David has a dalliance with a lady of the night. But this does not alleviate his feelings of loneliness and emptiness, and so he desperately seeks companionship in a musical instrument repair shop. Michael underestimates the strength of the beer at Gainsborough folk club, resulting in a rather drunken performance. James Fagan provides aphrodisiac advice. We attempt to solve Britain’s homelessness situation. And we’ve music from and tributes to Ron Angel, a founding member of Stockton folk club, and one of the people who encouraged us to become The Young’uns. Plus, the return of the Folked-up Folk Song and clips from our gig at Butlins.
The Young’uns Podcast returns in 2015 with a new weekly series.
This week: Sean has a bit of a thing for The Fisherman’s Friends, while David is spotted holding hands with Sam Pirt from the Hut People; we once again delve into the mind’s of the Young’uns as we divulge another of our dreams; The Young’uns very nearly ruin a wedding; it seems as if manners is everything when it comes to Polish audiences, although, Sean does manage to rankle one Polish lady who takes umbrage with his geography; there’s music from the Young’uns, plus the return of our quiz, the Folked-up Folk Song, as well as the Young’uns Podcast’s crown jewels, James Fagan’s Talking Bollocks.
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The ceremony will be held on April 22nd, which gives us a good couple of months to blackmail and sleep with the appropriate people. The awards will be aired live on BBC Radio 2. If we win we’ll have to do a speech, but don’t worry, I won’t use this occasion to try and tell my anecdote that failed twice at the King Gong.
Last year was a great year for us: we released a new album, did a session with Mark Radcliffe on BBC radio 2, played on stage with Billy Bragg at Glastonbury Festival, and on the main stage at Cambridge Folk Festival. But I think what really won us the award nomination was our innovative Podcast, featuring the jewel in the crown that is James Fagan’s Talking Bollocks. In fact, I think we really owe our award to James.
James returns next week, as we launch our new weekly series of Young’uns Podcasts, meaning you get to join us on our adventures in Kansas, Canada and beyond.
Back next week.
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This time round, I was feeling much more prepared for the King Gong competition at Manchester’s Comedy Store. This would be my fourth standup performance. I wrote about my first and second standup spots in yesterday’s blog post. My third standup gig was last October, at another comedy club in London. This time there was actually an audience, and the compere was funny and friendly. My five minutes seemed to go down well. I was less nervous, delivered things with more confidence, slowed down a bit, and even interacted with the audience. However, this was not a King Gong night, and so the audience got five minutes whether they liked it or not. But they did seem to like it, and I went away a lot more confident, having received many positive comments from audience members after the gig.
Yesterday, I mentioned that my first King Gong performance started off well, but then audience members began to get a bit impatient when, after about two minutes, I got to the part of the routine that had quite a bit of setup before the joke eventually came. In fairness to the audience, I did go for one whole minute without a single punchline.
By the time my London night came along, I’d managed to extend the first part of my set, making it more joke heavy for the first three minutes, in the hope that this would be enough time for me to build up a rapport with the audience, in order to then be able to spend more time on the longer setup to the final bit. I also worked on cutting down some of that setup time. This seemed to work in London, with the first three minutes gaining lots of laughs, and the audience remained patient and seemingly attentive for the following forty seconds of preamble, before I eventually gave them a series of pay-offs which got good laughs and seemed to indicate that the last forty seconds had been worth the wait. However, these audience members did not have red cards. How, I wondered, would this material hold up in front of the judge, jury and executioners that make up the King Gong audience?
The King Gong night’s feature a wide range of people. Last time I talked about one of the performers who I particularly enjoyed called Benji Waterstones, who was one of the contenders in last year’s BBC Radio New Comedy Award competition. February’s King Gong show featured another comedian I recognised from last year’s BBC Radio New comedy Awards, called George Lewis, who is very funny and, like Benji, made the five minutes.
In contrast, there were acts who were very much at the other end of the funniness spectrum, including one, who by his own admission, wasn’t really an act at all.
“I’m not actually a comedian, I just do this for the free tickets.”
