GREN
It's not easy to cope with the passing of one of the very best singers and players on the Nottingham folk scene who, for many years, entertained everyone with his outstanding and completely self-taught talent, without ever being anything but a humorous, self-effacing and exceptionally witty friend and supporter.

The stories are many, most of which reflect his remarkable talent both for invention and wit. Even at nearly our last meeting, we were leaving a lunchtime restaurant when the good lady wife requested that one of us should put a coat over a puddle, which was between her and the car. Gren replied that he did not do coat-puddling. Upon reflection, he realized this might be a novel term and decided that he quite liked the idea of 'coat-puddling.'

Always a calm listener and steadying presence, he was ever ready to giggle and smile. It was, however, best not to make too many assumptions, as a number of audiences found out. Brought up in the Nottingham Tradition, especially the NTMC, his remarkably resonant voice would bring out the best in any song, with his clear and accurate diction and attention to its meaning. He was ever a stickler for correctness, however. I well remember being admonished, firmly but gently, for altering the words of "Caledonia" in the first verse from 'had a daughter who made good tea' to 'had a daughter made cracking tea'. Oh, and how he groaned, but quietly, when the great and the good got the later words to 'The Snow it Melts the Soonest' incorrect because they didn't know what a martlet is and instead sang 'martin'. He could have made a fantastic commentator and sage regarding these and many other songs.

Audiences, especially during the Omleiding years, when four of us (Gren, John Chapman, Phil Hind and myself) got together, were soon taught to expect the unexpected. Entirely at Gren's initiative, and sometimes to our own collective consternation as we practiced our set in his front room, we included such traditional numbers as 'Unchain my Heart,' Clapton's 'Wonderful Tonight' and 'Don't Jump', a remarkable number, arguably the first folk-punk song ever and written by Jim Woodland, a hero of Gren's. These came as something of a surprise following, as they did, passable versions of 'Napoleon' (two-part harmony, but with hand actions), 'Bellman' (the dog-crap version, again with hand and foot actions) and 'Merlin', more of which later. He was always polite when asked for requests: for example, 'Can I find that on Easy Listening?' referring to 'Wonderful Tonight (his reply: 'Not as such') and 'Can you do the Chicken Song?' ('Yes madam, but we prefer not to').

In these small diversions, (Omleiding means 'diversion' in Belgian, if you didn't know), Gren extended his talent to include learning to play an EWI (electronic wind instrument). Looking rather like a small grey saxophone, it produced a remarkable noise and augmented many a song in the process. 'It' he named 'Maria', after the lines from West Side Story, as he liked it so much. It did lead, somewhat to his discomfort as we said it quite often, to him being referred to as a potential "Rock God". Oh, how we laughed. While he never showed much in the way of disappointment or sadness, no matter what, he was certainly very miffed when one day Maria stopped working, after the pounding he had given her. He never did secure a replacement.
While clearly a man with opinions, he would rarely be overtly critical of anyone's performance, but rather would confine himself to gentle comments about projection and style and so on. Notable exceptions were those who clearly thought themselves superior to others: for such a talented yet modest man, this was not acceptable. In Gren's view, the members of the a**ehole club were few, but always remembered. He should have offered more advice for when he did, it was always sensible, kind and helpful and aimed at improving someone's performance, while not in any way putting them down. His own esteem when I first got to know him was a source of amusement: Eeee, 'e's the best melodeon player in the Three Counties, well, he was until Andy Cutting moved in, now he's the second best.' Oh, how he laughed at that as well. Still he probably did achieve his ambition to be as famous as Blind Lemon Clegg of the Erewash Delta.

