We’ve updated our Terms of Use to reflect our new entity name and address. You can review the changes here.
We’ve updated our Terms of Use. You can review the changes here.
/
  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    Purchasable with gift card

      £7 GBP  or more

     

1.
Knight of the (slightly drooping) Garter, King of Bankrupt Hall, Lord of the Backstairs Tower Tryst, Stout Adam of the Fall. Richeldis, Julian, Sawtrey, Nelson, Boleyn and Boudicca tall, Margery, Fanny, Turnip, Kett, Old Tom Paine and all- Norfolk and good our heroes stand With something pure about ’em But none more Norfolk nor less good Than Dodgy Bob of Houghton. Sir Robert Walpole, King of Sink, The Pharaoh of the Flaw, The not so bumpkin Norfolk dumplin’ Loophole in the Law. The first Prime Minister and still Unequalled in that office; The backwoods front-man, laughing loud, The Prince of Peace – and Profits. The Age he named is hero-free, No children need to know. They keep it off the syllabus, No killers boldly go. No Bonnie Charlie anthems, saints, No bagpipe calls to arms; Just German Georges 1 and 2, Enlightenment and farms. The beau, the rake, the dandy, fop, The mistress-paying knights, The hypocrite with itchy palm: ‘All thesemen have their price.’ Sir Robert Walpole, Count of Cash, The Pharaoh of the Flaw, The not so bumpkin country speakin’ Loophole in the Law. His Babel built ‘too far from London’ [12] Under a Norfolk bushel The Neptune and Britannia Rampant Counting House as Castle. His bust and Caesar hairdo placed A British cut above The classic Mantle he assumed Of Wisdom, Justice, Love. Removed the timber duty while He ordered his supplies, Avoided Finished Buildings tax With one unfinished frieze. Sir Robert Walpole, Earl of Ease, The Pharaoh of the Flaw, The ruddy cunnin’ Norfolk rulin’ Loophole in the Law. Our burly boisterous backhand Bob Was bawdy in his cups Had heart-to-hearts with kings and queens Yet kept the common touch. And when the South Sea Bubble burst And drowned both Whig and Tory, He saved the country with a speech And rode the tide to glory Avoided War for eighteen years Of Profit weighed with cost, ‘They ring the bells, they’ll wring their hands,’ He said when Peace was lost. Sir Robert Loophole, Laughin’ Bob, The Prophet of the Flaw, Three hundredweight of Killed Cock Robin[13] Loophole in the Law. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
2.
Brown Lady of the Haunted Halls Where root and pig are rife They say he killed her in his wrath Who loved her more than life. ‘Where eyes should be, dark hollows were,’ Said one bold guest at Raynham Another shot her shadow as she Disappeared behind them. What I have seen, I pray to God, I’ll not again, Geist outen!’ Cried George IV ‘I will not sleep Another hour at Houghton! She died the queen of Norfolk’s reign, First Lady of the Whigs, They took her photo on the stairs In 1936 She loved her Viscount Charlie true, She loved her brother Robin, She was the heart that joined them when The family firm was thriving. And now she spooks the titled dogs That guard the beds at night And gives her guests in Halls, on stairs And blackout roads a fright. For love’s the witch to rule them all Who more than turnips love What are we else but rutting swine? She answers from above: I was the queen of Norfolk’s reign, First Lady of the Whigs, I am the Ghost of England Past, The Circe of her pigs. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
3.
He took the job that couldn’t be done. By God, he couldn’t do it! He ploughed against his inner grain And stuck his foot right through it. His fits of spleen were legendary, He brooked no contradictions, A bladed feather-spitting lord, ‘A slave to brutal passions.’ ‘Perplexed and slow in argument, Inelegant in language’, They sent him to the House of Lords; He spoke like Wurzel Gummidge. The voice of Norfolk at the court, Its Lord Lieutenant he; He died of apoplexy but He lives in every tree. He makes the world go round and bucks His pheasant-pluckers’ earnships; He turns the Earth in cultured hand: He’s wonderful with turnips. As Foreign Secretary he schemed Though briefed to keep the peace Alliances against our friends And with our enemies. A diplomat who spurned to spin A web of subterfuge, He told it bluntly as it was, Offensively and huge. When Walpole, brother to his wife Presumed to doubt his words, He collared his old bon ami And both went for their swords. ‘Robbing Bob!’ ‘You Charlie, Sir! And haughty in your carriage!’ ‘Who’ll kill Cock Robin?’ ‘I, Sir, I!’ ‘Beshrew your dead wife’s marriage!’ He turns his back upon the world And bucks his peasants’ earnships; He turns the Earth in cultured hand: He’s wonderful with turnips. He led the Revolution From a rich man’s high estate Made model farming a la mode, Enlightened stall and gate. He made a science of the sod, An Athens of the yard, Went Dutch with clover and sainfoin, He barned and hedged and marled. He showed the world his meat and veg, His four rotation art And made a well-bred vanguard of The Norfolk farmer’s cart. “What ought not, cannot, be allowed, What makes my choler churn, it's What small proportion of your farm, Stout yeoman, is in turnips!” He makes the world go round and bucks His pheasant-pluckers’ earnships; He turns the Earth in cultured hand: He’s wonderful with turnips. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
