I want to make it absolutely crystal clear that I have no objection to folk singers, birdwatchers or naturists. Although they all feature in this post, my aim is to explore how we can help people understand what we mean, without purposely or inadvertently confusing them or putting them down. So here goes…

One of the key moments in popular music history took place when Bob Dylan went electric at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. As with anything connected with Dylan, this event has become legendary and mired in controversy. The bare bones of the story are that since 1963 Bob Dylan had been the darling of the US folk music establishment. He had been hugely influenced by left-wing singer/songwriter Woody Guthrie and was an international success with hits like songs like Blowin’ in the Wind and The Times They are a Changin’. Dylan had been adopted as the unofficial spokesperson for many Americans who were opposed to the United States’ aggressive foreign policy and who were also supportive of the Civil Rights movement. The problem was that many of these millions were dyed-in-the-wool folk music enthusiasts, who were obsessed with exploring the roots of US folk songs and maintaining what they saw as traditional music’s purity. As well as being dyed-in-the-wool, the male folkies (and the movement was dominated by men) wore sensible woollen sweaters, sported goatee beards, smoked pipes and, above all, only garnered respect if they wore a cap that made them look like the skipper of a small lobster fishing boat.

Dylan 1963: When the boat comes in? The world is his lobster?

Dylan 1965: Folk off?

By 1965 Dylan had surrounded himself by top-flight musicians who were experimenting with electric blues and what was to become known as ‘rock’. Dylan had appeared at the festival before, wowing the folk fans with his acoustic set, terrible haircut and tatty checked shirt. (Not only had he sung about poor downtrodden agricultural workers, he even looked like one. He basically looked and sounded like a clone of his hero and musical influence, Woody Guthrie.)

By 1965 Dylan had changed. What strikes me was that Dylan not only sounded different, but he looked amazing. He’d stopped pretending to be Woody Guthrie and become a rocker with cool shades, long hair, black leather jacket, a Fender Stratocaster and a cracking backing band. He was still interested in singing about ‘issues’ but had expanded his repertoire to include stream of consciousness songs that only made any sense to himself, but left the fans with endless opportunities for discussing his work. Maggie’s Farm, which he sang as an opener to his 15-minute set at Newport, was thought to be about his rejection of the folk music establishment and the straightjacket they were putting on him and popular music in general. (Equally it could be about a terrible B&B he stayed in, but that’s Dylan for you. After all, there was no TripAdvisor in those days.) Unfortunately he also stopped writing romantically about being nice to girls, and introduced us to a long line of misogynistic songs about how awful his latest girlfriend was and why he was going to dump her. He must have infuriated anyone in the audience wearing a checked shirt, skipper’s cap and a sensible sweater and who was in the process of filling his pipe with shag.

History tells us that Dylan and his electric band played loud rock and were booed off stage after 15 minutes. Eventually he was persuaded to come back on to sing some acoustic numbers, but the damage was done. For some of the audience, and folk aficionados the world over, he might as well have sprayed them with bullets. But even the people who were there are divided about what actually happened. Was there any booing? Why did people boo? There’s even a suggestion that people were yelling for ‘more’, but that because the vowels in ‘more’ and ‘boo’ sound the same, Dylan must have gotten the wrong message.

Dylan at Newport: Boo? More? Or even ‘moo’? Sooner or later one of us must know.

Throughout the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, you could always spot a Sixth Form folk music buff from 100 metres. While everyone else had long hair, wore flared denim jeans and every colour under the sun, the Folkies were determinedly wearing brown cords, trying to grow goatee beards, smoking pipes and sporting horn-rimmed spectacles. And of course they all wore the dreaded lobster skippers’ cap.They had a haughty smugness about them. But what really set them apart from the other boys was how they talked. If they heard the merest hint of Simon and Garfunkel blowing in the wind they would launch into a sarcastic tirade against the duo. A typical slagging off would go something like this. ‘Of course it’s patently obvious to anyone with even the minutest knowledge of popular music that those two are just aping the English Folk idiom. Of course you realise that The Boxer was derived from a sixteenth century Cumbrian Drovers’ paean to his dying heifer.’ Or at the drop of a lobster skipper’s hat they would lecture you on why The Lincolnshire Poacher is so brilliant: but obviously, if you think about it, and it’s quite simple really that anyone with even a smattering of knowledge about true folk music will tell you that it’s actually, as a matter of fact, quite plainly and obviously a derivative of the old Welsh shepherds’ ballad Get Off My Land You Buggers.

