withstand re-telling. Nor are they particularly concerned with historical accuracy. The ballad is autonomous, that is to say it contains its own terms of reference, and has its own internal consistency and coherence.

The symbolism can be repetitive but also very powerful. A good example can be found at the very end of Barbara Allen where the ‘Red Rose’ (the cultivated, perfect bloom, representing amongst other things the noble Sweet William) and the ‘Briar’ (the wild rose, either born that way or reverted to type, representing the feral, untamed Barbara Allen), unable to be together in life, are finally united in death. For me this couplet is one of the finest and most evocative in the whole of the Child collection.

Many conventions of vocabulary are set pieces that occur in ballad after ballad. Some examples: ‘seven brave sons’, ‘bridle me my milk-white steed’, ‘twelve month and a day’. And there are narrative conventions too. If one lover dies, then usually so does the other, inevitably ‘on the morrow’, and as often as not ‘in sorrow’.

Deathbed and scaffold speeches are common, often accompanied by the nuncupative testament where a dying or departing protagonist orally disposes of his worldly goods. This is sometimes done ironically, with a dying subject leaving a curse behind him instead of his chattels. An example is The Cruel Brother (Child 11A), where the dying heroine leaves all her worldly goods to various faithful family members but when asked about her brother (who has stabbed her for not asking him to approve her choice of husband)

What will you leave to your brother John

she replies:

The gallows tree to hang him on

There are early glimpses of magic realism too. Actions and events are often exaggerated to make them more vivid – e.g. a man’s legs are cut off in battle and he goes on fighting on his stumps. On the more human side, simple people derive vicarious pleasure from listening to tales of ladies in all their finery, robes and jewels. And perhaps too a touch of Schadenfreude in seeing how far the high and mighty can fall, or be punished.

Stark contrasts are common, as in Mary Hamilton:

When she cam to the Netherbrow Port
She laughed loud laughters three
But when she cam to the gallows-foot
The tears blinded her ee

and again in the Gypsie Laddie (Child 200)

Last night I slept in a goose feather bed
With the lily white sheets around me so
And tonight I’ll sleep all alone in the deep
Alone with the black black gypsy O

Content

Ballad singers wanted to provide exciting narrative, to tell extraordinary tales, with easily assimilated narrative substance that would provide a welcome means of escape from the predictable rhythms of everyday life. People today are on the whole empirical – that is to say we understand the nature of cause and effect. We tend today to rely on information where the non-literate relied on imagination.

The balance people held between rational belief and superstition in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries is not immediately easy to comprehend for a twentieth century audience. Folklore in those times was an imaginative interpretation of an apparently random universe and people took entertainment very seriously indeed. They were perhaps naive, but not hopelessly credulous, nor totally at the mercy of superstition, rooted as they were in the harsh reality of their rural world.

An analysis of most popular ballads shows that they deal with tragic love, the eternal triangle, murder, rape, magic, romantic passion, unrequited love and the supernatural. Much in fact like best-sellers today. This is not so much to say that the people of the time believed in ghosts, the supernatural, etc., as that they liked hearing about them. They enjoyed a good story. But we are talking about the dawn of the age of reason here, not about Neanderthals shivering in some primeval bog. That said, even today how many of us are altogether happy alone in the forest at night? And in those days there was a lot of forest and no artificial light.

Interestingly enough, even in an age where church attendance was compulsory by law, there is a noticeable lack of religious dogma in the ballads. Indeed, they frequently deal with sex and violence and even those with religious themes (inevitably Christian but with occasional heretical elements) would have been blasphemous to the strictly orthodox puritan. This is a people’s tradition, not something foisted upon them by officialdom, and it deals with the things they were concerned with (and presumably interested in). Rape, premarital sex, marital infidelity, unwanted pregnancies and children born out of wedlock are at the heart of the ballad tradition yet a moralistic tone is almost entirely absent. This is not to say that revenge or justice are not meted out but carnality per se is not overtly condemned.

The verbal duel and the riddle – examples are Fause Knight upon the Road (Child 3) and Captain Wedderburn’s Courtship [5] (Child 46 A) – are other frequent elements. The second of these is a typical contest with chastity at stake and has strong sexual overtones throughout. The ballad, the people’s song, is nothing if not earthy.