And he really meant it. He more or less just stood there until he was eventually gonged off. Surprisingly though, he did manage to last for one minute thirty-two seconds, which was longer than some of the acts that actually had jokes. Does this include me? Let’s find out.
Yesterday, I mentioned that I wanted to try slowing my words down a bit, as last time I tended to race through it due to nerves. Because I am new to performing solo standup comedy, I perhaps am not yet fully confident that laughs will come, and so I dare not take too long a pause after a joke in case I receive nothing but silence back. I’ve heard a lot of comedians talk about their first few gigs, and the ordeal of hearing a silent audience, and the sound of your dry lips smacking or your breath rasping loudly over the speakers. So a way to combat this is to talk quicker and don’t leave too many pauses, so that you don’t suffer this ignominy.
The problem with this tactic is that you don’t allow time for the joke to register. A pause is a signal to the audience that you’ve finished your bit, and now it’s their time to respond.
Listening to the recording back now, I still think I need to slow down more and to pause for longer. I delivered my first joke, heard the beginnings of a laugh, and instantly moved on to the next bit. But my next bit was interrupted by the sound of the laughter crescendoing. People who were at the night might feel that the word “crescendoing” is a tad over-the-top, but look, this is my blog, and if I want to pretentiously use an Italian word to describe the audience’s reaction to my comedy then I bloody well will. But, semantics aside, I had to stop talking because I realised that people were still laughing.
The same thing happened for the second joke. One lady at the front with quite a loud laugh responded a few seconds after everyone else. I was pretty sure I recognised this lady as the person who’d been chatting to the compere just a few minutes earlier, who was from Dundee and had quite a thick Scottish accent. So, knowing that the audience had already been acquainted with this woman, I made a little joke about slowing down so that the lady from Dundee’s translator could keep up. Unfortunately, I had mistakenly identified the wrong lady and so the audience were confused as to what the heck I was talking about. I didn’t realise this until Isobel (my girlfriend) pointed this out after my set.
Still, the audience were seemingly still on my side. The jokes were getting a good response, and I was beginning to feel more confident, although, I was aware that the forty seconds of setup was upon us, and I wasn’t sure whether the audience would be in the mood to wait.
After thirty seconds, the first card was held up.
“One card,” shouted the compere. Fortunately, this time I realised it was the compere shouting “one card,” and not someone in the audience shouting “wanker,” and so I continued, largely unconcerned about it, given that I expected that this part of the act might result in a casualty.
Although there were no cries of “wanker,” I could nevertheless sense a restlessness throughout parts of the audience. But I had no choice but to continue. I was half way through the setup. I couldn’t just scrap it and move onto something else. So I ploughed on. But then a few people in the audience began vocalising their restlessness. The second card was raised. Despite this, one of the jokes still got a good laugh, but it was evident that this was polarising the audience.
I tried to continue. This next bit is really painful for me to listen to. The dissenting voices grow louder, and the third card holder raises their card, the gong sounds, and I am dismissed.
I made it to three minutes fifty-nine seconds. The first three minutes of which were going pretty well, but it seems as if this story – which I still believe is funny, and got a good response from the more patient crowd in London – needs a lot of work on it before I’ll try and tell it again.
After my first King Gong performance, I wrote that folk audiences are happy to wait for forty seconds for a story to be set up. They do not have the same rapacious appetite for joke after joke that a mainstream comedy audience has. I thought I’d learnt this lesson last time, which is why I attempted to cut the setup down; but I obviously hadn’t learnt the lesson fully, and so I’m going to have to stick to the concept of getting to the joke as quickly as possible. Maybe in the future, I’ll be able to tell more complex stories in front of the King Gong crowd, but for now I’m going to have to concentrate on jokes rather than anecdotes.
When the compere chatted to the chosen card holders, he asked them who their favourite comedians were, and the two names that came back more than once were Frankie Boyle and Lee Evans. It therefore stands to reason that such people may not be inclined towards more anecdote driven comedy, especially when that anecdote is deficient in comedy for at least forty seconds.
