Lucy Ward came to my attention through a four star review of her new album in The Guardian. Single Flame has attracted almost universal acclaim, which helps to explain why this small venue was absolutely packed last night. The 23 year old's first break was reaching the final of the BBC Young Folk Awards in 2009, and she went on to win best newcomer the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards last year. This emerging artist's profile has recently increased further due to the depth and richness of this release.
I was curious as to how effectively the atmosphere of Single Flame's production could be recreated live, with its cello, double bass, drums, electric guitar alongside Lucy's acoustic guitar. Any concerns were dispelled as soon as she started her first song, boldly performed a cappella. She was subsequently joined by a violinist, but her voice is the key to a spellbinding performance. It's wide in range, deep in sonority, and highly expressive. Her tuning (which I'm highly sensitive to as a former cellist) was impeccable throughout, making me wonder if she possesses perfect pitch. Her singing is also extremely versatile, adapting equally well to a jazz number like Blacksmith Blues as to a folk standard like Marching Through The Green Grass.
Place is of central importance to folk music, signified by Lucy's proud display of her Derbyshire accent and Derwent Valley roots. Story telling is also at the core of this tradition, further anchoring her songs to the local history. So Alice In The Bacon Box from her first album tells a sad hundred year old true tale of poverty in Little Eaton; giving voice to an outsider and inspiring a visual artist. For The Dead Men pays tribute to past protesters, whilst engaging with contemporary issues such as cuts in public services. It was fuelled by anger around the extravagance of Thatcher's funeral at a time when austerity is affecting the most vulnerable. She felt this was such an urgent message that she released it as a single. Social media led to the song being noticed by Billy Bragg, and gained Lucy a sound track commission for a film about the human cost of the banking crisis.
Yet, the variety of mood in this set was remarkable, and humour played a central part. During the charming support act of David Gibb and Elly Lucas, I wondered if the audience was almost too respectful and passive. This all changed during their final number when they invited the everyone to sing along as a warm up for the main act. The town of Biddulph has a long choral tradition, and the room suddenly sprung to life. Lucy's manner on stage is warm and outgoing: she enthusiastically explained the meaning of each song before she performed it, and encouraged sing along choruses. This was most evident during humorous pieces such as her John Prine cover Let's Talk Dirty in Hawaiian, when she played ukulele. At times her enunciation and flamboyance during such lighter numbers reminded me of Amanda Palmer.
Lucy talked at length during the near two hour set, yet the magic of this occasion for me were the darker musical moments, when she performed her more recent, deeper songs. Highlights included Last Pirouette, based on a poem written by her father. She enthused about a love of music from her parents' generation, in contrast to her lack of connection with many contemporary genres. The lyrical Shellback was written in memory of her grandfather, and movingly portrays the emotional damage of military service, whilst Icarus is also sad, lyrical and tender. An expressive face told a story as rich as her sonorous voice, and was a joy to watch. Her friends David Gibb and Elly Lucas returned to stage for the encore, a cover of Bob Marley's Everything's Gonne Be Alright, a message which for all the darkness in the world felt true, when music has such power of healing.
This show was part of a long standing series put on by Biddulph Up in Arms folk club, who provided a warm welcome and excellent organisation. You can listen to some excerpts from Lucy's new album below. Meanwhile, I'm excited about her plans to tour next year with a full band.
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