Richard Thompson

Image courtesy of Kevin Smith at Wikimedia Commons.

If most people had to list our top UK rock and roll guitarists, the names of Eric Clapton, Rory Gallagher, Hank Marvin, Mark Knopfler, Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page would probably come to mind. However, polls regularly place Richard Thompson as the best British guitarist (certainly the best folk-rock guitarist) of all time, and I wouldn't disagree. In the songwriting stakes, too, I would put him up there among the greats — look at his beautiful songs Beeswing and Dimming Of The Day, for instance.

I suppose Thompson may not be quite as well known and appreciated as some of our musicians and songwriters because his songs can appear melancholy and depressing, hard-edged, out of the mainstream — a little too, well, folky. But I myself love his romantic realism and his folk roots.

I've followed Richard since his early days with seminal folk-rock band Fairport Convention and through his forty-album career. I even once had a chat with him and his then wife, Linda, at the bar of St John's College, Durham, during a concert break.

It was a privilege to see the wonderful Richard Thompson again last night in Nottingham's Royal Concert Hall. He's on a UK tour at the moment with his band (Taras Prodaniuk on bass and Michael Jerome on drums) to promote their new album Electric. He's gigging the US in March and April. Do see him if you get the chance.

Here's a live performance from Austin, Texas, of his song Put It There Pal.

Farewell, Farewell

Farewell, farewell to you who would hear
You lonely travellers all;
The cold North wind will blow again
The winding road does call.

Writer: RICHARD THOMPSON. Singer: SANDY DENNY.

Borderlines

Well, if you're travelin' in the north country fair/Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline... BOB DYLAN Girl Of The North Country from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan

Good or bad, we think we know/As if thinking makes things so!/All convictions grow along a borderline... JONI MITCHELL Borderline from Turbulent Indigo

There's a place, so I've been told,/Every street is paved with gold/And it's just across the borderline... BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN Across The Borderline from The Ghost Of Tom Joad

What is this thing about borderlines? I've been crossing lots of them myself on the Chemin, on the Camino, as I walk from country to country, region to region, province to province, field to field, stone to stone.

Of course there are the negative aspects, the geo-political aspects. Borders can mean division, barriers, hostility. The best book I've ever read on the political-emotional effects of borders is Michael Ondaatje's poetic novel The English Patient. I'll bet a lot more people have seen Anthony Minghella's film than read the book. The film is good - but the book's a whole lot better.

Borders, borderlines, borderlands. Frontiers, limits, edges. Crossing-points. This whole subject fascinates me. I've always loved those transitory places, those evolving places, the wind-beaten and sea-crashed places, those places on the furthest edge and at the outermost limit. Fisterra in Galicia, Finisterre in Brittany, the Lizard Peninsula in Cornwall. The Lleyn Peninsula in Wales. Scotland's Cape Wrath. The Florida Keys. Sicily. The French Camargue. The extremities of countries.

My favourite times of day are dawn, the border between night and day, and dusk, the border between day and night. Strange things can happen at these transient, fast-moving times. You feel alive.

Celts, white witches, Wiccans long recognized the magical power of the calendar's turning-points: the solstices, the equinoxes, the pagan festivals of Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasadh and Samhain.

The border between water and land at the sea's edge. Between land and sky, or sea and sky, at the horizon. These are potent places.

This is a huge theme and I can only try and touch a chord.

Let's end with the lyrics of the song When I Get To The Border by Richard and Linda Thompson, which appears on their wonderful record I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight. Well, it is a Monday.

Dirty people take what's mine
I can leave them all behind
They can never cross that line
When I get to the border.
Sawbones standing at the door,
Waiting till I hit the floor,
He won't find me anymore
When I get to the border.
Monday morning, monday morning, closing in on me,
I'm packing up and running away
To where nobody picks on me.
If you see a box of pine,
With a name that looks like mine,
Just say I drowned in a barrel of wine
When I get to the border,
When I get to the border.

A one way ticket's in my hand,
Heading for the chosen land,
My troubles will all turn to sand
When I get to the border.
Salty girl with yellow hair,
Waiting in that rocking chair,
And if I'm weary I won't care
When I get to the border.
Monday morning, monday morning, closing in on me,
I'm packing up and running away
To where nobody picks on me.
Dusty road will smell so sweet,
Paved with gold beneath my feet,
And I'll be dancing down the streeet
When I get to the border,
When I get to the border.