Again, like last time, I lasted the longest out of all the acts who didn’t make the full five minutes. There were five acts who managed to make the full time, and so I suppose I came sixth. So I did better in terms of my personal record, but worse in terms of ranking, as I was fourth last time. So, put that in your spreadsheets.
I’ll definitely be returning to the King Gong in the near future. I’d recommend it as a great night out. You get a chance to see some really good comedians, and some complete oddballs. There is the element of jeopardy introduced by the red cards, and it’s all expertly held together by the compere, Mick Ferry.
I am going to practise some more at other open mic nights, scrapping this irksome anecdote for the time being, and instead concentrate on compiling a solid five minutes of comedy from the best bits of both my King Gong performances.
Thanks for reading. I hope you didn’t get all restless half way through and start shouting wanker at your computer.
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Last September, I enjoyed a night with a drag queen, a horny teenager, a racist and a bitter disabled bloke. No, it wasn’t one of my legendary house parties, it was my first experience of the King Gong show at Manchester’s Comedy Store.
King Gong is an open mic comedy night where anyone can turn up at the door and perform. The maximum time you can perform for is five minutes, but rarely do people make it that long because three audience members are given red cards, which when held up, sounds a gong, indicating the performer’s dismissal.
Last September’s performance started well, but then after two minutes I reached a section of the set that involved me spending some time setting up the joke. I was a little bit worried about this particular section before hand, as the first two minutes were more joke heavy, but this next minute was essentially setup and no real punchline. I thought that the pay off would be worth the wait, but one of the card holders decided that the wait was becoming too long and held up his card.
“One card,” cried the compere. It was at this point that my nerves got the better of me and paranoia set in, and rather than hearing the shout of “one card” from the compere, I instead assumed it to be someone in the audience shouting “wanker.”
Immediately I began to become flustered, unsure of how to deal with this heckle – whether to ignore it and continue or come up with a repost. While my brain was busy thinking through this dilemma, my mouth was still generating sounds, although given my mind’s preoccupation, the sounds weren’t really making much sense. It didn’t take long for another of the card holders to lose faith, and the second card was raised, causing the compere to declare “two cards!” And as soon as I heard the compere’s words, I realised my earlier mishearing. I never really had the chance to regain the situation, and the third card promptly followed, sounding the gong, heralding my departure after three minutes eight seconds on stage.
That particular performance was only my second standup spot. My first was a year earlier at a comedy club in London. It was an odd introduction to the world of standup. There were only about twenty people assembled in the backroom of the pub, and twelve of those people were performers. The compere opened the night in a rather dower fashion.
“Well, thank you for coming along. Perhaps if there’d been a couple less of you then we could have cut our losses and pulled the night, but I suppose technically there are enough people in to try and make a night of it.
As you may know, our numbers have been suffering considerably due to some bastards deciding to put on an open mic comedy night in the pub over the road, which is taking place as I speak, and is completely free. I make my living as a comedy promoter, and I therefore charge a fee to punters. This is not a hobby, I am a professional promoter. My job hasn’t exactly been secure since the credit crunch, and it certainly doesn’t help when a group of hobbyist hippy student bastards put on an identical event for free. So, if you want to know where everyone is, there all in the Dog and Duck over the road, enjoying free comedy, and the beer is better and cheeper as well. So that’s where they’ve all buggered off to. In fact, some of our performers tonight will apparently be buggering off immediately after their spot here, as they’ve apparently booked themselves into the Dog and Duck’s night as well. Well, I suppose we’ll have to just make the best of it.”
Two or three of the eight audience members laughed awkwardly at the compere’s introduction, presumably believing it to be his act, but I knew he wasn’t playing a character and that he was genuinely disgruntled, as I’d arrived at the venue earlier than the other acts and audience members and had already heard this rant when I’d made the mistake of enthusiastically introducing myself and asking how he was. The remaining members of the audience met his words with silence and the occasional throat clear. The other performers didn’t seem to be paying any heed to what he was saying, and were instead gazing at their notes. I didn’t have any notes, but I was making a mental note to try the night at the Dog and Duck next time.