4.
Homage to an unsung and underpaid group of East Anglian heroes who, when England’s population was booming at a time of unprecedented economic growth between the end of the Elizabethan period and the Industrial Revolution, sailed north through hell and high water to the arctic circle and brought back the cheap nutritious foodstuff a growing nation needed. And precious little thanks they had for it. The Mayor he sits in Norwich town Eating his snow-white cod ‘This fair meat of the northern wastes Is English as our God. We need a fleet to bring it home To feed our growing nation Of salts who sail close to the wind And closer to starvation.’ The frozen price of Iceland cod Is Norwich Market cheap But the rising tax on catch and salt Makes tar and fishwife weep. Oh these chippy men of Nelson’s breed Who braved the northern seas They paid the highest price of all And the meanest price received. The Iceland fleet sails north in March, Great ships of forty men, The doughtiest hearts in England’s shores From Eastern shire and fen. Such crews as drive the men of war To English Victory Cured by these waves, the saltest men Who ever put to sea. Fierce winds and tides have blocked for weeks Their course through Pentland Firth, The nearest place to death and hell On all God’s Christian earth. Oh these chippy men of Nelson’s breed Who braved the northern seas They paid the highest price of all And the meanest price received. And the Danish King sits like a storm That broods upon a shore: ‘Six miles off Iceland you must toss Nor trade nor fish there more!’ ‘No time, sea-lads, for those native cures And cods hung out to dry, Our summer catch is steeped in salt To keep it from the fly And salt is taxed at rising rates By Oliver’s excise And ten score cod per loaded ship His officers will prise.’ Oh these chippy men of Nelson’s breed Who braved the northern seas They paid the highest price of all And the meanest price received. Widows and traders who keep afloat These ventures seal their loan With a premium more than twice the mean For so many come not home. O long the Jack Tar’s journey home And deep the briny ocean And toothsome was the bone-white cod That fed a hungry nation. And long the Norfolk[11]fishwives stand With wood combs in their hair In August at the water’s edge When fish nor men appear. Oh these chippy men of Nelson’s breed Who braved the northern seas They paid the highest price of all And the meanest price received. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
5.
Midsummer nightmare driving The roads around Tom Paine, The June moon had me crying Were all his dreams in vain? The woods were blurred with menace, I could not read the signs, My Common Sense was fading, It has so many times. The Rights of Man and Woman Like road-kill on the track, Too deep and late the forest To think of turning back. Midsummer in the greenwood, Midwinter chill within, The starry sky of reason, The night as dark as sin. Tom Paine is pointing down the road To new world Washington; I meet the clear and steady eye Of Revolution That maps a Constitution through The dead decaying mess, The Royal Burkshire Hunters’ praise Of murky wilderness. Midsummer in the greenwood, The night as dark as sin, The angel moon of reason, The pain of hope within. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
6.
Our Admiral’s head it has one eye Heave away! Heave away! His empty sleeve’s the flag we fly. ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Heave away Horatio’s boys Heave away! Heave away! Heave away and make a Victory noise We're gone tomorrow but we're here today! He hunted polar bears, the lad Heave away! Heave away! ‘To fetch a white rug to my dad.’ ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Chorus Mosquitoes bit him half to death: Heave away! Heave away! ‘I’ll die a hero’s life instead’ ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Chorus Off Corsica, his eye foresworn, Heave away! Heave away! ‘I got a little hurt this morn.’ ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Chorus Off Cape St Vincent, breaking ranks, Heave away! Heave away! He won the day and England’s thanks. ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Chorus Our king’s right hand at Santa Cruz; Heave away! Heave away! A night to seize; an arm to lose. ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Chorus ‘A peerage or Westminster crypt!’ Heave away! Heave away! He sinks the French from here to Egypt ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Chorus ‘You’ll discontinue!’ flagged his Admiral. Heave away! Heave away! ‘My blind eye does not see your signal!’ ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Chorus ‘Redoubtable’ sharpshooters spy him Heave away! Heave away! ‘They’ve done for me at last. I’m dying.’ ‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say. Heave away Horatio’s boys Heave away! Heave away! Heave away and make a Victory noise We're heroes tomorrow but we're gone today! © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
