In Mock Mayor misrule, the storm of drum and streets stolen from order, I find part of myself. An atavistic fragment that kicks in sympathy when ale and ceremonial flames shove normality aside. When carnival calls this crowd, I need to be part of it.
It is fitting that Golowan, the ride towards Mazey Day, will start for me later tonight with Alan Lomax. This is a festival that revitalises and safeguards local traditions. Enacts his belief that folkways could lead people back to themselves. The past giving tools to the present, to carve direction, clear space for growth.
Lomax was a man who believed you reported best by placing your hand on your subject’s shoulder. Walk into the heart of things to record them. He did it with a microphone, I have always tried to do it with a pen. There has never been a moment when I come close to the shadow of his genius.