fRoots

[ian]

Sometimes the mouth/brain interface acquires gremlins, especially when placed in proximity to a microphone.

Martin Carthy once told me the story of singing Thornaby Woods. The line "I spied a fat buck lying there on the ground" somewhow mutated into "I spied a bad fuck lying there on the ground." Martin was mortified but apparently nobody in the audience noticed. He concentrated very hard because he knew the line was coming around again later in the song, but haunted by this image of a scabrous old crone lying legs akimbo, inevitably it came out the same way again. Still nobody apparently noticed! But it was a long time before he could sing the song again.

I had a similar experience during my brief period of being a rotten singer/songwriter in the early 70s. Irritated by sociology students asking bizarre questions about deep meanings they detected within my lyrics (hah!), I set out to write one which was complete nonsense but had a veneer of depth. There was a line which went "The clergyman crept in the other window". Perhaps inevitably, one night it mutated into "The clergymen crapped in the other window." I cracked up. The audience were less amused. Again, I couldn't sing it any more thereafter.

Any more tales of unfortunate tongue error in public folksong performance? Or even just suggestions of disasters waiting to happen?

[Mark Bluemel]

I knew someone who wouldn't sing "Rose of Allandale" due to the threat of cracking up during the verse about the robust bra - "one Maidenform withstood the storm".

This has previously led to a discussion of lingerie mondegreens, something like "If my Willie were here this nightie (night he) would keep me from harm"...

[matt milton]

The third verse of "Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child" goes "Sometimes I feel like a feather in the air".

For some unfathomable reason I once sang this as "Sometimes I feel like a ferret in the air".

I kind of liked the ridiculous mental image of airbourne vermin that my subconscious had conjured up, but didn't want to sing it again as no-one appeared to notice. But in telling myself not to, I ended up doing it again the next time.

A psychoanalyst would probably have something to say about that.

[chris foster]

The pathways of the brain are sometimes a mystery. Generally I don't have a problem with words, but for some inexplicable reason, while I was singing Flower of Servingmen at Lewes last Thursday, I came out with the line ' My father built me a shady bower and covered it over with flamrock showers'. I've been doing that song for over 30 years...so where did that spoonerism come from?

Who knows? as the first wave of folk revivalists shuffle into the home straight, gigs could take on a whole new layer of entertaining possibilities.

I'll be at Walthamstow tonight and Devizes tomorrow; why not come along with ears pinned back. You never know what you might hear.

[Des Bowring]

Gladly the cross-eyed bear.

[Vic Smith]