7.
Strange that an Encyclopaedic Age Leaves Fye Bridge House un-reckoned on its page. But wait! a lace-cuffed bard with limpid eye Is halted by a spirit thrilling by… ‘I haunt the former greatness of this Hall - Before a ceiling floored its gothic stage, My cheek is paper-white, my poppy Mouth the blemish on a poet’s page.’ ‘Consumptive spirit! Wild! Unbounded! Free! O sleepless beauty past all human measure.’ She falls upon the thorns of life. I bleed! Her gates of Eden open at my ple-…. ‘I pine for Ruined Hall and sing An elegy of days before a floor Plucked window’s eye and clipped the wings Of church-like space, staired flights unknown before!’ I charge her cup again, again, and ever: Our Road to Wisdom’s Palace is Excess; Her blood lips wailing for her demon lover And black eyes staring from her naked breasts!’ Repeat ‘Consumptive spirit…’ Chorus Alas! A pounding at the door, the vision flies. The Parson calls on business, and the Poem ...dies! © Gareth Calway 2004 "House on the River" (King of Hearts) and then 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
8.
‘Come out in the dark lane, lonely boy, Leave your laptop and play with me. Leave your father and mother and holiday home For my wildwood and wicked sea.’ A gone-tomorrow full-moon face In bonnet and Sunday best; A goose ran up and down my flesh, My hair stood like a crest. ‘I’d die to hold a girl like you, So fashion-hungry thin But fear there is no heart behind That sly come-hither grin. ‘There’s maggots in your Sunday best, Your bony heroin chic’s A shade too grave about your mouth, Your vulture-grinning beak.’ ‘I’ve been Death’s bride two hundred years And much too young to die, Let me take you back to 1819, The Fifth Day of July.’ The Squire rode down my father’s door ‘All hands to the pump!’ honked he. ‘Sir, I’m weary from working your bone-dry fields, ‘My family hath need of me!’ ‘You’re weary from working my golden fields But my House expects a neighbour And my Stream has dried in the lower field And my Pump demands your labour.’ Our childish shrieks filled the heaven-blue Played hide and seek round the paves Laughed under the leaves of Eden-green And kiss-chased through the graves. The tardy teacher loomed at the gate, Seized my pretty lobes, Snatched my posy of burial flowers ‘You’re a hell child, Susan Nobes!’ The sunlit schoolroom candle burned A flame that barely lightened; A stroke before the clock struck nine It devilishly brightened. A growl and rumble at the door, As dark as pitch in the room, A sizzling hiss, like a snake on the roof, An ear-exploding boom. ‘Prayer,’ scorned the teacher, ‘is stronger than rain!’ The dark began to splinter In lightning tongues as bright as noon, It grew as cold as winter. ‘God save us!’ screamed the children all, The teacher tore her gown, The rain came down in ice and hail, The sky tipped upside down. A stained glass window-angel smashed, I kneeled and tried to pray, A fiery crack of sulphur took My girlish breath away. The flickering lightning licked the tower, Scorched a yard-wide hole in the wall And from where my Saviour hung on high Great blocks began to fall. ‘O Robert, our Susan’s lost in the storm. What kept you away so long?’ ‘The Squire needed water, he got his wish, But where is our daughter gone?’ ‘I sent her to Sunday School, oh Robert, And I fear my choice was cursed. For none alive has seen such a Flood Of gravesoil in the church. He forged the cross under baked Dove Hill Its Wash rolled like a tide, He climbed over hill to the rain-drenched crowd And took the teacher aside. ‘Where’s Susan?’ he asked, as quiet as Death, ‘I believe she is with her Saviour.’ ‘You left her alone in the schoolroom and fled?’ His question got no answer. He waded the Flood and past the font At which he’d named his daughter; A schoolroom chill as any tomb Awash with blocks and mortar. He found me lifeless upon the floor, My temples charred with flame, He clenched me in his arms and wept A tide he’ll never stem. ‘Come out in the dark lane, lonely boy, Leave your laptop and play with me. Leave your father and mother and holiday home For my wildwood and wicked sea.’ © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
9.
