AS OTHERS SEE US
by John Bentham

(From F&F#57 May 2006)

This interesting little piece is lifted (with permission) from the newsletter of the Traditions at the Tiger Folk Club from Long Eaton near Nottingham. Storytelling and folk clubs have an awkward relationship. This might open storytellers’ eyes a bit as to why...

Story telling, it’s a bit like that Marmite advert, you either like it or you don’t. For the football fans amongst you, substitute Manchester United for Marmite. We have all heard and possibly said it: “Oh I can’t stand story telling, it’s so boring.”

Yes it can be, but it can also be awe inspiring. Sometimes the brilliant, inspirational and thought provoking side is very much in evidence, but at other times you are left with, black dark, flat deflation. Why so?

Well it can depend on the tale being told. Why is it that so many stories have to be so... so old and based in mythical lands? Why is there so much magic, so many mystical characters and beasts? You hear one story of this genre and then, well slap my thighs and burnish this old lamp, if it isn’t followed by another and surprise, surprise by another of the same. And, don’t you know, there is always some sickly handsome prince on a quest. And guess what? They are all interminably long, and the venue is as dusty and as dry as the narrations. The room gets hotter and hotter or colder and colder, the air gets thinner or it gets draughtier and you are just busting to go to the loo. It’s a bit like MC-ing the nightmare sing around, you have just had a couple of ballads not over well presented, after an overall indifferent session and are looking for a rousing finish. You have time for one last singer before you must finish as the room is needed for a discussion on “The Effect of EEC Regulations on the use of the Umlaut in Cheese Labelling and its Impact on Folklore Collectors” and time is of an essence. You know what I’m going to say, the last performer follows the same theme but not only longer and more boringly but also singing flat. Deep, deep joy.

It also depends on the story teller. How is it that there has to be a set pose or stance? Why, oh why so formulaic? I can hear the collective inner groan even from this distance of time. But there is one consolation, I have just had my last wisdom tooth removed (all comments through the editor please) and it means there is one less molar to grind. It seems as if we have to be treated like a bunch of four or five year olds sitting on the hall floor who have itches in their britches. Do you know, it’s at this point that you suddenly realise how tired you are and you discover a hangover you never had. You then question why you decided to sit in the middle of the room with no way of making a discreet exit. It’s then you wish you still had that aching tooth—at least you have an excuse to leave. Fun innit?

And yet we are telling stories to each other all day long and especially when there is a glass of something in front us and we can lean across the table and address the assembled company with “You’ll never guess what happened...”

There are wonderfully talented weavers of verbal spells and charms who can lead us wherever they will. Sheila and I were listening to one mighty legend of innocence, grisly, ghostly beings, of gluttony, death and cannibalism. It lasted just over an hour. At the end the audience were emotionally drained and sat just slowly and quietly puffing out their collective cheeks and wiping the collective brows before bursting into spontaneous cheering and applauding of a raconteur who was a spent force, collapsed on a chair. Another time there were kids of all ages making the decisions of where the storyline should go; does the hero take the high or the low road? do they go alone or with company? and so on and so forth. But when it came to the type of food to be eaten, the sort of punishment to be metered out etc, well the imaginations ran wild. The laughter was infectious and the story so convoluted that people were actually correcting or in-correcting the tale at times, wind up was the name of the game at times. Smiles and laughter all the way with that one.

Then there was the dog that was taken for walks but was so fat it could hardly stagger along the street let alone go down the steps. The solution was to put him on a skateboard. You should have heard the oohs and the aahs. Afterwards, you could tell what people were talking about because their arms were all semi-outstretched making paddling type movements.

I suppose it is like most things, see and experience quality material from performers who are masters of their craft and you are into storytelling. But if your exposure to the art is of poor recounting of badly chosen material, then you aren’t going to be so enthusiastic. It’s a bit like listening to Tim Van Eyken playing his melodeon and then having to suffer my squeaking and squawking on an identical instrument.

Our Sarah set this particular hare running when she told a group of us gathered around a table with a glass of something in front of us about the baby alarm that picked up the sounds of a restless child. The baby sitter quietly asked the infant if he was OK, not a sound from upstairs so another ask was made. Then came the reply “Yes thank you wall.”

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