The wisdom of pop songs – Boats and ships

The human condition explained in three-minute bursts

A couple of weeks ago we had a look at air travel through the eyes of the world’s songwriters and now it’s time to take to the water: boats.

Boating is not necessarily about long voyages; it can be about pleasure and relaxation. In 1961 a Scottish folk singer called Josh MacRae had a UK hit with a sleepy piece of whimsy called Messing About On The River, in which he extolled the virtues of taking it easy on the water. Josh wasn’t his real name – he borrowed it from  blues musician he liked. He was really Iain, and if this song is representative of his usual conversation, one can surmise that he loved his mother, went caravanning to the same loch-side location every year and sometimes treated himself to a naughty third glass of shandy. A Jack Daniels-swigging rebel he wasn’t, but what is called in the UK an anorak, as this couplet suggests:

There are tillers and rudders and anchors and cleats,
And ropes that are sometimes referred to as sheets.

Rock on, Iain. Or folk on, perhaps.

New Zealand being a former British territory, that song may well have been crooning through the speaker of the radio in the house of the young Tim Finn before he formed Split Enz and was subsequently eclipsed by his younger brother Neil, with Crowded House. Split Enz had great success with the wonderful Six Months in a Leaky Boat, a rollicking tale of life on the high seas.

The Beach Boys had already brought us Sloop John B, a folk song from the Bahamas that told of problems of drunkenness and ill health aboard the eponymous ship, leaving the narrator wanting to go home.

You don’t get this kind of thing with air travel, because it’s all over too quickly.

Many songs with boat or ship in the title actually have nothing to do with nautical matters: Bebop Deluxe’s Ships in the Night, for instance, is a figure of speech meaning two people who don’t really connect, while the Walker Brothers’ My Ship Is Coming In is another way of saying his fortunes are changing and “things are gonna be different now”.

One of this blog’s favourite songs on any subject is perfect here, though: Procol Harum’s A Salty Dog, a beautifully crafted story of British sailors thousands of miles from home and settling on a remote island. Lyricist Keith Reid put the words in Gary Brooker’s mouth – he also created the psychedelic strangeness of A Whiter Shade of Pale – and perhaps because he wasn’t singing them himself, he had a poetic flair and breadth of vision that is all too rare in pop music.

We fired the gun, and burned the mast, and rowed from ship to shore
The captain cried, we sailors wept: our tears were tears of joy
Now many moons and many Junes have passed since we made land
A salty dog, this seaman’s log: your witness my own hand

Rod Stewart’s massive hit Sailing, a song of love and loneliness, was written by Gavin Sutherland of the Sutherland Brothers, who enjoyed considerable success in their own right but are probably sick to death of the song, if not the royalties.

Christopher Cross’s song of the same name seems to tell of his love for being out on the water himself, forgetting his worldly cares because “the canvas can do miracles”.

Much less well known but equally brilliant are two songs by The Band. Rocking Chair, on their second album, the one with Up on Cripple Creek and Rag Mama Rag, features an ageing  man urging his friend Willie to join him in retiring from their seafaring life because they’re simply too old.

I spent my whole life at sea
And I’m pushing age 73
Now there’s only one place that was meant for me

Later came Evangeline, which sounds like a Canadian folk song but was actually written by guitarist Robbie Robertson just in time to be tacked onto the end of the film The Last Waltz. A tale of a riverboat gambler and his drowning  while his love watches, helpless, from a hilltop, it features the voices of Rick Danko and Levon Helm, with the girl portrayed by Emmylou Harris.

Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Proud Mary evokes a similar era, albeit far less dramatically.

A completely different angle comes from Elvis Costello with Shipbuilding, which was also a hit for Robert Wyatt. Set in the tough economic times of the early 1980s when the Falklands war was generating money for the north of England and Scotland because war ships needed to be built, it’s about as appealing as a politically-motivated song can be.

Is it worth it?
A new winter coat and shoes for the wife
And a bicycle on the boy’s birthday…

Somebody said that someone got filled in
For saying that people get killed in
The result of this shipbuilding

And on that somber note, The Wisdom of Pop Songs will see you next Friday.

Confessions of an expat – Leaving Grand Turk

Half the islands in the Caribbean claim to have been the first discovered by Christopher Columbus, and Grand Turk is one of them

People come and go in every community, but in a small one you just notice it more. Our Grand Turk experience caught the latter days of the interim government, and gradually the numbers dwindled. There were a few new faces, but the trend was out rather than in.

Unless you’re involved in a seasonal trade, in the Caribbean the months slip by unnoticed. The leaves don’t fall from the trees much in Grand Turk because there aren’t many trees there. And the main reason for that is that the main industry used to be salt. The island – and even more so nearby Salt Cay – retains large areas of abandoned salt ponds, where sea water was evaporated until only the salt remained. Trees were a problem for two reasons: first, too many of them can have an effect on the weather, and although rain has obvious advantages as far as drinking and hygiene go, it could also reduce a pile of salt to mush, undoing perhaps months of work. Secondly, leaves do fall and get blown by the wind, and another thing the salt producers didn’t need was bits of vegetation spoiling their pristine white mounds.

1995 (2)
The old dock in Salt Cay from the salt-industry family home to which it belongs. A descendant still lives in the islands, doing boat trips, and he took us there from Grand Turk

Nature sent a grim reminder of the past and the potential future when a hurricane that had passed a long way from the island flicked its tail in our direction. The sea raced up and crashed against the walls, destabilized the outdoor seating area at the Osprey and poured over roads.

Our bit of beach, which was edged by a strip of (I think) limestone topped with sand and stones, changed dramatically to the point where you couldn’t walk into the sea safely. By that time I was addicted to swimming, though, so I persevered through the lingering swells and waves, breaking a small bone in my toe in the process.

Our house in distance
That’s our old house on the right

As what passes for winter drew on, barbecuing became complicated by the fact that the light disappeared earlier than usual and I found myself cooking in the dark, which didn’t go down well with those who like their chicken well done.

With fewer visitors and fewer government people, the Thursday night crowd at the Sandbar could be a bit thin – and my novelty had worn off, anyway.

It was work (my wife’s, that is) had brought us there and eventually it called us away too. Our Canadian friends gave up on their ginger beer brewery and sold the business. Our latest neighbor in the tiny house in our garden finished her government contract and went back to the UK to finish her training as a priest.

Maybe you know your time is up when you’ve tried absolutely everything on the Sandbar’s menu at least once. It is a small island and you’ve done pretty much everything within a couple of months – or weeks, if you’ve got somebody telling you where to go.

We had wandered around the ruins of the Ike-ravaged hotel on the windy side of the island. We had discovered the slightly eerie remains of the Conch World tourist attraction, with its pink buildings and spiraling wooden walkway.

We had spent lunchtimes down at the Cruise Centre, just to see a few people and browse, like the ship-bound American hordes, around shops full of t-shirts and trinkets.

Don’t get me wrong. I would have stayed there forever, happy to be  buried, when the time came, in the dusty, desolate graveyard near the more rarely-used of the two Anglican churches.

Sunset in Grand Turk, and a cruise ship heads into the distance

There’s an old song by Procol Harum: A Salty Dog. It’s about 18th century sailors marooned on an island like this. We hadn’t been washed up along with the timbers and barrels of rum, but when you walked alone along the sand with no one else around, it was easy to feel that way.

Beautiful place, lovely people, indelible memories. But all things must pass.