The night was hard going. It turned out that as well as losing its audience, this comedy night was also losing its performers, and therefore the compere decided that we should all do ten minutes rather than the originally agreed five. All the acts seemed to be very inexperienced, and ten minutes is a long time for a new comedian to do. As a result, the sets were very laboured and painful.
The acts obviously hadn’t developed ten minutes of material and so they employed methods for getting around this. For some of the comedians, this seemed to involve speaking twice as slowly, pausing for twice as long, or repeating lines again. Other performers decided to kill time by using the audience for inspiration, asking stock comedian questions like, “what do you do for a living<‘ but because there were only eight audience members and because the comedians were too busy looking at their notes and not listening to each other’s performances, the same audience members were often asked the same question two or three times by different performers.
I was the last performer on that night, and by this time all the other performers had buggered off, leaving me to end the night in style in front of eight audience members and a suicidal compere.
I’ve performed to thousands of people, last year I did over a hundred gigs with The Young’uns, but I felt extremely nervous and vulnerable when I rose to my feet to take the stage to speak in front of these eight frazzled people.
I made the decision to just talk without pause, and to just keep on talking until the ten minutes were up. If I didn’t stop talking then I wouldn’t be able to hear the sound of eight mentally battered people not laughing. So I opened my mouth and let the words flood out, with the aim of continuing until the ten minutes had elapsed. But then I heard the sound of laughter, and I began to feel a bit more at home, and I actually had quite an enjoyable debut standup comedy experience.
I think the audience might have been laughing through sheer relief that their ordeal was soon over. I was the harbinger of their blessed release from this place. Perhaps they were just happy that I was keeping myself to myself, rather than asking them what they did for a living for the tenth time that night. And so I talked, and the audience laughed, and when the ten minutes was up they applauded. In fact they all rose to their feet as one, meaning that my first ever standup gig got me a standing ovation, albeit from eight exhausted people desperate to leave, in case the compere had any final thoughts he was planning on sharing.
I decided it might be advisable for me to make a quick exit as well, given my final words before leaving the stage, which were, “thanks for staying to the end. I’ll see you all same time next week in the Dog and Duck.”
So, just like with my first King Gong appearance, I’ve spent far too long on the set up, and now this blog post has exceeded one thousand words and I haven’t even started talking about last night’s King Gong show. So I’ll return tomorrow where I’ll discuss some of the other acts, and then reveal to you how I faired.
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I was woken with a jolt at 3am by a staccato melodic flourish and a short vibration sequence. It was my mobile phone, although, I assume you’d probably deduced that. It was a bloody Facebook alert. At 3 O’clock in the morning, for goodness sake.
“Why not wish Henrik Smit a happy birthday?”
Well, Facebook, there are a number of reasons why not. The first being that it is 3 in the morning. Could this not have waited? Chances are, Henrik Smit is currently asleep. Where is the sense in waking me up in order to prompt me to potentially wake someone else up, which is what would likely happen if he, like me, has forgotten to turn off his phone.
The other reason why not to wish Henrik Smit a happy birthday is for the simple reason that I have no idea who Henrik Smit is. Until thirty seconds ago, I don’t think I’d ever heard of the name Henrik Smit.
I turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and tried to get back to sleep. But it wasn’t happening. I tried counting sheep, but, being blind, I’ve never actually seen sheep before. Perhaps I could count them by feeling them. I try to evoke a memory of when I might have felt a sheep. I seem to remember a trip to a farm when I was in primary school, and I think I felt a sheep then – not like that, you dirty so-and-sos, I was in primary school; not that I’m suggesting that now I’m grown up I’d be more amenable to the idea of inappropriate sheep handling. But anyway, we digress, shame on you. But my sheep feeling experience was a long time ago, and the process of trying to dredge up the memory was making my brain ache. Plus, being blind, my other senses often become more acute, in order to compensate, and so I was being driven mad by the relentless cacophonous bleats of hundreds of sheep.
The noise was driving me insane. It was no use. Sleep wasn’t going to come. Plus, there was a clawing, niggling question needling its way through my brain: who the hell is Henrik smit?
