Steeleye Span
Hark! The Village Wait

So far, dear friends, my enthusiasm in pointing out the extraordinary treasures bequeathed by the musical culture of the past century has not waned. How could this happen in the face of such neglected splendor? I hope you've always felt this enthusiasm. After all, I could never speak dispassionately of my "ancient loves", while I completely abstain from reporting and leave it to the clinical experts to inform about subpar works, just because they are part of the career of important bands. Furthermore, voting below three stars, for me, means stepping out of history and entering the realm of mere reporting, speaking of almost negligible facts.

That said, let's gaze at the sky to identify a constellation of five bright stars, called Steeleye Span; apparently, even here the slightly myopic telescopes (to use a euphemism) of the debaserian scientists, have never managed to pierce through the mists of the twentieth-century hemisphere, to focus on the splendid light emanated by such an extraordinary group. Or are the dazzling effects of the "city lights" that have always prevented the glimpse of such a treasure handed down to history as indispensable? Folks, this is about pure mythology, beyond a doubt, so the honor renews for me in presenting you with a masterpiece like "Hark! The Village Wait" from 1970, the debut of one of the most important English folk groups of all time.

Steeleye Span, originally formed by former bassist of Fairport Convention, Ashley Hutchings, counts among the ranks of its first formation a certain Andy Irvine, who would soon leave to form Planxty. In the line-up of "Hark!..." we find Tim Hart (vocals and guitar, dulcimer, harmonium), the husband and wife team Terry and Guy Woods (vocals, mandola, banjo, concertina / vocals, concertina) and lastly not for lack of merit, the fantastic Maddy Prior, the splendid and soft voice of Albion's folk. The group would undergo repeated transformations, due to various internal disagreements, but this did not prevent the forging of masterpieces that would be indelibly imprinted in the historical memory of English folk music. "Hark!..." represents the starting point of a dedication to a single project: the British popular tradition, which feels the influence of pre-medieval Celtic Christianity. From the first four works until 1972, realized in a predominantly acoustic key, to the gradual inclusion of electric instruments, they would take the group far from folk, towards more strictly rock arrangements, until a consequent stylistic decline.

Let's say right away that the "easy listening" does not lead one to consider the record insignificant; on the contrary, we are faced with one of those "mainstream" miracles with hieratic and vertical-popular style, which lead the listener to travel to places where the soul finds vital nourishment, encounters with nature, and a time warp. It ranges from the three strictly a cappella choral songs of "A Calling-On Song", "My Johnny Was A Shoemaker", "Twa Corbies" with a gothic acute arch imprint, to the seven medieval-style ballads (identifiable in the harmonic scale) adorned by Maddy Prior's delightful singing, down to the two solely male ballads; the "Blackleg Miner", beginning in a solitary couplet of the first and fifth of the major scale leading to Tim Hart’s folk singing, accompanied by the banjo and the naturalistic hymn of "The Hills of Greenmore", sung by Terry Woods, solemnly accompanied by the concertina riff. But here we want to return to the spatial metaphor distinguishing the two celestial "The Blacksmith" and "All Things Are Quite Silent," which lull us in a "sea of tranquility" with ancient echoes, whose folk rhythm is juxtaposed with angelic choruses, while Maddy Prior's harmonious singing finds here its highest maternal manifestation. Finally, we add that "all things are quite silent" when they speak of themselves, like the distant sideral spaces reachable only with the vehicle of our soul, one day that will be the suitable place to dwell in undeserved rest, where perhaps we will all dance holding hands, a gentle pastoral. Our soul is headed there, "listen! The village waits," ah sublime vertigo!