Review: Martin Green, Bristol Beacon – ‘An unusual Christmas folk show’

It’s nearly Christmas. Just a few more days of anticipation, of last-minute dashes, of tinsel and baubles, which also means that it is very nearly the Solstice, the shortest day, the moment when the year turns.

Both celebrations fall together – one of light, one of darkness.

Martin Green, accordionist with Folk experimentalists Lau, knows this. He also knows that one is vitally important to the other. That in the darkness we search for the light and, when we find it, we cling on for dear life.

Lighting the Dark is, in many ways, an unusual Christmas Folk show. The only carols you hear are tiny snatches of Hark the Herald Angels Sing and God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. In fact, there aren’t really any songs at all.

The first half consists of four tunes played on accordion, fiddle (Ultan O’Brien) and trumpet (Dinosaur’s Laura Jurd). They are lovely, looping Morris tunes. Tunes to warm up ice-block feet on Boxing Day mornings.

The last of which is a tune from Shetland – Christmas Day in the Morning– that speaks of Christmas without being remotely schmaltz-y.

The second half is a story, of sorts, two Christmas narratives gently floating towards one another accompanied by the subtlest of darkly folk-ish soundtracks.

Green tells the story of his neighbour, Mary, and her overly decorated garden. There are lights upon lights, Santas spewing out rainbow-coloured snowmen, flickering, glittering elves everywhere you look.

He muses on what this means. Why would someone feel the need to chase away the darkness with so much artificial light?

The story that O’Brien tells is one rooted in folklore. It is of the Wren Boys, the hunting of wrens at the turn of the year and the reasons these tiny birds are so distrusted by the Irish.

His doesn’t have the gentle humour of Green’s story, it is a story of disillusionment and dark-hearted philosophy.

Both stories, however, have a rolling soundtrack that fluctuates in volume and intensity. The Christmas-y Shetland tune from the first half mutates, slows, stretches, quickens, shortens, flickers until it surrounds like breathing.

Green sometimes sits exhausted with eyes closed, accordion splayed across his chest, droning, wheezing. O’Brien’s fiddle is delightfully resonant, a deep hum, the very movement of the earth. When the two play together, they create a great swoosh-y snowstorm, a giant hand giving a snow-globe an almighty shake.

Laura Jurd’s trumpet is like a too-big star on a Christmas tree. While the weight of it can be withstood, it is beautiful and gleaming.

Once it gets too heavy, the whole thing threatens to topple over and come crashing to the floor. Time and again she adds a splash of Christmas, time and again the weight of its beauty causes chaos.

As the evening progresses, as the stories coalesce, so Green tells us of a disappointing shopping trip to Argos, of inflatable dinosaurs and enormous bars of chocolate.

O’Brien ponders the role that folklore has in our making sense of the darkness. Both seem to suggest that new folklore is made just so that we can usher in the smallest sparks of light.

All the while, almost unnoticed, Jurd and her trumpet gleam, sending reflections to all corners.

By the time we are encouraged to our feet to hum along to the tune from Shetland, Green has made sure that we understand that it’s music that has the power.

Music helps us to contemplate the big stuff, music creates little pools of warmth, music finds the light in the dark.

Main photo: Gavin McNamara

Read next:

• Review: The Wilderness Yet, Downend Folk & Roots – ‘A delightfully warm celebration’
• Review: Skinny Lister, The Fleece – ‘A religious experience’
• Review: Django Django, Strange Brew – ‘Sublime indie ecstasy’

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