The Convivial Rabbit, a tiny, one-room pub tucked away down an alleyway off a back street in the ancient town of Dorchester, is unlikely to attract much passing trade. On its walls are photographs of comedians and a few faded music posters, and the furniture, the tables and chairs, look like they were picked up at clearance sales. An old upright piano, rarely played, could use a skilled tuner's TLC, and on its top is a notice that reads, ‘No drinks, drugs or firearms on the piano’. The beer, however, is excellent, served straight from the barrel and the gentleman behind the small bar was kind enough to charge me only half the price of a pint when he was unable to fill my second glass to the brim because the barrel had run dry.
This gesture warmed my heartstrings, as did the evening’s entertainment for on Sundays at the Rabbit there gathers a group of amateur musicians who play and sing for one another, simply for the joy of it, about 20 of them, young and old, and being as how Sunday was Remembrance Day the theme of the evening’s music was peace, a sort of antidote to those events where it seems to me that war is glorified while those whose lives have been sacrificed by it are simultaneously honoured. On Sunday night at the Convivial Rabbit war was blamed for causing the loss of far too many innocent lives.
I was in Dorchester overnight to stay with a musician friend whose apartment in a converted hospital resembles the cluttered stockroom behind a store that sells acoustic musical instruments. They’re on the walls, on stands and lined up in cases in his spare room, and come 7pm on Sunday night my pal Frank and his pal Phil packed up what they could, a guitar, mandolin, concertina, violin and a bodhran, the native drum of the ancient Celts that looks a bit like a huge tambourine and when played with a tipper, a short double-ended drumstick, sounds like a floor tom. Thus armed, off we went into the foggy night, two right turns and into the Convivial Rabbit where Melanie, Frank’s sister, acting as hostess for the evening, opened proceedings by sweetly singing ‘There But For Fortune’, a song by that arch American anti-war protester Phil Ochs, in whose apartment in Los Angeles I spent three enjoyable months in 1973. When Frank made this known to the assembled company my cover was blown, and I was obliged to explain myself, sort of. “Yes, I was once a music writer,” I confessed. “Still am, I suppose.”
Bob Carter, a skilled finger style guitarist, was up next, picking away on an amplified classical guitar, John Williams style, and, as became evident as the evening drew on, he was the most skilled instrumentalist in the room, a pro in fact. Most weren’t but might have been had they been dealt the right cards, especially an oldish fellow who played excellent guitar and gave us an original song called ‘Convalescent Blues’, a tale of woe that laments soldiers lost in conflicts both old and recent. Frank on guitar and Phil on violin offered up ‘A Pair Of Brown Eyes, the Pogues song, and ‘Mary And The Soldier’, a traditional song that dates back to 18th Century Ireland, more recently popularised by Paul Brady.
And so the evening progressed, with just about everyone, regardless of their skill set, encouraged to serve up something or other, occasionally unaccompanied, acapella, though one or two instrumentalists quickly sussed the singer’s key and joined in with gentle fills or an appropriate chord. By the end of these songs as many as half a dozen might have joined in, often on a quickly absorbed chorus, and a white-haired, well-fed chap with a mandolin was particular inspired in this regard. A lady recited poetry and another lady, who wore a white poppy, sang ‘Army Dreamers’ by Kate Bush, accompanied, a bit haltingly, by Frank on guitar. Someone sang ‘The Grand Old Duke Of York’, prompting a few sly remarks about the current Duke of York and all and sundry to join in – they were neither up nor down – on its rousing chorus. A husband and wife team harmonised beautifully together on two melancholy songs in keeping with the theme of the night though, in contrast, there were a few jigs on accordions, one Scottish air and a Brazilian piece by Bob the maestro. A lady of mature years next to Melanie chimed in with ‘I Didn’t Raise My Son To Be A Soldier’, an American anti-war song. A young man with a crew cut played guitar on a song that sounded to me a bit like Nick Drake, and when Frank and Phil performed ‘Brothers In Arms’, the Dire Straits song, I decided I had to make some sort of contribution to the evening. It seemed churlish not to. Melanie conceded the floor to me.
“The greatest disappointment of life was the realisation at the age of 10 that I couldn’t song for toffee,” I told everyone. “In the covers band I played in as a teenager the others wouldn’t let me near a microphone, not even when we closed our shows with ‘Twist And Shout’.” This raised a few laughs. “So, instead of inflicting my singing voice on you all, I’ll recite the words to a song I love that I think also works as a poem. It’s called ‘Hello In There’ and it’s by John Prine.” A few heads nodded in recognition and off I went…. “We had an apartment in the city...”. When I reached those sad lines in the first verse that chimed with the theme of the night – “We lost Davey in the Korean War, still don’t know what for, doesn’t matter anymore” – I paused for effect, and when I’d finished – “Just say hello” – the room didn’t exactly erupt, but there was a grateful round of applause. I'd done my bit, and hadn’t embarrassed myself.
It was a minor contribution, and many more substantial efforts followed, too many to list here. At the close Bob on his classical guitar sang a song called ‘Labrador’s Ears’, about losing your favourite pet, which had nothing to do with the alternative Remembrance Day theme but everything to do with sadness, and being as how we had lost our Labrador Shiloh not five years past (https://justbackdated.blogspot.com/2019/01/shiloh-2006-2019.html) I grew a bit misty eyed and ordered a glass of red wine to toast all my friends who’ve passed as a way to finish my evening at the Convivial Rabbit.
Music, in all its variations, is a wonderful thing.