Actually, I quite liked folk music, but what I really objected to, and still rankle against, is people who use words and phrases like obviously/of course/if you think about it/ you do realise that. You could argue that it’s harmless, and is much the same as people habitually using phrases like you know/ like/ I mean/sort of as fillers when they are thinking of what to say next or are feeling a bit self-conscious when they are talking. But I think there is a big difference. If someone in authority- or especially if they are setting themselves up as an authority- starts to use obviously and of course and it goes without saying all the time, it means that they are trying to put the listener down. The speaker will know that you don’t know what they are talking about, and by saying that it’s obvious, they are making you out to be a bit of a thicko, in the hope that you will feel insecure and admire them all the more for their vast knowledge.

You might think I’m being a bit sensitive. I don’t think so. Next time you are in a secondary school lesson or in a university lecture, or at a conference, or listening to some academic being interviewed by Melvyn Bragg on In Our Time, or taking part in The Moral Maze, you listen out for the number of times obviously and of course are used. The answer will be a lot. In my time I have met train spotters, birdwatchers, naturists and other members of what on the surface seem to be slightly daft or obsessive groups. When you get talking to them, you will often hear them- and it is usually only men who do it- saying things like: ‘It’s quite simple really. If you think about it, there is only one main distinguishing feature between a cormorant and a shag.’ Or ‘Of course the booby is impressive but everyone knows that the hoopoe has the finest flight pattern.’ They do it in an attempt to assert their superiority over you. To them, it’s a sign that they have the knowledge that allows them to be part of their exclusive club. However I suspect it’s actually a sign of their underlying insecurity.

Ironically, some of the worst offenders for using these types of put downs are Bob Dylan fans themselves. I had the unfortunate experience once of being invited to a meeting of some obscure Dylan fan club. There was massive excitement that they had been able to get a speaker for their annual conference, who was bringing along a rare copy of Dylan’s terrible (to my eyes and ears) feature film Renaldo and Clara… in Swedish! The guys I spoke to (there were no women present) were utterly focused on scoring points off each other by talking about the minutiae of Dylan’s life and the possible meaning of virtually every line of his most obscure tracks. The phrases obviously and of course and the dreaded if you think about it were very much in evidence. It was just horrific.

Billy Bragg: The one-man Clash

Which is why I was a tad anxious about going to a Billy Bragg gig at Cecil Sharp House in Camden Town. As I’m sure everyone knows, Cecil Sharp House is the heart of the UK’s Folk Music scene, and the bastion of all obsessive folk song cataloguers. There you can find the true provenance of The Lincolnshire Poacher, and probably The Lincolnshire Sausage and Poached Egg if you have time. Would Billy drone on incessantly about the roots of each of his songs? Would he stick his finger in his ear? Or would he wear a fisherman’s hat? Not at all. He took us through two and a half hours of his versions of Woody Guthrie songs that Woody never got round to adding music to. Billy did talk about the roots of popular music, but summed it up in one sentence: “Basically, (not a good start, I must admit) the great thing about traditional music is that musicians can use these tunes, ideas and words without having to worry about accidentally on purpose ripping someone else off.” Now that’s what I call socialism.

Billy Bragg: a traditional Drovers’ lament about droving from London to Southend?

So after all this it will probably come as no surprise to you to understand why, when I was performing my Dylan impersonation at an open mike night at a naturist folk club for birdwatchers and steam train enthusiasts, I was not best pleased when the MC approached me and said, “Of course you do realise that sunglasses are regarded as clothes here. But obviously, like me, we do allow folk singers to wear a skipper’s hat.” I sang Maggie’s Farm and left the stage to a chorus of boos.

The main reason why I mention this in such detail is that we do need to be very aware when we are talking with young children, and older children and teenagers with additional learning needs, that we make sure that what we say is what we mean, and to cut out all the useless flannel in our speech, if you know what I mean. Obviously, I’m going to explore this in more detail in the next post.

Take care out there!

Michael

Shyness is nice and shyness can stop you
From doing all the things in life you’d like to.
If there’s something you’d like to try,
Ask me: I won’t say no, how could I?

