Voicing Scotland: Folk, Culture, Nation

Introduction

WE LIVE, WE ARE told, in a ‘post-traditional’ world. This is the world of globalisation, of instant communication, of a sprint down the fast lane towards ‘progress’. It is a world where community is often virtual, our interaction electronic, where more and more of us blog and tweet our way through our days. Ours is a liquid society, where nothing stays still long enough to solidify into anything of substance, where roots are tethers and cultural baggage a debilitating burden. To successfully negotiate this world, to ‘get on’, we must be fleet of foot, ready to divert elsewhere at a moment’s notice; crucially, we must be mobile. Our skills must be varied, flexible and transferable rather than creatively crafted and carefully honed, and to manage anything at all we must show that we can ‘drive through change’.

This is a picture of our modern world painted for us by many commentators, the sociologist Zygmunt Bauman chief amongst them. Bauman has set up quite an industry for himself in the production of a plethora of books explaining the concept of ‘liquid modernity’, arguing that recent decades have witnessed a fundamental shift in how we operate and organise ourselves in western society.¹ Globalisation means that ‘traditional’ ways of thinking and acting lack the reach required, and conventional politics, the way we control and influence where we want to go, is a toothless endeavour. He is not, I should stress, advocating all this, simply asserting that we already have it.

Is this the kind of world we actually now live in? Is Bauman right? We will all no doubt have differing views, but I suspect most of us recognise at least some truth in this picture. When did you last read a professional job description that did not ask for evidence of success in managing change? What was the most recent ‘crash’ of the world’s finances if not the catastrophic pile-up of an overcrowded fast lane? Perhaps the sight of the wreckage will slow us down a little. Perhaps.

This view of modernity is sometimes termed ‘negative globalisation’, and we can add to it the fear that the fast lane of progress is leading inexorably towards a universal sameness. Even if this is confined to ‘the west’ it predicts an homogenisation of cultural values and forms which will see us all eat the same food, listen to the same music, watch the same films, read the same books, while wearing the same clothes. A more encouraging picture might be painted, however, if we see globalisation as having a much more positive side to it. This philosophy might see mass and instant communication not as a threat, not as a vehicle for the inevitable homogenisation of the world’s cultures, but rather as a wonderful means to recognise, display, share, understand and celebrate cultural difference. In such a vision, ‘tradition’ remains entirely relevant – indeed, crucial – to the modern world. For it is partly within tradition that cultural difference is stored, that the vast richness of human creativity is represented and that place, locality and belonging are given meaning. It is this realisation that has led to UNESCO’s preoccupation with heritage, and in particular, with what it now terms ICH – ‘intangible cultural heritage’. There is a fascinating story behind this – it involves hammers, nails, sparrows and snails – which I shall come back to a little later, but in short this is about recognising and celebrating the non-material cultural traditions to be found throughout the world. Rather than revering only buildings, artefacts, landscapes and monuments, this is about song, music, storytelling – it is about voicing the community, the region, the nation. In Scotland we now tend to call these ‘the traditional arts’, and it is from amongst these arts that the themes of this book are drawn.

What is their role in the modern world? What have they got to say to us about the big themes which we must wrestle with in the 21st century? What do these voicings tell us about humanity, inhumanity, morality, conflict, place, identity, belonging, environment? Do these arts belong in the present, or should they be consigned to the past? How might they shape the future? I raise these questions within the spirit of what I’d like to call ‘positive globalisation’, which has at its root a basic philosophy of understanding something like this: start with the local, build towards the national, and aim, from there, for the global.

Tradition is not the antithesis of change. As I hope to show, change is a crucial ingredient within the process of tradition itself: it does move and develop and reshape itself to fit into each new manifestation of the present. If it does not, it tends to disappear. A favoured metaphor for such progress here in Scotland is Hamish Henderson’s idea of a carrying stream – the stream of tradition flows through time, picking up new flotsam as it goes, leaving some things on its banks in the process. At any given point, then, its content and form may be a little bit different to other places further up or down stream, yet it remains recognisable as the same tradition. As a conceptualisation this is not without its limitations, but the key thing is that it reminds us that tradition flows, that it, too, is liquid. It is not static, it is not a pond, which is perhaps a better metaphor for ‘convention’, where things do tend to remain unchanged. A convention is encoded in strict rules which are unthinkingly adhered to because ‘it has always been this way’. A convention is a dead tradition.

Yet change within tradition tends not to be revolutionary or even rapid, but incremental, considered, evolutionary. That is not to say that radical new ideas or approaches do not appear within a tradition on occasions. They do, but time tends to be the judge, the barometer of acceptability, the arbiter of taste. Roots are important, as is an appreciation of where things have come from, where we stand within the stream, and how to use that knowledge to create fresh and meaningful art going forward. Tradition, then, can be of great use in a liquid modern world, a questioning, solidifying force, and a reminder that society cannot spend its entire time in the fast lane. Yet it can still help us to move forward, to move positively, and to embrace the future with the confidence that comes from knowing where we’ve been.

