An Lanntair, Stornoway, Isle of Lewis, 19 March 2010

Dick Gaughan (photo - Sally Greenberg)

IT’S MONDAY morning, a dreich one, and the vinyl is on the deck. In the form of Handful of Earth. There are a few CDs at the ready too. This is an aspect of the aftermath of the week-end. I went to Gaughan’s return to An Lanntair, arranged as part of the 25th year celebrations. The singer, guitarist and sometimes songwriter has been a regular on the programme. I saw him recently sharing the stage with Brian Macneil, a long-time collaborator. This was a solo gig.

When Handful of Earth came out in 1981 I was at a sell-out concert at Edinburgh Folk Festival. I went away clutching the album and it’s still one of the few possessions that matter to me. Nor long after, I got a call from one Rita Hunter inviting me to tell stories at Dingwall, not realising that I’d be opening for one of the most powerful performers. I think my own first piece was lost in nerves, but Gaughan was generous as are most artists who are secure in their voice.

So I went to the show on Friday as one of the faithful but one who had to raise the question of development – what has changed in the performance style, the songs, or anything else in thirty years of performing similar material? I only had to walk down the road. Gaughan traveled towards Ullapool, heard the ferry was being cancelled and drove the wild road to Skye and through that Island to catch the Uig ferry. That’s commitment.

For a kick-off, some of the songs have changed. Or rather, new ones are often introduced so the repertoire is growing all the time. I’d say also, that this man has transformed the need to constantly tune a guitar that is being pushed hard into something that has become a main element of the performance. His introductions contain elements of storytelling (in a Northern Irish tradition), political rant in a hybrid of trade-union and presbyterian oratory styles, and a hard-edged stand-up comedy of bitter ironies.

Al these are now welded so the spoken words are as crafted as the guitar playing. But neither seems to be so well-made that the brilliance is distracting. I think I’m trying to say we had the privilege of witnessing a master at work. More than that, we were part of it, because a Gaughan performance depends on engagement with his audience. This was an appreciative one.

We were caught by the variations of familiar riffs in the tuning, so there’s an unconscious guessing game going on as you’re focusing on the banter. And sure enough the favourites come. Phil Colclough’s Song For Ireland shines like the scales of sea-bass, gasping from the ocean to the surf. The learned diction of a Burns’ song’s celebration of nature is disrupted with the jazz of the Leith-Irish combinaton.

But I think there’s another noticeable development, even when we’re hearing these songs Gaughan was using to storm that Festival back in 1981. The growl in the voice has become another instrument. It occurs with the warning of menace, like a haunting foghorn in a North Sea haar. And then it’s balanced with the sheer joy of the tune picked out and rung. And I think there’s less melody in the voice, less slowing of the singing to allow space for that – instead it happens through the guitar. It leavens the political content and the genuine sadness carried by well-chosen songs.

The tricky phrasing also lit Brian Macneill’s St Kilda song in a new way. So that’s the answer. The local audience won’t tire of a hero’s regular return if the poetry of it all has rhythms as lively as this. And no diminishing of the passion.

© Ian Stephen, 2010

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• An Lanntair
• Ian Stephen