(b.1780, daughter of John Gurney of Earlham Hall, a Norwich banker and Quaker; married London Quaker Joseph Fry in 1800; formed the Association for the Improvement of Female Prisoners in Newgate there in 1817; helped persuade Peel’s government to reform the penal code in 1822, including conditions of transportation; The quality streets of the ’Nineties, Toy soldiers on painted tins With chocolate-box ladies in dresses And French Revolution within. I’m a Gurney of Earlham Hall, Norwich, The Cathedral City is mine With its ladies and literati, And Prince William to dance and to dine. In my riding-high scarlet habit, I shyly join the dance, Setting my feathered cap at the troops Bound for Napoleon’s France. These Quaker meetings, must I go? I’m ill, give my excuses. Love God but loathe hysterics, cant. I don’t know what God’s use is. ‘I must not flirt, be tetchy, proud, Be vain, the children’s scold, Be pretty, tall and passionate, Be seventeen years old.’ One Quaker-silent day, Love’s star Hoves like the Sun before me, The distant God I guessed, I see, I’m weeping but I’m happy. God’s nightmares come, I’m all at sea; The tide flows in and takes me, ‘Elizabeth’ is washed away, Her drowning breath forsakes me. These Quaker meetings, must I go? I’m ill, give my excuses. Love God but loathe hysterics, cant. I don’t know what God’s use is. White-robed, I brave the staring streets Serve poor and falsely damned, The press-ganged man whose wife with babe Was starved so stole then hanged; Barred slimy dungeons swarmed with rats, Cruel chains and iron collars, Beasted gaolbirds, brutal guards, Half-naked nights of horrors; The wagon loads brought to the docks Like cows for transportation To lives of crime – no other work “You can’t reform a felon!” These Quaker meetings, must I go? I’m ill, give my excuses. Love God but loathe hysterics, cant. I don’t know what God’s use is. She didn’t rant against the Law, False judges, gaolers, prisons, She touched the inmates’ desperate hearts, Cared for their ill-starred children, She taught them, got them work for bread; Brought faith and self-respect To filth, disorder, chaos, noise: The gaolbirds did the rest. Her act of faith – let Newgate be A place to be reformed, Not punished, demonised, disowned; The State observed and learned. These Quaker meetings, must I go? I have no more excuses. Love God and loathe hysterics, can And do know what God’s use is. in old age forced herself to petition Prince Albert and, in 1842, addressed a Quaker meeting out of apparent madness, in a wheelchair, ending with Isaiah’s ‘Thine eyes shall see the king in his beauty: they shall behold the land that is very far off’; d. Oct 12 1845) © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
10.
She sees the pale gold August wheat, The oaken greens of home, A mind’s-eye Norfolk harvest wrapped Around October’s bones. 6 paces off, 8 rifles point, Death scarves her blue-grey eyes, The woman stands and prays and waits And still no shot arrives… ‘Love of country’s not enough And when they shoot me dead Let bitterness and hatred die,’ Our Norfolk angel said. The British held the line at Mons, The French were in retreat, All stranded men came to her door Through Brussels’ conquered streets. 4 sneaks and spies to smoke her out, 3 days’ interrogation. She wouldn’t lie…. They shot her dead For love of more than nation. ‘Love of country’s not enough And when they shoot me dead Let bitterness and hatred die,’ Our Norfolk angel said. (spoken) Her life is flashing by, the days With Eddy on the beach When life was fresh and beautiful, The country dear and sweet. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
11.
“Harold Francis Davidson (‘Little Jimmy’) was loved by the villagers, who recognised his humanity and forgave him his transgressions. May he rest in peace.” (epitaph in Stiffkey churchyard) An actor cum rector, His pulpit his stage, Generous star of his parish’s Unlighted age. Serves his country and king In the First World War, Comes home to a wife Playing the whore. Spends his weekdays in Soho With poor girls undone, 25,000 fallen On the streets of London. Stiffkey to the Gate Of the kirk and pearlies, His trial grips the nation By the short and curlies. To the Stiffkey faithful He’s the open hand; To the North Norfolk gentry In the dock he stands. RANDY RECTOR OF STIFFKEY’s The Fleet Street shtick; Bishop Norwich calls in A muck-raking Dick. All the fallen absolve him Save the one Dick decants Down a bottle of lies Even she recants. Stiffkey to the Gate Of the kirk and pearlies, His trial grips the nation By the short and curlies. The Cathedral Inquisition Meets to pre-Judge him, The Snob-jobbing Old Boys Defrock and degrade him. He returns to the stage; At Blackpool he rages, Pleads his innocence, preaches To lions in cages. At Skeggy, he treads on The big tail of Freddie The Lion who shakes him And leaves him for deadie. The crowd cheers the show But the show is over For this people's’ padre, This Magdalene lover. Stiffkey to the Gate Of the kirk and pearlies, His trial grips the nation By the short and curlies. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
