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Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?

Crow Sister (off with the fairies) 10 Sep 09 - 01:39 PM
Maryrrf 10 Sep 09 - 01:42 PM
Crow Sister (off with the fairies) 10 Sep 09 - 01:46 PM
Cleverthreads (inactive) 10 Sep 09 - 02:13 PM
Jack Blandiver 11 Sep 09 - 04:06 AM
quokka 12 Sep 09 - 12:40 AM
quokka 12 Sep 09 - 12:47 AM
quokka 12 Sep 09 - 12:56 AM
Jack Blandiver 12 Sep 09 - 04:41 AM
GUEST 12 Feb 12 - 11:51 PM
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Subject: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: Crow Sister (off with the fairies)
Date: 10 Sep 09 - 01:39 PM

I heard this early recording of The Fatal Flower Garden a while ago, and found it quite one the eeriest pieces of music I'd ever heard:

t rained, it poured, it rained so hard,
It rained so hard all day,
That all the boys in our school
Came out to toss and play.

They tossed a ball again so high,
Then again, so low;
They tossed it into a flower garden
Where no-one was allowed to go.

Up stepped a gypsy lady,
All dressed in yellow and green;
"Come in, come in, my pretty little boy,
And get your ball again."

"I can't come in, I shan't come in
Without my playmates all;
I'll go to my father and tell him about it,
That'll cause tears to fall."

She first showed him an apple seed,
Then again gold rings,
Then she showed him a diamond,
That enticed him in.

She took him by his lily-white hand,
She led him through the hall;
She put him in an upper room,
Where no-one could hear him call.

"Oh, take these finger rings off my finger,
Smoke them with your breath;
If any of my friends should call for me,
Tell them that I'm at rest."

"Bury the bible at my head,
A testament at my feet;
If my dear mother should call for me,
Tell her that I'm asleep."

"Bury the bible at my feet,
A testament at my head;
If my dear father should call for me,
Tell him that I am dead."

Very suitable background music for one of those odd disturbing dreams you get in the early hours, which leave you psychologically unsettled for the rest of the day.

Just wondering what songs others might set their nightmares to?


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: Maryrrf
Date: 10 Sep 09 - 01:42 PM

That sounds like "Little Sir Hugh" although in the version given a gypsy is substituted for the Jew's daughter.


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: Crow Sister (off with the fairies)
Date: 10 Sep 09 - 01:46 PM

Yes, I believe there are a number of variants. I think what makes this recording particularly eerie and disconcerting, is the seductively lulling lullaby-like cadence.


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: Cleverthreads (inactive)
Date: 10 Sep 09 - 02:13 PM

Eliza Carthy's rendition of The Grey Cock or The Murder of Maria Marten by Shirley Collins and The Albion Country Band


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: Jack Blandiver
Date: 11 Sep 09 - 04:06 AM

Last night I dreamt I was in a darkly forbidding winter woodland lit only by a pale gibbous moon; I followed a light, through the trees, until I reached a clearing where stood an old shack - and though the light shone through the window, once within, there was no light. In the hearth I kindled a fire - a struck match, some tinder-dry twigs, and split logs, and soon I had the fire blazing. In came a cat, which changed into a squirrel as it ate the hazel nuts I offered it; and so we warmed ourselves by the fire, myself, sitting in the chair sensing a deep fearful dread about the place, and the squirrel perched on my knee. Next, sitting before me, there was a corpse, open mouthed, empty eye sockets, the skin stretch dry across the skull; and yet I knew there was a greater horror to come, even as the corpse began to sing In the east end of Derby there lives a working man - he said I cannot fly but my pigeons can - At this point I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming; and even now I shudder to but ponder the nightmare depths of folk...


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: quokka
Date: 12 Sep 09 - 12:40 AM

Berthold Brecht's 'Infanticide of Marie Farrar'


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: quokka
Date: 12 Sep 09 - 12:47 AM

Just tried to post lyrics,didn't seem to work.