Returning to the theme of magic and the supernatural we can see a frequent preoccupation with metamorphosis, changelings and fairy folk. Interestingly enough, the theme of Silkie, otherwise known as The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry (Child 113) with a protagonist that is half man and half seal, has only recently been revived in local cinemas as El Secreto de Roan Irish. Resurrection, witchcraft, battles between human and fairy forces; these are themes that recur throughout the Child canon.

So too is the idea of defeat against insuperable odds – the battle of Agincourt was after all a relatively recent reality and one kept alive in every Englishman’s breast. Revived by Shakespeare in Henry V, Agincourt was invoked even as recently as the Second World War in Olivier’s propagandist film production and yet again, a few years ago, in Kenneth Branagh’s rather less satisfying techni-colour extravaganza. Sympathy for the underdog is timeless, and was exploited in the Middle Ages just as much as today.

I remarked earlier that the ballads are not necessarily good history. We can obviously put the natural deformity of detail down to the ravages of time but the truth is that it doesn’t really matter. At the time the dealings of King and Court were greatly removed from the common people who in more remote areas might live several years without even knowing that a reigning monarch had been replaced. The sea captain Patrick Spens is well known today, but who was he ? No one knows. The legends (and ballads) of Robin Hood are none the less enjoyable for the fact that the outlaw himself is a very elusive historical personage, most probably an amalgam of several different people. For the ballad historical details are not important. In time the essence of the tale becomes more important than the veracity of the events or the identity of the protagonists.

Mention should be made of the cinematographic aspect of the ballad. I use the word ‘cinematographic’ because the conventions are in a sense a precursor of modern editing techniques in film making; the quick cut, the fade, the dissolve, the flashback, etc.

Consider these lines from Patrick Spens (Child 58 A):

The king hath sent a letter
And sealed it with his hand
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Was walking on the strand

where from one line to the next, with no linkage, the scene dissolves from the king sealing the letter to Sir Patrick Spens reading it, exactly as is done on TV or in the cinema today. Examples like this abound in the Child ballads.

Finally, we return to the evocative language. The word evokes the image, and the conventions must be respected. Magic numbers were very real – the number seven, for example, as in ‘seven days and nights he rode’, ‘seven brave sons with seven swords’, etc. Horses are typically ‘milk white steeds’ and are as often as not ‘bridled’ [6], periods of time are invariably finished by ‘and a day’, etc. In ballads of the 1960s the ‘milk white steed’ had become the ‘midnight freight’; equally evocative, the only difference being the terms of reference.

Bonny Barbara Allen

In an entry in his famous Diary for 2 January 1666, the year of the Great Fire of London, the British Naval Chronicler Samuel Pepys refers to the song Barbary Allen (sic), and how he would have the woman with whom he was infatuated at that time sing it for him. In their billets-doux she was his ‘Barbara Allen’ and he was, with apologies to the sensitive, her ‘Dapper Dicky’.

A famous collection of ballads was published in 1765 as Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. The editor was one Thomas Percy, who was encouraged in his venture by Shenstone, Johnson, Garrick and others. Familiarly known as Percy’s Reliques, it was immensly popular and, along with The Bible, the Book of Common Prayer and Milton’s Pilgrim’s Progress was through the years one of the major influences on British culture[7], although the post-literate society towards which we seem to be heading may have no place for any of these.

Percy called the ballad Barbara Allen’s Cruelty, and his version ends in sermonising voice:

Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all
And shun the fault I fell in
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen

Barbara Allen is perhaps the most famous of the British ballads and the song itself has survived in many versions. One is left with the feeling that the story (see text) is incomplete, that much is presupposed or deliberately left unsaid. Yet it is in the succinctness of the tale that its strength lies – we are told only that two lovers met and parted, that she hastened his death, was indifferent to his suffering – in some versions she laughs when told how he wastes away – and then repented and died on the following day. Scant detail indeed.

And how to explain her cruelty ? Some versions call her ‘Barbarous Ellen’. There would seem to be a general agreement that Barbara Allen had some power over the man in question – ‘Sweet William’ in the version printed here, in other versions ‘Sir John Graeme’, ‘Jemmy Grove’, et al, – very possibly through some kind of spell or witchcraft.