12.
Twisting round my hair in knots, Twisting round your neck with thoughts. My oh my, you have to agree Certain issues of poetry Can’t conceive of a harmony. I’m twisting pastoral flowers into your face. I’m twisting your kind of thinking into place. I’m twisting… Listening to you plum for choice Between degrees of passive vice. ‘There’s much that may be said for Donne.’ I am the outside world come in, Butchered hands and axe grinding, Open your ’ed and let me in! I’m twisting pastoral flowers into your face. I’m twisting your kind of thinking into place. I’m twisting…. Your rich aesthetic literariness Is like the lush grass on a grave. My oh my I’m rotten through But life moves through and it’s sick – of you. I’ll thrust you off me and trample you. I’m twisting pastoral flowers into your case I’m twisting your kind of thinking into place. I’m … Terminating this debate! Rose Red countermelody (sung in the round by MaznGaz) Rose rose rose red Shall I ever see thee wed? Aye, marry that thou wilt When thou art dead. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
13.
No waiting, no delay, Jump right in and off we’ll play: On the pink....all alone....number one; On the yellow....lovely legs....legs eleven.... Money bags busting wind with sand Weighing the rigs of glitter down, Bags stuffed sick with golden sand Weighing the rigs of glitter down. A tide wheels in between roadside signs, On sandy fortunes the Gold Disc shines. On the green....iced scream....sweet sixteen; On the change....don’t be naughty....blind forty.... Dishwasher switches off his tyrants, Takes a different wavelength; Miss Radio resists insistent parents, Takes a different wavelength; Breakers crash on boundless feelings Cashed on the rocks of mountainous nothings On the blue....heaven’s gate....fifty eight; On the grey....at the Styx....sixty six.... Moments are grapes in a heart-crush wine, Overflowing cups of detail and colour; Time’s cleavage gapes for heart-crush wine, Overflowing cups of detail and colour, Infinity collides with the corners of events, Kaleidoscopic shadows of the One beyond events.... No waiting, no delay, Jump right in and off we’ll play... © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
14.
Boudicca got a lot of Romans Hanging out in the Styx; The Woad Goddess goes to school Where they teach her how to be nix. She’s the Mother of Britain’s Biblical kicks Against the odds, Against the pricks. She’s the crazy moon In a gurly whirl The finest hour Of the Norfolk girl! Ride ride, I wanna ride, Ride ride, a riot on my horse, Woad woad, a-whoa woad, Blow whoa, a riot on my horn! She’s the fury in Janus’s office Sown with the wildest oats, She’s a wild goose-chasing sky, A whiff of burning boats. She’s the country queen With the world in sway Who blooms and blows It all away. She’s the crazy moon In a gurly whirl The finest hour Of the Norfolk girl! Ride ride, I wanna ride, Ride ride, a riot on my horse, Woad woad, a-whoa woad, Blow whoa, a riot on my horn! © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
15.
‘This creature had various tokens in her hearing. One was a kind of sound as if it were a pair of bellows blowing in her ear. She – being dismayed at this – was warned in her soul to have no fear, for it was the sound of the Holy Ghost. And then our Lord turned it into the voice of a DOVE, and afterwards he turned it into the voice of a little bird which is called a redbreast, that often sang very merrily in her right ear.’ ‘A crown of thorns to freeze your breath The berried holly brings; Through snowing sunlight chaste as death The silent barn-owl wings But now the ghostly holy dove That bellows in your ear Is tuned to robin-song by love And cheerfully made clear.’ The only gift left on the shelf That nothing else can rise above Includes all treasure, lasts forever, And grows when shared with others: love. Now starry angels on the tree Grow larger in the dusk To heaven-blue and Eden-green And gold and reindeer-musk. And what was heard by Margery, The Visionary of Lynn, Rings out on tills for checkout girls Who hear that robin sing. The only gift left on the shelf, That nothing else can rise above, Includes all treasures, lasts forever, And grows when shared with others: love. A sacred Ouse of honeyed sound Above her dreaming bed, She wakes as one in paradise And leaps as from the dead. A thrilling robin in her ear, A rose that’s heaven scent, A man divine to earthly eye, All music from Him lent. The only gift left on the shelf, That nothing else can rise above, Includes all treasures, lasts forever, And grows when shared with others: love. © Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622