Bertolt Brecht



Concerning the Infanticide, Marie Farrar



Marie Farrar, born in April,
No marks, a minor, rachitic, both parents dead,
Allegedly, up to now without police record,
Committed infanticide, it is said,
As follows: in her second month, she says,
With the aid of a barmaid she did her best
To get rid of her child with two douches,
Allegedly painful but without success.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.

She then paid out, she says, what was agreed
And continued to lace herself up tight.
She also drank liquor with pepper mixed in it
Which purged her but did not cure her plight.
Her body distressed her as she washed the dishes,
It was swollen now quite visibly.
She herself says, for she was still a child,
She prayed to Mary most earnestly.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.

Her prayers, it seemed, helped her not at all.
She longed for help. Her trouble made her falter
And faint at early mass. Often drops of sweat
Broke out in anguish as she knelt at the altar.
Yet until her time had come upon her
She still kept secret her condition.
For no one believed such a thing had happened,
That she, so unenticing, had yielded to temptation.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.

And on that day, she says, when it was dawn,
As she washed the stairs it seemed a nail
Was driven into her belly. She was wrung with pain.
But still she secretly endured her travail.
All day long while hanging out the laundry
She racked her brains till she got it through her head
She had to bear the child and her heart was heavy.
It was very late when she went up to bed.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.

She was sent for again as soon as she lay down:
Snow had fallen and she had to go downstairs.
It went on till eleven. It was a long day.
Only at night did she have time to bear.
And so, she says, she gave birth to a son.
The son she bore was just like all the others.
She was unlike the others but for this.
There is no reason to despise this mother.
You, too, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.

Accordingly I will go on with the story
Of what happened to the son that came to be.
(She says she will hide nothing that befell)
So let it be a judgment upon both you and me.
She says she had scarcely gone to bed when she
Was overcome with sickness and she was alone,
Not knowing what would happen, yet she still
Contrived to stifle all her moans.
And you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.

With her last strength, she says because
Her room had now grown icy cold, she them
Dragged herself to the latrine and there
Gave birth as best she could (not knowing when)
But toward morning. She says she was already
Quite distracted and could barely hold
The child for snow came into the latrine
And her fingers were half numb with cold.
You, too, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.

Between the latrine and her room, she says,
Not earlier, the child began to cry until
It drove her mad so that she says
She did not cease to beat it with her fists
Blindly for some time till it was still.
And then she took the body to her bed
And kept it with her there all through the night:
When morning came she hid it in the shed.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.

Marie Farrar, born in April,
And unmarried mother, convicted, died in
The Meissen penitentiary,
She brings home to you all men's sin.
You who bear pleasantly between clean sheets
And give the name "blessed" to your womb's weight
Must not damn the weakness of the outcast,
For her sin was black but her pain was great.
Therefore, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn
For man needs help from every creature born.


                         German; trans. H.R. Hays




Bertolt Brecht, German, trans. H.R. Hays, Selected Poems Bertolt Brecht, Grove/Atlantic, 1947.


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: quokka
Date: 12 Sep 09 - 12:56 AM

This translation is not the same as the song I remember from twenty tears ago - the following is more like it:

Translated by Sidney H. Bremer
Bertolt Brecht wrote:On The Infanticide Marie Farrar
----------------------------------

1
Marie Farrar: month of birth, April
An orphaned minor; rickets; birthmarks, none; previously
Of good character, admits that she did kill
Her child as follows here in summary.
She visited a woman in a basement
During her second month, so she reported
And there was given two injections
Which, though they hurt, did not abort it.

But you I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.

2
But nonetheless, she says, she paid the bill
As was arranged, then bought herself a corset
And drank neat spirit, peppered it as well
But that just made her vomit and disgorge it.
Her belly now was noticeably swollen
And ached when she washed up the plates.
She says that she had not finished growing.
She prayed to Mary, and her hopes were great.

You too I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.