Of course, music was not the only thing in his life: he had to make a living and this he did as a mechanical engineer, first in the machine shop at Boots in Beeston as a fifteen year-old and finally as an Instructor at Rolls-Royce in Derby and various Technical Colleges around the area, where his talents were much in demand in his later years. Like his music, he acquired a considerable body of knowledge and skill during his career. Once, we visited a Beam Engine museum in Darlington, and were greeted, if greeted is the word, by an exceptionally grumpy and glum old chap who had clearly had enough of visitors who knew nothing about the wonders that he was trying to describe and likely thought the thunderous machine whizzing around was 'pretty'. Gren at once ambled up to him and remarked that he thought it rather unusual to see a Yorkshire boiler attached to a Lancashire Beam Engine. Well, that was it – anoraks' delight ensued, the grump's face lit up like a beacon and there was no stopping them for at least half an hour. I still have very little idea what they were talking about.

I think he quite enjoyed his 'Uncle Bulgaria' image, especially with the flowing white beard in later life. However, considering that he led various ceilidh bands very much from the front (Gren's melodeon usually required no amplification), it was quite remarkable how often he escaped detection. He always maintained that people never noticed him. I well remember disagreeing with him over this during one of his gigs, only for the raffle ticket seller, who was clearly trying hard to nobble everyone, walked straight past Gren, despite the proffered fiver. This all just elicited a knowing smile. It did, however, save him a fortune in raffle ticket costs. One wonders how much his fame really spread and he never knew. I well remember taking some friends years ago to see the Major Oak and being surprised to hear the dulcet tones of a younger Gren booming out in the Visitors' Centre, where the recording by Sherwood Rise was a regular introduction to the Forest.

He was a highly inventive man as well, his talents going way beyond making a new interpretation of a song. The first visit to anyone ever paid by our first daughter was a walk in her pushchair across from Castle Donington to his nest on Hemington Hill. I can still see his delight in those flashing blue eyes. He subsequently wrote (and later forgot!) the most beautiful melody on his melodeon for her – 'Gwenan's Delight'; although now only somewhere in the ether, to this day, it has left an extraordinarily warm memory of listening to him play it, as does possibly the last song he ever sang in public, some thirty years later, at her wedding last July.

For someone, a typical engineer, to who the pen was not a particular friend, he had a remarkable way with words. Attempts to introduce some less than conventional guitar chords into a number we were practicing might well elicit comments such as "are we playing a disgruntled ninth there, or was it just the usual irritated thirteenth?" When something got broken, it was never broken, rather it was nadged or, if seriously bent, snadged, just like the flurgun on the shelf. There was scope here for a complete, alternative language. Despite never playing the guitar, he had some knowledge of it. During Omleiding practices, if ever we were struggling to find a key, which suited our collective voices, he would always opine of the proffered capo – "just put it on the third fret". One would demure, fiddle around with other sets of chords, we'd try to sing it, hit notes which were frankly dangerous, I'd change the chord shapes again, then find that it was too low a pitch, then alter the shapes again, put the capo on the third fret and – bingo – off we went and that was it. Again, the gentle smile and those blue eyes would shine. Omleiding sang a mixture of accompanied and unaccompanied material, a notable amongst the latter being a song called 'Merlin'. While not a difficult number, we always had trouble with the starting note, Gren not being much of a fan of those funny little things you blow into to set such a note, as he had the ability just to start right. The rest of us didn't. In the ensuing chaos of some sixteen different starting notes singing the first word ('Born'), Gren's voice would emerge and we'd be there. Happened quite a few times.

So many times things occurred, which others might have treated as serious or disruptive, but Gren would make light of it, if ever he could. I well remember us getting a booking as a duo and plonking away in the middle of the set on one particularly lengthy song, only for us to look at each other, exchange nods and with a cry of "I'm bored", simply stop, laugh and straight away go into something else more interesting. Typical Gren – not that he made light of things unreasonably; he just didn't make them heavy when they weren't. He thoroughly enjoyed exuding a grumpy image (in this, he was not alone) but, of course, it was all part of the fun. Oh, how we laughed.

For the past twenty years, as many of us moved away from Castle Donington, we have got together for a week's holiday during Easter. Music has always played an integral part and obviously Gren was central, thoroughly enjoying all the fun and stupidities that went on. This year will be very difficult, but we have the feeling that he is up there somewhere, looking down on us and smiling.

The only comfort is remembering the joy of knowing him.

Dave Knight.