about

DONE DIFFERENT is a double album of new folk Ballads celebrating "Boudicca's Country" ( ie Norfolk, Suffolk and parts of Cambridgeshire plus the East of England she once led to revolt against Rome). Like the book it's based on, (Gaz's 2015 Poppyland volume "Doin Different, new folk ballads from the East of England originally subtitled "Boudicca's Country,") this album celebrates the sung and unsung heroes and heroines of Icenia's history up to the present day, set to traditional or contemporary folk tunes, all performed and recorded by the Norfolk musical storytelling duo Peacock’s Tale. "Done Different" is the musical realisation of "Doin Different" in two one hour albums of 16 tracks each. Many tracks have music videos attached.*


These ballads have been performed live before audiences all over East Anglia, notably during a "Doin Different" tour that was launched on a Bronze Age barrow near Binham; (DD, track 1) then toured East of England folk festivals; folk clubs, libraries, arts centres, village halls, churches, historic houses, history groups, pubs and theatres. DD Track 7 (“Badass King John”) was probably its media high point when Gaz rapped it as part of a civic ceremony unveiling the statue of King John in Conduit Street Lynn, which headed the BBC Look East news programme that evening. DD 11 and DD 2 7 were high points of "The House of On The River", an earlier Norfolk and Norwich Festival show and East Anglian tour about the life of and times a Tudor merchant house in Norwich. A capacity Lynn Minster audience watched a 50-part choir perform the final track of DD2 in one medieval play featuring 5 other “Done Different” tracks as its musical score; while a packed Hanse House courtyard watched another. A "Doin Different" set played the Folk in the Town festival and Folk in a Field festivals and successive Lynn Heritage days.

The "Doin Different" tour even boldly ventured beyond the Waveney, regaling Suffolk history groups and festivals with stories about their county rivals while sharing stories about our common Celtic queen, Boudicca. It also took St Edmund to Bury, Hereward to Ely and Bourne, Boudicca to Lincoln and Cromwell to Ely.

Folk ballads (the Child Ballads are the classic example) are more literary than many song lyrics and tell 'news that stays news" stories of unaccommodated man and woman up against the odds and the elements. They tell of Sir Patrick Spens in all his glory going down beneath the foam of the Pentland Firth; of the May Queen in every village cut down like a rose in her prime. Ballads are elemental, primitive, urgent, earthy, spooky, haunted, both edge of nightmare real and cartoon-larger than life. They tell of murders and heaths and ghosts and riddles and magic and stark heroic defeats. Our generation may well have first met them in an ‘O’ level school book (like “The Poet’s Tale”) 50 years ago before hearing them anew on contemporary folk albums. These 30 ballads were originally published as poems, albeit poems that "tell a story" - just as the old ballads were.