You will have guessed by now that I generally think well of tradition, that I view it as a largely positive part of our cultural landscape, or cultural ecology, to use a phrase which is coming into common currency here in Scotland. But there is a caveat to that, for we must recognise that tradition can sometimes be used as a negative force, as an excuse for not changing, even when change is clearly needed. We can sometimes hide behind tradition, use it to persecute, to fuel intolerance, to justify the unjustifiable. UNESCO, to its credit, is wise to this, and has built a defence into its ICH charter to ensure any application for official recognition based on such unethical use of the concept is rejected. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t still happen, of course, but it is a start, and we will do well to follow their lead in at least keeping an eye out for it.

I’ll turn now to the geographical focus of this book. What of Scotland? What might our place be within the spirit of a philosophy of positive globalisation? We live in interesting times, for constitutional debate and change has led to the conceptualisation of the beginning of the 21st century as bringing a ‘new’ Scotland into being. You may well be reading this with the referendum already in the past, you may be in an independent Scotland, or in an ‘enhanced devolution’ Scotland. In either case, the ‘new’ label will probably be justified. Or you may indeed be in a Scotland which is constitutionally identical to the one in which I am writing this sentence, in 2012. Indeed, you may not be in Scotland at all, but simply looking in from afar, or from next door, and wondering what all the fuss is about.

But even now, pre-referendum, plenty has happened over the last dozen or so years to give credence to the idea that many aspects of ‘the old’ Scotland have been replaced with something fresh or revived, and in some cases at least, entirely new. Some of these changes relate to the political process, the creation of the Scottish Parliament at Holyrood being the obvious example, while many involve the cultural fabric of the nation. The National Museum of Scotland on Edinburgh’s Chambers Street, a long long time in coming, is now a teenager, and proudly displays ‘Scotland to the world’, adding to the grand building next door which for a century and a half has been displaying ‘the world to Scotland’. It, too, has had not so much a face-lift as a complete reworking, and reopened its doors to a chorus of a million approving voices in 2011. Likewise, the National Portrait Gallery on Queen Street in the capital has received a complete overhaul, revitalising a space which was beginning to feel daunting in its darkened deference to the faces of the great and good of the nation displayed on its walls. In Glasgow we now have the excellent Riverside Museum to add to the city’s already extensive cultural landscape, a magnificent new concert hall graces the centre of Perth, and the architects Page and Park have created a marvellous new set of spaces with their complete refurbishment of the Eden Court Theatre in Inverness. As I write, the brand new Mareel Centre in Lerwick is about to open and we are soon to welcome a radical new-build on the Tay with the arrival of the V&A at Dundee. There are many more examples of new capital investment in Scotland’s cultural sector and the message we can take from this is that Scotland has been gearing herself up well to ensure her cultural infrastructure is fit to face the challenges ahead.

As well as buildings, the organisational framework for the support of the arts within Scotland has also been reshaped, with the founding, after a somewhat protracted gestation, of Creative Scotland, in 2010. Bringing together the former Scottish Arts Council and Scottish Screen, the seeds of the idea of a new body can be traced back through various Scottish governments or executives. The key stepping stones were the Cultural Commission, chaired by James Boyle and established in 2004, and the National Cultural Strategy which preceded it. Clearly, ‘culture’ has been very much on the mind of our Scottish parliamentarians from the outset.

Not all of us will agree about how this commitment to culture should be handled, and whether what has emerged from this process of reflection and consultation is as good as it could possibly be, but what is not in doubt, surely, is that there is a burgeoning degree of cultural confidence in Scotland these days. We seem to have got past the tired old struggles and squabbles between traditional sparring partners – ‘high’ art versus ‘popular’, east versus west, urban versus rural – and are moving forward with a new-found vigour. We have international recognition for the quality of our creativity, with Edinburgh as a UNESCO City of Literature and Glasgow being awarded the equivalent accolade as a City of Music. The National Theatre of Scotland, founded in 2006, has produced some excellent work, again internationally acclaimed, as indeed have the other nationally supported companies in the fields of dance and classical music. Cultural festivals take place virtually all year round now in Scotland, with over 350 annual offerings at the latest count, while across the length and breadth of the country individual artists, venues, teachers, promoters, and all manner of organisations combine to make Scotland a culturally rich and diverse nation.

We are aiming high. Creative Scotland’s ten-year vision includes an ambition for us to be recognised as one of the world’s leading cultural nations and one of the world’s top ten places to visit for culture, to have the highest levels of participation in the arts within the UK, and to be an international leader for the arts among children and young people.² While such things are of course difficult to measure, they are nonetheless achievable aims, and the plan which supports this vision is aimed at investing in Scotland’s culture in a way which gives ourselves every chance of reaching these heights. ‘Investing’ does not just mean giving out cash to venues and artists, but goes much wider into the whole infrastructure, providing support and advocacy for audience development, education, international links, cross-sector initiatives and all of the other needs of a healthy cultural community.

