How It's New York: Written with the wistful reflection of an expatriate in the Big Apple
How It's Irish: Traditional music knows no boundaries.
Tony Horswill recalls meeting Ian Campbell, folk music icon, and wearing tights at a Birmingham banquet.
I remember my stint on themedieval banquet circuit as the time I first learnt how to put on tights. Thethrill was somewhat muted though, as just as the lady organizer of the eventwas showing me her technique behind a rack of inauthentic medieval frocks, herjealous husband burst in.
But that's another story.
The real story is that iswhere I met the great folk music icon Ian Campbell who unfortunately left uslate last year. He cut an impressive figure with his flowing purple robe andwhite beard in his role of "Lord Chamberlain". The pseudo-historicalmedieval banquet pantomime gaveemployment in the lead-up to Christmas to those traditional musicians with acertain fortitude who needed the work. This particular incarnation in the early'80s was at a faux castle called Himley Hall in the "Black Country"region of the English Midlands, named for its pioneering work in earlyindustrial pollution. The banquet season provided a similarly unhealthyexperience. The closest thing in the US would be the Renaissance Fair but thisform was decidedly more alcoholic, low-brow and bawdy. It was essentially anexcuse to "dress up while pissed up" and abuse the entertainers.
Ian took it all in his stride. The feeble plot of the night as I rememberit revolved around Ian appointing a Lord and Lady for the night ( humor ofcourse ensued as all chaps and wenches were forced to swear fealty and begindulgence on their frequent trips to the toilets, nay garderobes) but his realfunction was minstrel and bailiff in equal parts. 
His reputation amongtraditional and folk musicians was legendary, but his fame to me and the widerpublic at that time was for being the father of Ali and Robin Campbell in thegroundbreaking multi-racial band UB40. They were not just one of the rareexamples of a successful fusion of pop and reggae but were also had a Top Tenhit with a protest song for God’s sake - "I am a One in Ten" like theUB40 moniker referred to the unemployment of the late '70s. On the surface ofit these two aspects of Ian had nothing in common, but in retrospect they areboth part of the his legacy. For Ian, folk music was more than the recordcompany genre has become - it embodied a belief in humanity, community and astriving for social justice.
Getting back to the"men in tights" gig, one unusual aspect of it was that it featuredacts from the working men's club circuit, more typically associated with the northof England. A favorite of Ian's, mine and fellow minstrels was the comedianBoothby Graffoe who had a novel way of finishing his act which was to wraphimself from head to toe in heavy duty packing tape and then try and maintainhis composure as he crooned "Moon River" while ripping it all off again.
However the most spectacularly inappropriateact booked at the castle (for reasons which will become evident) and the sourceof one of my favorite Ian Campbell stories was a one-man acrobat/tumbler fromsomewhere up north. His problems started when he adopted aparticularly precarious balancing position on top of a set of blocks androllers prompting an astonishing hail of bread rolls, apples and whatever themob could lay hands on as they channeled their inner medieval peasant hurlinggarbage at the stocks. When an old lady was struck with one of these missilesIan took it upon himself to confront the ugly ringleader. Despite Ian’s politeand careful reasoning to the oaf, he remained cheerfully oblivious to the“bigger picture”, and his riposte whilst pointing to the dim-witted possearound him was:
"It didn't hit her mate. It was these w**kers. I don't miss- I nailed the bloke every f**king shot".
Ian's recounting of this talehad us in stitches for days. Ian was a very funny man and a natural raconteurand storyteller as we appreciated when the musicians/comedians/bruised tumblersgot to hang out together in the "outer hall" whilst the troglodyteswere temporarily pacified with greasy lamb chops and cheap mead. One nowbittersweet memory of such occasion was when some music rag had reported himdead and he got to deliver the line "Rumors of my demise have beengreatly exaggerated", and he delivered it perfectly. On rare, delightfuloccasions we persuaded him to sing for our little private party. Another one of Birmingham'sheroes has passed on.
Epilogue: While I didoccasionally drift into antiquated pseudo-medieval language, note that"chaps" and "wenches" is 100% current up-to-date BlackCountry speak. You gotta love those yam –yams!
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