I turned on my phone, and when it had loaded, launched the Facebook app. Instantly, Facebook was awake and ready to deluge me with uninteresting trivia about people who, at best, I might label acquaintances.
There was a status update from a senior member of staff who used to work with me in the office job I did before I started living the dream of professional folk singer. This lady was certainly living the dream these days. Redundancy was clearly working well for her, as now she could finally ]dedicate the time to pursue her true calling in life: playing Candy Crush Saga.
What is reality? This is a question that has been grappled with by philosophers, scientists, theologians, artists. I don’t have an answer. Sorry if you were getting all excited there thinking, “finally, David is about to explain the nature of reality in this blog post. And what’s more, he’ll probably throw in a couple of jokes too, because that’s just the kind of guy he is. My goodness, he’s having a blinder of a week; first, the tax loophole discovery, and now this.”
Alas not. However, the reason I got us onto such a topic is because I think it’s fascinating how Facebook distorts our realities.
A couple of years ago, this particular lady relished the opportunity to assert what minuscule amount of authoritt she had. I was fairly new to the job, and she made sure on my first day that I knew that she was in a position of power compared with me. She would get unnaturally impassioned and enraged if I occasionally forgot to sign into the building. I’d get into work, and perhaps I’d be sidelined by a colleague, or maybe the phone would ring, and so I’d temporarily forget to sign in. Then, maybe half an hour or so later I’d remember and go to fill out the signing book, where she would inevitably be lerking, ready to pounce.
“You forgot to sign in,” she would angrily declare, as if the fact that I was now signing myself in wasn’t evidence enough for her that I’d realised this and was now remedying the situation.
“Do we need to go through the signing in protocol again, David.”
Evidently not, since I had clearly remembered and was now signing the bloody signing in book. But that didn’t stop her giving me the lecture anyway.
And then one day she was made redundant as a result of the economic downturn. God bless those bankers. And then it all changed. Not immediately, but over time. I started getting invitations from her to feed her chickens , which I initially thought was some kind of odd euphemism, although, it turns out that she was inviting me to play FarmVille. Or one of those other Facebook games, such as candy crush Saga or Bubble Shooter.
I have no idea what these games involve, but it’s odd to think that this woman who used to shout at me on a daily basis for the tiniest of things is now wanting me to crush her candy, feed her chickens, and shoot bubbles at her at 3 in the morning. If I knew back then that this is how things would pan out, that in a couple of years she would be asking me to romp around a fictitious farm, playing with bubbles, then I’d have found her and the whole situation even more risible than I actually did.
Facebook has helped to distort our reality, and to show us how fabricated and fake these constructs actually are. These constructs that we allow to dominate us, intimidate us. Facebook helps lift the lid on the absurdity of it all. In 2012, they are a senior member of staff, reprimanding you in their office for some absurd inconsequentiality , and then a year later they’re challenging you to a bubble fight, and asking you to help them feed some virtual livestock.
Obviously, I declined her invitation to join her on the farm; I had detective work to do. Who the heck is Hendrik Smit?
My detective work began by identifying mine and Hendrik’s mutual friends. We didn’t have any. So I opened Hendrik’s profile to see what could be gleaned. There was very little that could be obtained, due to the fact that Hendrik’s profile was written in Dutch. I must have met Hendrik at a Dutch folk festival that I performed at five years ago. We’d probably only very fleetingly spoke. Hendrik Smit didn’t even register on the distant acquaintance list.
I could have left it there, but being the great detective that I am, I decided to continue my investigation. I pasted the contents of his profile and wall posts in to Google translate. The translation was far from perfect, but I began to piece together the picture, and within a couple of minutes I had learnt one rather unexpected fact about Hendrik Smit. Hendrik Smit is not even a person. Hendrik Smit … is a dog! Hendrik Smit must be the dog of a person who I fleetingly met at a folk festival in Holland five years ago.