I realise I am painting a very positive picture of Scotland’s cultural ecology here, and I know that not everyone will agree with me. Of course there are less rosy stories to be told too, with some organisations falling by the wayside, others struggling just to make ends meet and keep their doors open, and artists who give up as they just cannot get the start or the break they need. Yet, looking at the bigger picture, I remain convinced that there is much to be positive about.

And so what of the traditional arts? Where do they fit into this? In many ways, the story follows a similar plot, for there is much to celebrate. We have come a long way over the last generation, with traditional music, song, storytelling and dance now much further up the national cultural agenda than has ever been the case before, and they are seen to have a crucial part to play in helping to bring a unique stamp to the nation’s creativity. Having commissioned a detailed report into the traditional arts sector, published in 2010,³ the Scottish Government’s formal response confirms its strong commitment to these art forms, and outlines its views on the need for ongoing development and support. As the Cabinet Secretary for Culture and External Affairs, Fiona Hyslop, commented:

the traditional arts make a significant contribution to the cultural heritage of Scotland not just as a legacy, but because they actively provide a way of taking forward that heritage, shaping the culture of our future generations and ensuring their contribution to wider public life.⁴

How are we doing that? What are the roots of these arts? What is the story of ‘tradition’ in Scotland? How has it been voiced? These are some of the issues I would like to pick up as we move through this book.

I begin with an overview of what tradition actually is, or rather with what various people and institutions and movements consider it to be, for in actual fact there is no universal agreement on this. In Scotland we have been trying to make sense of tradition for rather a long time, mainly through ‘collecting’ it, and in many respects we have been international leaders in this. I notice that Brenda Chapman, one of the writers of the Disney-Pixar animation Brave, has mentioned that she considers the film to be a fairy tale in the tradition of the Brothers Grimm, but there is little need to look to Germany for such inspiration given the strength of the oral narrative tradition here in Scotland. The Grimms themselves looked to Scotland for their own guidance, and in particular to a schoolmaster from Badenoch who enjoyed his own equivalent of a Hollywood blockbuster in the mid-18th century, taking his own native oral tales of ancient Celtic heroes and weaving them into the seamless garment which brought him international fame and not a little controversy. Chapter One picks up this story and others, and sketches out a framework of how we have come to perceive, view and explore cultural tradition down to the present day.

All of this was part of the long pre-history of the 20th century folk revival in Scotland, and one of the outcomes of that was the links it forged between the culture of our local communities and the creative output of the ‘professional’ artists. In many respects, the revival wasn’t actually ‘reviving’ very much at all, it was simply reminding us of what had slipped our minds, but which still existed in the mouths and homes of us all. That great bothy ballad singer from the north-east, Jock Duncan, complained to me recently that there is no need to call it a revival. It never went away. But it did disappear from our national view, and so in Chapter Two I take a quick peek into the homes of a few generations of the people of Scotland to see and hear just what did happen by way of ‘tradition’ before it left the kitchen and made for the stage and the archives.

Thereafter, I move in to explore the creativity of those whose work, rightly or wrongly, has usually been ‘filed under folk’. We lend our ears to those who have added their own stones to the cairn of tradition, who have seen themselves as belonging to it, who are part of the continuum of the carrying stream, but who take on the responsibility of shaping its future. These are the songwriters, the singers, the composers, the dramatists and the performers who voice the tradition in their own terms. What do they have to say to us? How are they speaking to the world? What are their themes, their preoccupations, their philosophies? What is their value to us here in the 21st century? How, if at all, are they moving us along the road towards a positive form of globalisation? Are they bringing a sense of solidity to this liquid society? Chapters on ‘Voicing Place’, ‘Voicing War’ and ‘Lands and Lyrics’ are my attempts to explore some of these questions and to contemplate how they are ‘voicing’ Scotland.

In Chapter Six, by way of conclusion, I explore the wider cultural contexts of tradition within Scotland. In many respects, this has been a story of both survival and revival, for the course of tradition seldom runs smooth, but rather tends to ebb and flow, wither and thrive as society develops and changes through time. We have been a rather self-examining nation at times, asking ourselves what our culture really is, whether it is healthy, to what extent it needs re-shaped or even whether it should be ripped apart and thrown away, clearing the path for a fresh start. That, indeed, was the radical suggestion put forward by some in the 1980s, and before that, in the 1930s, periods that gave rise to complaints about the dominance of ‘Balmorality’ and ‘Tartanry’ and the reliance on a hackneyed set of romanticised representations. Folk culture played a complex role in this, as for some it was part of the problem, while others saw it as having the potential to contribute to the solution.