Getting out of my comfort zone in rooms full of beards (and mums)
An unexpected night of folk music and baby sensory classes leads to introspection and stepping out of comfort zones.
On Tuesday this week, a friend I haven't seen in half a decade was visiting town and got in touch to suggest we grab dinner. He also asked if I was aware of any "folk or trad music night worth checking out – I could bring my mandolin?".
Some googling revealed that there was indeed a "session" (as these things are known) happening in a pub in town on the night he was visiting. I brought my guitar to the office that day, and we met up for food before heading over to the pub.
I had no idea what to expect – in essence, this was a meetup where folk music aficionados show up to a pub with instruments, and sing traditional songs in a communal atmosphere. But when I asked my pal whether there were any unwritten rules, he pondered for a second, then said "it depends – some trad Irish groups might kick us out if we played something by U2". Fair enough, really.
Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
We walked into the function room at the pub to be greeted by a sea of beards — white ones. It's never a good sign when I'm the youngest person in a room, but we grabbed some seats at the back as the regulars stared curiously at us. We tuned up our instruments and without fanfare, a man at the other end of the room began strumming his guitar and raised his voice to sing a traditional, wistful folk ballad. People joined in for the chorus, gently harmonising with him with voices both soulful and strained. His song ended and the next player in the circle began their piece. I quickly realised that soon it would be my turn to contribute something to this gathering.
One man played a penny whistle solo. Another guy accompanied himself on squeezebox as he sang. A man with an incredible forked beard and pork pie hat sang acapella, a rich baritone voice warbling from under his whiskers. My turn was coming up.
I was saved by the bell: the session had proved so popular, we were relocating to the main room of the pub. As we carried pints of beer and instruments down the stairs, I pondered what the rest of the pub crowd would make of the group of us, singing strange old songs in a ragtag band of misfits and strangers.
We Shall Overcome
My friend stood to play his piece—an Irish mandolin romp—and then eyes turned to me. I waved them away with a weak protest "I'm here to learn!" and soon someone else was strumming their tune. I felt like an amateur in a room of professionals; a child in a gathering of adults. I'm 37 years old and have been performing music in front of audiences for two decades now, but this challenge had bested me. I didn't know the right songs, I thought. I couldn't play something authentic enough for this crowd, surely. I hadn't earned my stripes, learned the standards or studied the craft.
A concerningly-thin old man near me raised his head and began to mournfully warble his way through The Green Fields of France and suddenly I was 12 years old again and listening to my dad sing this very song with his guitar in our old family kitchen. I shook off a momentary tear and marvelled at the ability of music to bring a disparate crowd like this together; to empower average, regular people (mostly men) to stand up in public and express themselves like this to one another.
Shortly afterwards, though, someone played a Rolling Stones song. One man did a Bob Dylan tune (which I'd assumed would be verboten – far too obvious) and towards the end of the evening, one bold/pissed bloke did "Down Under" by Men At Work, which dispelled most of my fears about authenticity.
As my folk-expert friend and I wobbled back to the station (a few post-session whiskeys were required), I promised him—genuinely—that I'd come back next time, and play something. For his part, he swore he'd be back to Birmingham again too, specifically to attend this session. Sometimes you really do just have to put yourself out of your comfort zone.
Mini feels this week
Don't you want me, baby
I spent the day after my folk music adventure looking after my baby daughter, and Maddy specifically asked me to take her to a "baby sensory" class full of glowing lights and puppets. This was not my dream morning experience while trying to dodge a hangover, but I'm a considerate parent (mostly) so off I trundled to the baby class.
For the second time in 24 hours, my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in when I entered the room to once again be confronted by my minority status: this time because I was a man (not because I wasn't a pensioner). Once again, everyone else seemed to already know what to do: they knew all the actions and songs, and even came with their own illuminated fingertip gloves to entertain the babies with.
Here I was on the back foot once more: am I supposed to be here? Am I doing it right? Why do people keep looking expectantly at me? Have I sat in someone's regular seat? Maybe I should've brought the baby to the folk club as an alibi. "Oh, sorry Bert, can't do my piece – baby needs changing". Not sure there's much call for mandolins at baby sensory, though.