Chumbawamba Musings

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That Song

As we never hesitate to tell you, playing in Chumbawamba is nothing if not diverse. In the course of one week this summer we played at an old-style hippy festival, a quiet and intimate Arts Centre and on the optimistically named ‘Acoustic Stage’ at the Rebellion punk festival.

After the Arts Centre gig someone emailed expressing their disappointment that we hadn’t played Tubthumping. At the hippy festival, a couple of very drunk people shouted for it constantly, and at the punk festival somebody came backstage afterwards and expressed their heartfelt relief that we hadn’t played it. Like it or not, that song is still an issue, so I thought it was worth addressing it.

We don’t play Tubthumping as part of the acoustic set. There you go. We’re not ashamed of it – we played it until the very last of our electric gigs – but we’ve never found a way to play it and make it fit with what we do acoustically. It’s not just because it’s an old song of ours either – we still find room for Timebomb and Homophobia. We did do an acoustic ‘neo-billy’ version of it with a fiddle, and the temptation was always to sing with an American accent (never a good idea). But even then the verses were spoken. That whole ‘whisky drink, vodka drink, cider drink’ bit just doesn’t have a tune, frankly. Pop band in ‘hit song without tune’ scandal – I know, it’s shocking. Believe me, we did try and find a way to make it work as an acoustic song. We tried doing it as a waltz, attempted an acappella version, even slowed it right down. And we got nowhere, so we decided that it had had its day and put it to bed. Does that appear a disingenuous answer? I hope not.

But we’re not unaware of the significance of the song – both to ourselves and some of our audience. So now we make do with wry references to it in the set: there’s a tantalising ‘pissing the night away’ moment in Charlie, and the entire last verse of Buy Nothing Day has been rewritten to acknowledge the weird position we’re in of not playing the hit anymore (‘And the bastards won’t play the one song that you know’). Because what we don’t want to be is one of those ever so precious pop stars who dissociate themselves from the songs that made them famous (and wealthy) because they see it as somehow sullying their integrity. As if it happened against their wishes. If they really wanted to eschew the possibility of mainstream exposure and financial reward and pursue a more artistically pure path then they’d get out of rock’n’roll and start playing jazz.

What’s the difference between a rock musician and a jazz musician? A rock musician plays three chords to thousands of people and a jazz musician plays thousands of chords to three people. Don’t worry, I got told that joke on a jazz course.

So that’s where we are with that song – not ashamed of it, grateful to it for the exposure and success it brought us, and for allowing us to still be making music today – but you won’t be hearing an acoustic version of it in a town near you anytime soon.

BNP camp

Mum, where’d you put my sleeping bag?

It’s less than a month away now until the tentpegs are hammered in at BNP Camp (official title – the Red, White & Blue Camp) in the heart of Derbyshire. The weekend of the 16th August sees up to 5000 fascists (big dogs are free – cheaper than taking the girlfriend) descend onto the quiet village of Denby, famous for its pottery.

The festival has grown into an annual neo-Nazi jamboree through the goodwill of a local landowner and BNP member who allows the party to use his land and erect a big wheel, dodgems and hold firework displays. There’s all-night drinking and, according to local residents, bouts of mass singalongs. These lot don’t sing ‘Ging-gang-gooly’ or ‘Kum-by-yah’, they sing Second World War German marching songs. Really! I hope there are lyric sheets or I’m knackered.

The landowner in question is a Mr Alan Warner, and he laughs off suggestions that the festival is, basically, a big drunken racist gathering (see there’s a better name for the festival. Big Drunken Racist Gathering. At least there wouldn’t be any confusion). He says, “We are not Nazis. We are just the opposite.”

I’ve been trying to work that out for a while, but it’s proving difficult. Maybe I’d find help on the British Nationalist Youth Movement website? Well, they are at least offering guidance in what the young Nazi needs to pack for camp. Here’s the list:

Water bottle/flask
Torch
Knife
Wet weather kit
Trainers
Sleeping bag
Small tent
Plate or mess tins
Washing kit
Pen and paper
White T-Shirt (cheap)
T-shirts and tops
Trousers
Jacket
6 x pairs of socks
Spare underwear
Clothes for socialising
Sun cream
Hat
Shin Pads

Yes, yes, Mum, take trousers. I know. I always forget trousers. Six pairs of socks? It’s a three-day camp. Well, you can say what you like about the fascists, but they have clean feet. My favourite though has to be ‘Clothes for Socialising’. Go on, make an impression at Nazi Camp! If one of the Camp leaders gets frisky at the sight of your Socialising Clothes, you’ve always got your shin pads to protect you.

There are a few omissions which the organizers forgot to add – boots, beer and big dog are three handy essentials for any Big Drunken Racist Gathering (from now on, BDRG). Let’s not be cynical about the Youth wing of the BNP, though – their website does have a Bible Quiz if you feel so inclined. (Example: ‘Which Gospel is the only one to describe the visit of the wise men to the infant Jesus?’ See, you don’t know it do you? Come along to camp and we’ll find out together, shall we?). You have to love how the fascists are re-discovering the Bible in response to the Muslim reverence for the Qur’an. Maybe there’s something in Leviticus about clean socks. And shin pads.

There’s to be a national demonstration against BDRG on Saturday 16th August in Denby Lane, Codnor, Derbyshire. Eleven am sharp, and whatever you do – don’t forget your trousers.

Slovakia Klikkfest 4th July

This was what you might call a quick in and out job. A leisurely mid-morning departure - plenty of time to take the kids to school - a direct flight to Bratislava from Manchester, do the gig, get the midday flight back and home in time to watch the tennis. Hardly even notice we'd gone. What could possibly go wrong?

The plane did have a particularly rowdy example of proud English manhood on board, but they stopped short of actually vomiting. All the suitcases turned up undamaged and a nice man retrieved Phil's siunglasses from the plane so it was all looking good.

About an hour into the journey from the airport to the festival, the driver of our minibus stopped to top up the radiator and that was it. The engine just made unpromising splutterings and was having none of it. We tried pushing it - slightly hairy on a single carriageway with trucks and all sorts hurtling towards us at breakneck speeds - and some burly Slovakians stopped, threw aside the puny English boys and also tried to push. Nothing. Our guide was on her mobile phone by this time arranging for back-up transport, and we spent a not unpleasant half hour by the roadside looking out over the maize fields and having our photo taken underneath an amusing sign.



Our relief driver took his mercy dash mission very seriously. So much so that he nearly killed us. I exaggerate for effect but he drove like a man possessed (with the spirit of Nikki Lauder). Anyway, real men don't wear seat belts so we just had to cling on and clench. Mild-mannered Neil was driven to shout at the driver (who looked up briefly from the text he was sending and grudgingly put both hands on the steering wheel - briefly).

Klikkfest was a small rock festival in a field, the like of which we haven't played for some time, and certainly not since we ditched the drum kit. To be honest we'd never have got away with it in England but there are some places where normal rules just don't apply. Fields in Slovakia being one of them. I have to say, sandwiched as we were between two rock bands, we did very well. In fact, we rocked - in an acoustic guitar and accordion sort of a way. I'll hazard a guess too that Lou and I were the only two female performers on the whole weekend.

And that was that. We came, we broke down, we played, (some of us) drank our own body weight in vodka, we went home again. One week it's deep folk in Dent and the next we're rocking with the best of them in Nove Zamky. Let's see what else the summer brings.