3
Her prayers, however, seemed to be no good.
She'd asked too much. Her belly swelled. At Mass
She started to feel dizzy and she would
Kneel in a cold sweat before the Cross.
Still she contrived to keep her true state hidden
Until the hour of birth itself was on her
Being so plain that no one could imagine
That any man would ever want to tempt her.

But you I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.

4
She says that on the morning of that day
While she was scrubbing stairs, something came clawing
Into her guts. It shook her once and went away.
She managed to conceal her pain and keep from crying.
As she, throughout the day, hung up the washing
She racked her brain, then realized in fright
She was going to give birth. At once a crushing
Weight grabbed at her heart. She didn't go upstairs till night.

And yet I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.

5
But just as she lay down they fetched her back again:
Fresh snow had fallen, and it must be swept.
That was a long day. She worked till after ten.
She could not give birth in peace till the household slept.
And then she bore, so she reports, a son.
The son was like the son of any mother.
But she was not like other mothers are - but then
There are no valid grounds why I should mock her.

You too I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.

6
So let her finish now and end her tale
About what happened to the son she bore
(She says there's nothing she will not reveal)
So men may see what I am and you are.
She'd just climbed into bed, she says, when nausea
Seized her. Never knowing what should happen till
It did, she struggled with herself to hush her
Cries, and forced them down. The room was still.

And you I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.

7
The bedroom was ice cold, so she called on
Her last remaining strength and dragged her-
Self out to the privy and there, near dawn
Unceremoniously, she was delivered
(Exactly when, she doesn't know). Then she
Now totally confused, she says, half froze
And found that she could scarcely hold the child
For the servants' privy lets in the heavy snows.

And you I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.

8
Between the servants' privy and her bed (she says
That nothing happened until then), the child
Began to cry, which vexed her so, she says
She beat it with her fists, hammering blind and wild
Without a pause until the child was quiet, she says.
She took the baby's body into bed
And held it for the rest of the night, she says
Then in the morning hid it in the laundry shed.

But you I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.

9
Marie Farrar: month of birth, April
Died in the Meissen penitentiary
An unwed mother, judged by the law, she will
Show you how all that lives, lives frailly.
You who bear your sons in laundered linen sheets
And call your pregnancies a 'blessed' state
Should never damn the outcast and the weak:
Her sin was heavy, but her suffering great.

Therefore, I beg, make not your anger manifest
For all that lives needs help from all the rest.


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: Jack Blandiver
Date: 12 Sep 09 - 04:41 AM

The scariest story that's ever been told,
is about the wee boy, only seven years old old;
for he never got hungry or even grew cold;
but remained all forever only seven years old.

He was seven years old when their house was a new-un;
he was seven years old when it fell into ruin.
He was seven years old was Robert was ten;
he was seven years old when Bob was an old man.

He was seven years old when Sonia was born,
and seven years old when her vows they were sworn;
he was seven years old when Ruth came along;
he was seven years old when poor Ruth was undone.

He was seven years old when Ruth had Melissa;
and seven years old when Melissa had Tricia.
He was seven years old when Trish killed the old clown;
and he was seven years old when they sent Tricia down.

He was seven years old when his parents were hale,
he was seven years old when they grew old and frail.
He was seven years old when at last they turned grey;
he was seven years old when they lay in the clay.

He was seven years old when he saw the seed fall;
he was seven years old when the tree grew up tall;
he was seven years old when the tree touched the sky;
he was seven years old when it rotted and died.

He was seven years old when there were plenty about;
he was seven years old when there was no-one in sight.
He was seven years old when the earth it was young;
he was seven years old when it crashed into the sun.

He was seven years old when it came to and end;
he was seven years old when it started again.


(Miss Jenifer Underwood, aged 13, December 1976; to be sung to the tune of Long Lankin; with sincere apologies to Edward Gorey)


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Subject: RE: Folk Soundtrack for Your Nightmares?
From: GUEST
Date: 12 Feb 12 - 11:51 PM

I can't seem to find any info about this song 'The Scariest Story That's Ever Been Told"- anybody have any ideas? It's great- would love to hear the tune and find out more about it.


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