The Smiths Ask

In the mid-1980s I was working in probably the coolest part of London: Islington. I also had a brilliant job, running a pre-school language unit in a very vibrant community centre. Unfortunately I didn’t have a very cool income to match my fun and exciting job, and we had two very young children. Still, it was great to be working in such a happening place. These were dark times though. The Miners’ Strike was in full swing, Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan were making us very nervous, and US nuclear missiles were sited at Greenham Common. Nelson Mandela was still in prison, and there was trouble in Chile, Nicaragua and El Salvador. ‘Red Ken’ Livingston and the GLC were a constant thorn in Maggie’s side, but provided many Londoners with a focus for agitation and opposition.

Luckily for us, as left-leaning peace activists, almost every solidarity campaign group had its headquarters in Islington. So there was always some worthwhile cultural and social activity going on, that was either free or cheap, could include all the family, and often involved great music from all over the world. Which was just as well: because what with me being so busy and with the littluns to look after, there wasn’t much time or money spare to buy albums or go to gigs. So we relied on our friend Claire to keep us up to speed with what was happening out there in the world of music.

Claire was originally from Leeds, was at university in London, and had just finished a summer job working in Borth: a coastal town in Mid Wales. In 1984 I began to notice that nearly every other young man in Islington styled their hair with a quiff, not unlike Danny from Grease. They wore Clark Kent glasses, un-ironed shirts and the look was completed by a black leather jacket and blue jeans. No-one I asked seemed to know who they were, or what they represented. Claire solved the mystery: “They are fans of this incredible band called The Smiths. They have a fantastic singer called Morrissey and a brilliant guitarist called Johnny Marr. They are so ironic, it’s not true! This band speaks to me of my harsh Northern upbringing near Chapeltown, my grotty comprehensive, and a tape of their first album kept me going all through my ghastly summer job in Borth. We must go and see them!” (Claire actually attended a girls’ grammar school and came from Headingly, but I let that pass.)

As fate would have it, I was soon to almost experience The Smiths. One night a downstairs neighbour of ours got chucked out by his girlfriend. People said he deserved it, but I wasn’t going to take sides. At least not until he started to park his car outside our block of flats every evening and play this awful song called Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now repeatedly at full volume, so his ex (and the rest of the street) could hear just how anguished he was. I was all for calling the police, but another neighbour sorted it by collaring Romeo in Reverse and telling him, “If you play that once more, heaven knows I’ll give you something to be truly miserable about.”

However Claire was not going to allow my first brush with The Smiths to leave a nasty taste in my mouth: “The GLC are putting on a free festival in the car park outside County Hall and, guess what, The Smiths are headlining. Get a babysitter and see what all the fuss is about!” So the day came and we waited and waited for our babysitter, who eventually called to say she was unwell. By the time we had made alternative arrangements it was 9pm. We finally made it to the South Bank just as The Smiths were finishing their set. 20,000 ecstatic fans were wading past us through tons of waste paper and broken bottles, so we trudged off to try and make the most of a disastrous evening by having a slice pizza from a stall outside Charing Cross station. Claire said The Smiths had been brilliant. She made one last attempt to convert me with Girlfriend in a Coma, (“It’s laugh out loud irony at its best”), but I just couldn’t see what the fuss was about. I often thought that there was something unspoken between Claire and I, and that day she muttered under her breath those words that strike dread into the heart of any young man raised in the Deep South of England (Surrey): ‘You great southern Jesse.”

Though not a serious problem, my antipathy towards everything Smiths-related meant I could never fully connect with certain men friends who are dyed-in-the-wool Smiths and Morrissey fans. We could talk about cinema, (The Colours Trilogy and Closely Observed Trains being very big talking points), football, children and family, even work, but then everything went flat when we turned to music. I just couldn’t talk about The Smiths and Morrissey.

So very recently I decided to get my act together and address this gap in my communication. I went to visit my friend Simon, who has a massive understanding of all the music that counts. We were at school together and I turned him on to Bowie, so I reckoned he owed me a favour. We started gently, discussing The Smiths as an intellectual and cultural phenomenon: their musical bravado at a time of syntho-pop and love songs; Morrissey’s background: growing up in a working class Irish family in Manchester, and his deeply unhappy schooldays; his rapid rise to become an icon and voice for millions and millions of independent-minded and left-leaning people all over the world; his proud stance as a vegetarian; his scorn for Margaret Thatcher and the Royal family; speculation about his sexuality; his influences (Oscar Wilde, W.H. Auden, John Betjeman) and his fascination with hard-hitting family dramas like early Coronation Street and A Taste of Honey; his obsession with female singers such as Sandy Shaw and Cilla Black and how the band helped put Manchester well and truly at the centre of the independent music scene. Then we talked about the brilliance of guitarist Johnny Marr, and how his sublime playing and musicality were as much the driving force of the band as Morrissey’s voice and lyrics.

