My mums dog, Honey, is
a gorgeous if slightly dippy fox coloured Labrador. Honey is a rescue
dog, and one of the saddest problems with rescue dogs is you don't
know an awful lot about their past. One afternoon, my sister visited
mum, and whilst messing around with an old trilby, covered her
eyes with it's brim (a la the cover of All Hits by All Saints). Honey
went quite uncharacteristically berserk at this, snarling and barking
with the hair on her back stood up. My sister removed the hat, and
Honey instantly went back to her normal self;waggly tailed and
hustling for a fuss. We're not sure what that hat symbolised to poor
old Honey, but it clearly triggered something unsavory in her psyche.
It was a sobering moment for all concerned.
I have similar reaction
to the word 'folk'. I was dragged along to a local 'folk' night once
and it was a spectacularly bad evening, it's quaintness both forced
and false. The session was teeming full of men with egg yoke stained
jumpers and bits of pork pie in their beards singing songs about
either a) small children drowning in a well or b) having their hearts
broken by a 'lady so fair'. Some of the music I like has been
described as twee, but really, this was aural bunting. Don't get me
wrong, I can and do enjoy folk music (Judee Sill, Sandy Denny and
Judy Collins for example) but the word 'folk' sends my mind spiraling
back to that night and off in search of a stiff drink and a listen of
something abrasive and urban (nine times out of ten it's Light User
Syndrome by the Fall). Live 'folk' music? Brrr. Not for me pal.
Enter Chrissy Barnacle.
I first saw Chrissy supporting Durham Irn Bru crew Martha (though
poles apart in musical type, they made surprisingly good touring
partners. Both play songs that simultaneously hold your head and your
heart, and they share a defiance of taking themselves too seriously
that borders on militancy). The first thing that strikes you about
Chrissy is what an amazing guitarist she is. I'm no expert, but I'm
guessing that she must use a headache inducingly difficult tuning,
because at times the effect is like listening to three guitars at
once. It's either that or some kind of witch craft. You can't help up
but be drawn into the songs intros, delicate with the intricacy of a
spiders web, her Spanish guitar chimes, echos and loops like smoke
spiraling from a librarians candle.
Then comes the voice.
I've read elsewhere of writers comparing her voice from everyone from
Joni Mitchell to Kate Bush. Well maybe, but to me her voice is one
that has taken years to discover and finally find the courage to
release to the world. She stands at the mic, guitar just under her
chin, eyes closed and shoulders hunched, searching deeply for this
voice, her voice, to propel the yearning within her. Her songs are
like a sword fight between her inner optimism and the self doubt that
lurks on her shoulder, despairingly desperate to validate their
hopeless romanticism. It's an often breath taking tussle.
With songs so
dizzyingly intimate and brimming with chimericaly emotional wanderlust
and wryly honest aural postcards about the ascertainment of the true
inner self, it's impossible not to champion Chrissy Barnacle both as
an artist and a human being. I'm not sure what she is searching for,
but you can't help but hope she finds it. Chrissy has made folk music
for the punx to fall in love with, and for that we should take our
hats off to her, as I'm sure Honey would agree.
All of Chrissy's
recorded music to date is available as pay what you like (IE nowt if
you're tight) downloads and can be found
here:-http://chrissybarnacle.bandcamp.com/
Photo credit: www.jamiemcfadyen.blogspot
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