But, a minute’s further reading ascertained that my assertion was not entirely correct, for Hendrik Smit is not a dog, Hendrik Smit was a dog. Hendrik Smit is dead. Hendrik Smit is a dead dog! A dead dog belonging to someone I fleetingly met at a folk festival in Holland five years ago!
Again, I refer to my theory about Facebook completely distorting and warping our realities. Facebook had woken me at 3am with the suggestion that I wish a dead dog a happy birthday. Ad dead dog who, up until a few seconds ago, I had no idea had even ever existed.
I have all sorts of people on my Facebook. I tend to accept most people who send me a friend request. I primarily use Facebook as a promotional tool. I don’t think of it as a private place for me and my nearest and dearest to romp around fictitious farms. I’d have just accepted Hendrik Smit without giving it a second’s thought. I can’t see his photo, so I’d have had no idea that he was a dog.
Well I suppose I might as well delete him, I thought, but then I stopped. I can’t delete him on his birthday. What kind of a man would I be if I shunned a dead dog on his birthday? What kind of a present is that?
And then it hit me. A present. Just because he’s a dead dog, that doesn’t mean he’s not deserving of a birthday present. And I had the perfect present in mind. What’s the perfect present for a dead dog? It’s obvious. A lifeless bitch, of course. And I knew where to find one of those. I used the friends suggestion tool to suggest that Hendrik smit might be a suitable friend for my former work’s manager. And then I closed down Facebook, turned off my phone and fell asleep, feeling very pleased with my self, basking in the knowledge that I was truly a very funny man.
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A couple of days back, I was on the HMRC website, about to make a start on my tax return. It doesn’t need to be submitted until the 31st January, but I thought it best to make a start this week, given the copious amounts of money we’re dealing with here. Well, I am a professional folk singer, after all.
A message popped up on the website, telling me to read the following terms and conditions, which I’d have to agree to in order to proceed to the self-assessment section to allow me to pay my tax contribution.
Well, you know me. I love a good T’s & C’s blurb. I thought it might be the inspiration for yet another blog post, making it two consecutive blog posts inspired by written contracts. Perhaps i’d find that my niche was writing side-splitting blog posts about written legal agreements. So I began to scan the paragraphs, keeping my ears peeled – I was using a screen reader – in case there was anything of comic potential contained within.
But then an even more compelling thought struck me. The HMRC website informed me that I should only proceed to the tax return payment section if I agree to their terms and conditions. If I don’t agree with them then I technically can’t pay my taxes. That’s not my fault; it’s just the way the system is. So I had a cursory read through the paragraphs of text, found a couple of errant punctuation marks that rankled me, and decided that that was good enough grounds for disagreement. So I closed the web browser, and worried no more about it, safe in the knowledge that I, like Apple, like Google, like Starbucks, had managed to find a tax loop hole, and unlike those major corporations, I’d done it without some highfalutin, expensive accountant. I felt rather smug for the rest of the day. They’re right: tax doesn’t have to be taxing, not at all.
In last week’s blog post, I mentioned that we had been nominated for Best Group of the Year in Songlines magazine. I mentioned that you can vote for us to win by going here. Since then, we have won the Best Group/duo of the Year in the Fatea Awards. So technically it’s already been decided that we are the best group of 2014 by a team of professional music critics, so I don’t think you’re really in much of a position to contradict this. So the best thing you can do is to visit the Songlines site and cast your vote for The Young’uns.
Back next week. Will it be about written contracts? Probably not.
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At the back end of last year, I received an email from an airline company. They wanted to know if we were happy to have the Young’uns’ included as part of their in-flight entertainment music. This request did not particularly surprise me, given that one of the many positive side effects of the Young’uns’ music is tempering altitude sickness, as well as helping to prevent deep vein thrombosis. You don’t get those kind of ancillary benefits with Bellowhead.
I was quite excited at the prospect of being one of the artists played before take-off. What an incredible honour to be the band that blurs out over the speakers, pre-flight, interrupted every thirty seconds by an advert for cheep perfume, car hire or travel insurance. Imagine being the musical backdrop to the pre-flight safety announcements. When I first started singing folk songs, I had no idea that such accolades awaited me.