Then I was ready to listen to some classic Smiths recordings. Nothing happened for me. I still didn’t get it. It all sounded bland -even discordant- and the lyrics seemed bizarre. This was not going to be easy. I had the intellectual link to the band, but no emotional relationship to the music. This band just didn’t speak to me at an emotional level. But this was only phase one. Simon had an ace up his sleeve: “Michael, I know that your life’s work has led you to champion quiet children. Download this track onto your iPod, and listen to it at full volume when you are driving on a clear stretch of motorway. Then when you get home watch this link on YouTube. If after that you are still not convinced, then maybe you will need some more help.”

This is what I listened to.

The original promotional video for Ask

And this is what I watched

Morrissey and 10,000 fans in Manchester, 2004: Every Day is Like Sunday (Written after a visit to Borth)

I was completely blown away. The first two verses of Ask spoke to me: affirming that there’s nothing wrong with being shy, though it’s great if people can help you to join in with fun things. The guitar work is brilliant. The clip of Morrissey in front of 10,000 Mancunian fans: all singing away to every word of his songs, is just pure rock magic. Now I have become totally hooked on The Smiths, Morrissey and Johnny Marr. I’ve made the emotional connection and am now actively seeking out people to talk to about these amazing musicians. So big thanks to Claire and Simon for helping me improve my communication. It’s never too late to improve your knowledge and get emotionally involved.

But how does my experience with Morrissey and co link with the communication needs of children? Early this year, I visited Communication and Behaviour Specialist Sioban Boyce, to explore her work transforming the lives of children and teenagers with communication difficulties. Sioban originally worked as a Speech and Language Therapist and now specialises in providing training on the subject of developing non-verbal communication: in infancy and with older children and teens with communication and behaviour difficulties.

Sioban outlined the early development of non-verbal understanding in infancy, through the loving play between parents and babies. Much of this focuses on face-to-face interaction, where parents copy the baby’s noises and facial expressions. These interactions provide the foundation for children’s and adults’ ability to interpret and use facial expression and tone of voice and to know how to behave in conversation. This includes learning appropriate eye contact, how to tune into what someone else is saying, when to interrupt, how to notice when someone is losing interest in what we are saying, and even how to interpret their signals that we should stop talking! Sioban uses this knowledge to build up the non-verbal understanding of children and teens that are experiencing severe difficulties with social interaction, which has a major impact on their behaviour in school. Sioban’s techniques are outlined in her book Identifying Non-Verbal Communication Difficulties: A Life-Changing Approach.

As I played back my tape of our interview, I became acutely aware of what a chronic interrupter I am, and how I don’t always pick up the signals that should tell me to keep shtum and allow the speaker to continue with their train of thought. Equally I’m prone to going off on what I think are interesting digressions, but may actually represent to the listener yet another boring monologue. So after visiting Sioban, and investing in her excellent publications, I am setting out to be a better conversationalist. I have the intellectual grasp of the problem, the tools to use in conversation, and an emotional link to the subject. I really want to practice and build on what I already know and, most importantly, I have the belief that you are never too old to develop your knowledge and improve your communication skills.

There’s only one problem…. I need urgently to talk about The Smiths and Morrissey! So if you meet me and are a Smiths fan, please set aside 10 minutes minimum to help me explore my new interest, and to give me some feedback on how well I did in my non-verbal communication.

Ask me, ask me, ask me!!!

To find out more about Sioban Boyce’s work visit www.notjusttalking.co.uk

Identifying Non-Verbal Communication Difficulties: A Life-Changing Approach and Help Your Child Communicate From Day One, by Sioban Boyce, are both published by Speechmark Publishers

As I was trying to squeeze into a pair of chinos I heard Ann talking to another assistant. The conversation went like this:

Mary: Aim frayzin, sure enough.

Ann: Sure and aim roastin.

Mary: Sure and the wendow clayna said he was sweltrin. Ann, well yu fayl may hondz.

Ann: (feels Mary’s hands): Sure they’re warm right enough.

Mary: Warm? They’re frayzin sure enough. They’re layk ace.

