Yesterday saw me managing to snag Anais Mitchell's "Child Ballads" for a steal on Amazon at $5. For any of y'all unfamiliar: Child Ballads is Mitchel and her collaborator--guitarist and sometime backup vocalist Jefferson Hamer--giving some old Scottish and English ballads a renaissance. The Child Ballads are 305 ballads from those countries, along with the American variants, Francis James took it in his head to anthologize, and honestly some of my fav folklore geekiness in their own right.

So realizing Mitchell and Hamer had picked seven of 'em and given them tunes akin to the American folk of someone like Jackson C. Frank delighted me. * We have uncountable Americans doing faux-Celtic stuff, complete with unspeakable attempts at accents. So to see her make something intensely North-American folk--there's a fair bit of Stan Rogers and other phenomenal Canadian musicians in there if you're watching for it--is so profoundly refreshing.

I've been listening to it a ton on Spotify till I could about quote lyrics when it occurred to me that it'd be well worth the investment to have it in my collection. As I've listened to the 7-song collection twice today, I'd say the investment's paying off.

I can't rec listening highly enough and buying if you can manage.

For a taste before you go off to Spotify, have Mitchell and Hamer performing my current favorite live:


* Frank's one of those obscure American folk artists I'll never get enough of. Career cut tragically short by poverty and mental illness, he's got this small but fucking gorgeously gutting body of work that's starting to come back into vogue. His Blues Run The Game is such a well-constructed masterclas in using music and writing to complement each other, with themes so haunting! I can only listen to it a few times a year.
Amal El Mohtar loves poetry and folk music as much as I do, which isn't extraordinary in and of itself--there're many people who love both genres with my ferocity. What is however extraordinary is her willingness to glory, with baroque linguistic exuberance in her loves and to slowly unveil why those loves exist. This essay starts as love-letter to Anais Mitchell and slowly circles back to that as concluding theme, but it feels deeply symphonic to me because while that's the hook to lure you in, it interweaves with other themes. Of folk as endlessly tread ground deeply comforting because it's so endlessly tread because there's no right entry point into folk, no artists one simply must! know to pass the gatekeeping tests of so many fans of other musical movements. And how that willingness to admit all people onto familiar ground and let them make of it what they will gives us this glorious stone soup of a musical movement, everyone contributing some little bit to the harmonious whole.

That's summation, but doesn't do the breadth and incisiveness of the writing in this justice; it brought me to tears, recontextualized why I like so many of the things I love, was so thoughtful and generous and brimful of wonder. All I can do is give you a taste, and hope you'll let yourself be drawn in entire:
I remember, writing this now, a Charles de Lint story called “Held Close in Moonlight and Vines,” in which a boy dreams himself a hideaway “with old castle rock for walls”—not a castle, crucially, but a ruined space, one that makes room for him, that he transforms with his presence. The rocks are more precious, somehow, for having been broken from castles, from having suggested the shape of a castle that once was—more precious by far than they would have been in a whole castle, where they could be nothing but synonymous with it, just the castle and not its composition. Paradoxically, castles keep people out; ruins invite people in.

Mitchell’s songs have old castle rock for walls. She writes so powerfully and poignantly about the intimacy of her life, her history, her desires, but when she sings I hear an immensity that I feel from gazing at the sea from broken ancient places, from windy cliffs. And these things are inseparable: her presence, her now-ness, with its sly, slippery play, and the solemnity of ages that comes from a folk phrase like you will not come to harm.

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