It transpired, however, that we are not to occupy quite such a hallowed role, but instead our music is to be featured as part of one of the radio programmes that passengers can choose to listen to during their flight. So we’re not quite living the dream yet.
The particular show that we are to be included on is called British Underground Radio. I’m not exactly sure when and where it’s being broadcast, nor how many people will actually get to hear us, but I’m letting you know in case you happen to be on an aeroplane and you see it listed as one of the in-flight entertainment options.
I know we have some very zealous and committed fans, and so I feel it is my responsibility to urge those people not to start booking hundreds of flights, in the hope of having the opportunity to experience our music on an aeroplane, which is certainly an experience worth having. Love in a Northern Town sounds perfectly adequate when listened to in normal settings, but becomes utterly transcendent when listened to at speeds upwards of 200 miles per hour, and at altitudes of ten thousand Feet or higher.
I will try and get more information regarding the exact times and flights on which we are to be aired. I don’t want to be responsible for a dramatic increase in carbon emissions, due to overly keen Young’uns fans.
The airline company sent me a contract to read through and sign. I was cursorily reading through it, not expecting to find anything of note, when I was struck by one of the lines:
“You allow your music to be broadcast in the agreed territory. (Territory shall mean the universe.)”
My goodness, they really do have big plans for our music. Talk about going places. This airline company aren’t satisfied with broadcasting our music solely to planet earth. Oh no, that’s way too anodyne. Nor are they even content to restrict broadcast of our music to our specific Solar System. , that’s not good enough. These guys have ambition. They intend to transcend beyond the Milky way. They’re not pulling punches here. They want the Young’uns to go universal!
It’s good however to see that they haven’t allowed hubris to utterly overtake them, and that they haven’t got ideas that one might deem too unrealistic. They could have expressed their intention to pump our music into multiverses and parallel universes. At least they know when to stop. It’s reassuring to see that they are aware of their limitations, otherwise you could be forgiven for thinking that we’re being sold a pipe dream. Maybe one day our music will get to be heard in various multiverses, but for the time being I’m more than content in the knowledge that our songs will be enjoying a universal audience, and I look forward to signing my first autograph for a Martian.
So, as you can see, it’s an exciting time for the Young’uns right now.
In other news, the Young’uns have been shortlisted for the Best Group of the Year award in SongLines magazine. This is an earth-based publication incidentally; we are yet to receive acclaim from outer space, but obviously it’s only a matter of time. If you want to vote for us to win, then go here. And you really should, because one day we will have support from extraterrestrial beings, who may be inclined to zap those of you who dare not to vote or to vote for another act. So be warned!
This year I resolve to write a blog post a week, so I’ll be back very soon.
A reminder that you can enjoy – or at least listen to anyway – the Twelve Podcasts of Christmas, which looks back at Young’uns Podcasts past. We’ll be back at the end of the month with a new series of weekly podcasts, and the third Pick and Mix will be released soon.
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We have a bone to pick with Eliza Carthy. Find out the true identity of the Young’uns; our darkest secrets are revealed by a palm reader. We play a couple of examples of Young’uns anecdotes gone wrong. We play clips from our gig at Bamfest which had possibly the drunkest audience we’ve ever played to. Award winning folk performer and qualified medical doctor James Fagan talks testicles in our new feature James Fagan’s Talking Bollocks, and Folk in Focus reveals James’s food preferences. And we see our Twelve Podcasts of Christmas series out with a beautiful rendition of a U2 song from our polish friends Brasy.
Happy new year. We’ll be back later this month for a new weekly run of Young’uns Podcasts.
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Happy new year! 2014 has been an incredible year for us, one of the highlights being our very own folk festival, on Hartlepool’s Headland. On the eleventh Podcast of Christmas we bring you music and chat from the festival, from Polish Vocal harmony quintet Brasy, Greg Russell and ciaran Algar, the Hut People, and Mic and Susie Darling. We teach Brasy to speak Geordie, and introduce them to the Birthday Game. And we quiz Greg and Ciaran about their thoughts on matters biscuit.