Maybe she was put out because he had led her on and then abandoned her to marry someone of his own station. For this reason she may have bewitched him, making a ‘voodoo style’ doll out of his clothing, nail parings, hair, etc., into which she stuck steel pins while slowly turning it over a candle flame. In Thomas Hardy’s novel The Return of the Native Eustacia Vye is bewitched in just this way and the practice was common in country districts in England until at least the mid nineteenth century[8].

There may be a clue in one early variant quoted (but not attributed) by Allingham in his The Ballad Book. Here, in a deathbed conversation between the dying lord and the hard-hearted Barbara Allen, appear the lines:

“Oh do you not mind, young man”, she says
“When the red wine you were filling
That you made the healths go round and round
And slighted Barbara Allen

Here ‘mind’ means remember and ‘healths’ would be toasts drunk to friends present or absent. But discourtesy (‘slights’) over the dinner table seems little enough motive for such cruelty.

In any case the circumstantial detail is not so important – what we have here is the essence of hundreds of romantic love stories distilled into this one ballad. The tantalising lack of detail adds an extra element of mystery to a tragic tale.

Final observations

Traditional ballads were not conceived in artistic isolation to gratify the inspirational genius of a lonely creator, nor to line the pockets of a Motown mogul. They were made to be used, to be handed around and handed on, the proud possession of a people obsessed with survival, taking time out for entertainment that would survive with them and, unbeknownst to them, dramatically outlive them. The turning point came with mass literacy and improved communications. Today the world of the ballad gives us a tantalising glimpse of a past to which we can never return.

© Martin Eayrs, Buenos Aires, November 1995

 

Bibliography

Bold Alan, The Ballad, London (Methuen) 1979
Bronson Bertrand Harris, The Ballad as Song, Berkley, California (University of California Press) 1969
Bronson Bertrand Harris, The Traditional Tunes of the Child Ballads, 4 Vols., Princeton N.J. (University Press) 1959-72
Bryant Arthur, Samuel PepysThe Man in the Making, London (Collins) 1949.
Buchan David, The Ballad and the Folk, London & Boston 1972
Child Francis James, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, 5 Vols., Boston 1882-98, reprinted new York (Dover Publications) 1965.
Fowler David C, A Literary History of the Popular Ballad, Durham NC 1968.
Graves Robert (ed.), The English Ballad, London 1927.
Kinsley James (ed.), The Oxford Book of Ballads, Oxford (OUP) 1969
Lloyd A L, Folk Song in England, London 1975
Lloyd A L & Vaughan Williams Ralph, The Penguin Book of English Folk Songs, London (Penguin) 1980.
Reeves James, The Writer’s Approach to the Ballad, London (Harrap) 1976
Sharp Cecil James, Collection of English Folk Songs, 2 Vols., London (OUP) 1974

Appendix: Text of Barbara Allen

Version from memory

‘Twas in the merry month of May
When the green buds they were swellin’
Sweet William on his death bed lay
For the love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his servant to the town
To the place where she was dwellin’
Saying you must come to my master dear
If your name be Barbara Allen.

And slowly, slowly, she got up
And slowly went she nigh him
And the only words to him did say
Young man, I think you’re dyin’.

He turned his face unto the wall
And death was in him wellin’
Goodbye, Goodbye, my good friends all
Be good to Barbara Allen.

Now he is dead and in his grave
She heard the death bells knellin’
And every stroke to her did say
Hard-hearted Barbara Allen.

Come, Mother, Oh, Mother, go dig my grave
Make it both long and narrow
Sweet William died of love for me
And I will die of sorrow

And, Father, Oh Father, go dig my grave
Make it both long and narrow
Sweet William died of love for me
And I will die tomorrow.

Barbara Allen was buried in the old churchyard
Sweet William lay beside her
Out of Sweet William’s heart there grew a rose
Out of Barbara Allen’s a briar.

They grew and grew in the old churchyard
Till they could grow no higher
They grew till they formed a true love’s knot
The red rose round the briar.

NOTES

[1]     In his troubador/balladeer phase Bob Dylan used to do this when he sang live at his campus concerts in the 1960s, frequently altering the lyrics, often quite drastically, yet always somehow singing ‘the same song’.