Ann: Ace? It must be global warmin theyin. Are yu shore yu fengez won’t be aboit to melt?

Mary: That’s how mai hondz whurr Saturdih. I sayiz to Gerry. I sayiz, ‘Gerry fayl mai hondz thurr.’

And he sayiz to may, ‘Or you getting seck?’ and I sayiz to Gerry. I sayiz, ‘Ay don’t know.’

Ann: Sure and urr yu trayin to throw a sickeh?

Mary: Hush, that fella mayt ondorstond us!!

This was Belfast dialect at its broadest and magnificent. Though I could just about understand what they were saying, it’s very difficult for an Englishman like me to fully transcribe every word in all its impenetrable beauty. It was definitely Ann talking, and as I got ready to hand back the trousers I wondered if she was going to treat me to some of her dialect. Not a bit of it: “There you go sir. Which did you choose? Ah the elasticated waist. My husband finds those helpful.”

Ann was switching register. She knows that as an assistant in this shop she needs to use English that any customer can understand, as this is expected of her. Her managers will expect this, and in doing so they are not being snobby or patronising about the local dialect. Like anyone who provides a service to customers, you are expected to use Standard English. Ann can immediately switch from her informal local dialect, or register, into Standard English in formal situations, whenever it is appropriate.

Little Jimmy’s dad didn’t quite stick to this convention when I first met him. Jimmy had language delay, and had been attending my language unit in North London every day for three months. Though I had met mum regularly, this was my first meeting with dad.

Imagine a broad London accent…

Dad: Yer doin’ a ****in’ great job wiv little Jimmy. ‘Es torkin like a goodun.

Mum: Tommy, you can’t speak to Michael like that. He’s a professional.

Dad: Michael’s not bovvered, are you Mike? No point torkin posh (Actually he said ‘torkin like a ponce’ but I thought I’d tone his language down for any sensitive readers.)

‘Mike’: Maybe you could cut the swearing down though, as Jimmy’s listening.

Dad: Right you are.

Both parents knew about switching register, but I felt that Jimmy’s dad was making a point. He was treating me like an equal, while mum was treating me as a’ professional’. It was a subtle thing, and though it was all very friendly, I could see that dad knew exactly what he was doing. He was a bit defensive and was using his familiar register to imply, “I know as much as you do. There’s nothing wrong with my boy. He’s doing fine and I’m grateful.” Maybe it’s a man thing?

Very young children who are exposed to two languages are naturally aware of when to use their languages with different people. I met an 18-month-old who was learning English and Spanish and just knew to say ‘hello’ to me, instead of ‘hola’. This code switching is an important early stage in learning an additional language. Like adults, children also gradually learn to change their register, from the familiar type of language of home, street and playground, to using Standard English. This is particularly important when talking with adults in school.

It is very important that children learn about different registers and when to use them. In school we use Standard English. Teachers will be expected to use this register and children will be expected to write in it. All non-fiction books and most reading scheme books are written in Standard English. As children get older it will be assumed that they will use Standard English when talking to teachers, though they can talk in their local dialect or familiar register at other times.

We can help young children learn about different registers by messing around with language: as we tell stories, play with puppets and in role play. Children will be aware of different accents and registers from TV and films. I love the turtles in Finding Nemo, who talk to each other and Nemo in what is known as Surfer Lingo: where everything is ‘totally awesome Dude’. Children laugh when I talk like that because they understand the reference and recognize the register. Two year olds know that when I talk to them as if they were a baby –in Motherese– that I am only messing about, and that it is not appropriate for me to talk to them like that, ‘Cos me big boy now.’

We do have a responsibility to help children develop Standard English, as well as respecting the dialect that they use at home. Like most aspects of language learning, it comes through everyday exposure when talking with adults. That is why I encourage care and support staff in early years settings and schools to use Standard English when talking with children. In my travels across the UK I meet staff, particularly in areas with strong regionals dialects, who only use one register: their familiar regional dialect. This can mean that the children they care for will be at a disadvantage when they start school, because their teachers will almost certainly be using Standard English. For some children who have only been exposed to their regional dialect, this can be a bit like learning a second language.

I realise that this is a challenging statement, and particularly for managers and head teachers who are appointing staff from the local community, but it is important that children grow up with as rich an understanding of language as we can give them. Adults are the most important resource when it comes to developing children’s language, and the more well -developed the adults’ language the faster children will learn. Innit?