I don't think I've seen any 'best' things at f*lk clubs because they are mostly so false and populated by lechy blokes who don't have music as anything like their top priority. The 'best' things have been at informal sessions, in fields and places like Mexican tents or shower blocks in the middle of the night at festivals.

There was that Sidmouth workshop when Rob Harbron convinced me that the only way to play concertina convincingly was to pretend to be a chicken. And fiddle workshops where Nick Wyke, Kirsty Cotter, Gina Le Faux and Pete Cooper almost got me believing I could play fiddle after all. And a ceilidh in the middle of the Essex countryside when Fi Fraser very nearly got me believing the same thing. But it all started at Keele (forerunner of the National) where I met Barry Dransfield under a staircase, fiddling frantically. He said he couldn't read a note of music but if I was a youth orchestra player then I could do what he did. Why not? Well no, I can't but I still try.

I'm still trying to dredge up something good that happened at a f*lk club. One was at Islington (not yer average cliquey dump it's best not to venture near) when Jackie Oates recorded some tracks for her first demo. This is where I first heard Stocai too, and remained gobsmacked for a very long time. In fact I'd go to Islington just for the Angel band and stay there forever if they'd just keep on playing and playing. All that can compare is Musical Traditions with The Rakes/Duck Soup/Pigeon English/Posh Band and Simon Ritchie stepdancing on the table.