[2]     In fact, the scene in Little Red Riding Hood where the girl says to the wolf ‘what great big ……… you’ve got’ comes straight from the Thirteenth Century Norse Edda, where Loki is trying to explain to the giant Thrym why his would-be bride Freya (really Loki in disguise) has such unlady-like features. Plus ça change

[3]     Dylan only takes his version so far, but he does preserve the question and answer format and although obviously his song (about nuclear fallout) goes into very different areas they both, interestingly enough, end in death and destruction.

[4]     Another example, very well known to Anglican church-goers, occurs in the perennial problem posed in the traditional Christmas Carol Good King Wenceslas, where generations of choirmasters have had to decide whether or not to rhyme ‘find’ with ‘wind’ (the kind that blows).

[5]     Perhaps more commonly known as I gave my Love a Cherry

[6]     This is echoed by Dylan in his later, Country, period where (in Country Pie) he sings ‘saddle me up a big white goose’.

[7]     Sir Walter Scott (whose Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border is an illuminating source for ballad lovers) remembered “To read and remember was in this instance the same thing, and henceforth I overwhelmed my schoolfellows, and all who would hearken to me, with tragical recitations from the ballads of Percy”.

[8]     Robert Graves (in English and Scottish Ballads) suggests: ‘It is clear enough that Sir John Graeme did not die merely of a broken heart […] He seems to have been a landowner who had an affair with a country girl, but later decided to marry a woman of his own class. When this marriage was announced, the girl avenged herself by bewitching him…’. All this is conjecture, but something slightly foreboding definitely lurks behind the surface text.

Glíglico in English

This is a fairly free translation (what else could it be?) of an extract from Julio Cortázar’s Rayuela, chapter 68. Cortazár wrote this in Glíglico, a language he invented for the purpose. I did it to try to prove to a friend that it was possible – the reader can be the judge.


Source text

Apenas él le amalaba el noema, a ella se le agolpaba el clémiso y caían en hidromurias, en salvajes ambonios, en sustalos exasperantes. Cada vez que él procuraba relamar las incopelusas, se enredaba en un grimalo quejumbroso y tenía que envulsionarse de cara al nóvalo, sintiendo cómo poco a poco las arnillas se espejunaban, se iban apeltronando, reduplimiendo, hasta quedar tendido como el trimalciato de ergomanina al que se le han dejado caer unas filulas de cariconcia. Y sin embargo era apenas el principio, porque en un momento dado ella se tordulaba los hurgalios, consintiendo en que él aproximara suavemente sus orfelunios. Apenas se entreplumaban, algo como un ulucordio los encrestoriaba, los extrayuxtaba y paramovía, de pronto era el clinón, la esterfurosa convulcante de las mátricas, la jadehollante embocapluvia del orgunio, los esproemios del merpasmo en una sobrehumítica agopausa. ¡Evohé! ¡Evohé! Volposados en la cresta del murelio, se sentían balparamar, perlinos Y márulos. Temblaba el troe. se resolviraba en un profundo pínice, en niolamas de argutendidas gasas, en carinias casi crueles que los oropenaban hasta el límite de las gunfias.


My translation

He’d hardly got her titler bondled before her clymisse tightened and they collapsed in wartrous wallings, in wild andonbonons, in frustrated frelights. He tried and tried to slek her impubellae but kept getting all twisted up in a crantankous whimble and could only voltate himself to confront the newal, feeling how, little by little, the squipples splunkated, scrivened and redrippled, until they were stretched out like a thumanic thrilkiat into which a few fillips of phism have been dribbled. But this was only the start. Her glissyms started to trebulate, and she let him gently into her harlouns. They barely had time to quill before a kind of melochord crescated up over them, extricted and primoted them, and then, suddenly, came the cleniks, the streferous convulcation of two madrimos, the thrilkiat’s exhalborant wettenmoth, a marfent’s sprizzen in an inhumate outpuss. Ailluie! Ailluie! Soarfling the crest of the wellule, they felt themselves steapling, all limbid and marrogate. The toc still shook, desidrating into a deep slunk, surrounded by flamblings of extenguate gauze, by the almost cruel dearings which golpentrated them, right to the depths of their gumbles.


And no, it wasn’t easy !!

Buenos Aires, February 2007