Our interpretation of folk is the stories of the common folk, either about their heroes and heroines or about themselves; its music made by ordinary folk - sea shanties, work songs, chants, nursery rhymes, skiffle, rap and - with its emphasis on something urgent to articulate rather than the cleverness of the articulation- - punk. Apart from our beloved guest musicians of whom we are in awe and who are very virtuosic indeed, our instrumentation is simple, the mood direct and urgent, the ballad metres etched by percussion and bass; the words typically in a folk idiom: imagery drawn from nature and strong feeling in the manner of Wordsworth's "Lyrical Ballads" ie "language really used by men" - we would add "and women" - in heightened situations.

We like a drone - that oddly psychedelic feature common to folk, classical Early Music and the music of the East - and that is the main use to which the harmonium is put on this album. The alto recorder is used sparingly, as much birdcall/ wind/ghost sound effect as musical instrument (and our extremely modest contribution to its extinction rebellion.) Other than that it's just female and male voice, in lead/support, unison or harmony, drum and bass and occasional acoustic guitar and an emphasis on strong tunes and choruses - and, on the earlier tracks of DD1, on the spooky monks' chants that used to fill the churches and friaries of this landscape. A handful of the ballads are even left as spoken word with or without a setting, the art of the recitative than the aria.

All that said, Maz's voice rings out throughout like a song thrush on a May morning, which is a perfect fit for any 'folk' ballad. We're probably at our 'folkiest' on the real Robin Hood ballad (set to “The Lincolnshire Poacher”) and on the rousing closing track of each album.

Peacock’s Tale folk indie duo met, long before they ever thought about making music together, in 1975 at UEA, whose motto, following that of the Norfolk it stands on and celebrates, is ‘Do Different’. It seemed meant.


*That original book collected 39 new ballad lyrics together with assorted scores, chords, photographs of Norfolk heroes, heroines, places and the performers and composers
www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
and remains a bumper resource of scores and chords for those wanting to play (or compose new settings) for the 39 ballad lyrics. The book has two scholarly introductions, one an historical, the other a literary, introduction to the folk ballad form, even including a brief consideration of the Norwich City anthem ‘On the ball City’ as an example of how community 'ballads' come to be written and developed (to wit, you can hear the Barclay End in full cry singing it towards the end of Done Different 2.)

credits

released March 11, 2024

Maz: lead vocals, backing and harmony vocals, voice, acoustic guitar.

Gaz: voice, percussion, support vocals, lead vocals, bass guitar, harmonium, alto recorder, field recordings.

Unless otherwise indicated all titles written and composed (or written and trad/arr) and performed by Peacock's Tale.

Guest players

Guitars, vocals and everything else on "The Ballad of Turnip Townshend" entirely by Warwick Jones.

Guitars and musical direction on "Norfolk and Good" by Warwick Jones. Lead vocal by Gaz. Harmony vocal by Maz.

Soprano vocal on "The Ruined Hall" by Jeni Melia. Lute by Chris Goodwin.

Track 15 composed by Andy Wall; written by Gareth Calway. (except the "this creature had various tokens in her hearing" prefix words by Margery Kempe, music by Peacock's Tale.)

Track 1 composed and produced by Warwick Jones. Lyric by Gareth Calway.

Track 3 composed, produced and performed by Warwick Jones. Lyric by Gareth Calway.

Track 4 tune by Tim Chipping arr. Peacock's Tale; lyric by Gareth Calway.

Track 6 lyric by Gareth Calway; tune by Lennon-McCartney.

Track 14 tune by Bob and Julie Bones arr. Peacock's Tale; lyric by Gareth Calway


Album recorded and produced by Gaz (except "The Ballad of Turnip Townshend" recorded and produced by Warwick Jones)

Peacock’s Tale folk indie duo, Sedgeford, Norfolk.

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

Peacock's Tale Musical Storytelling Sedgeford, UK

It's all right, folks, we're married. A marriage of melody and rhythm ( flirting with harmony & timbre.) Old married woke folk, indie, Norfolk noir, beat poems, ghazals & Americana for the world from NW Norfolk. Maz lead & harmony vocals, acoustic guitar. Gaz lead & harmony vocals, drum & bass. Traditional tunes with contemporary beats.
garethcalway.blogspot.com/p/doin-different.html
... more

contact / help

Contact Peacock's Tale Musical Storytelling

Streaming and
Download help

Report this album or account

If you like Peacock's Tale Musical Storytelling, you may also like: