Wednesday, June 03, 1998

Reaching the parts Cerys cannot reach

“Adran tai a gwarchody cyhoedd, bydd y sawl a benodir yn meddu ar gymwyter!!!!!!!!!!!” The stream of invective which spewed down the phone line in this unintelligible tongue obviously meant that I had started off on the wrong foot in my quest to discover the grass roots of the burgeoning Welsh rock scene. I later discovered that my opening mistake was to ringing from the wrong side of Offa’s Dike. Whilst Catatonia, Manic Street Preachers and their ilk might be sweeping all before them in a new Celtic invasion of the ‘English’ charts, there remains a hard core of Welsh rockers who refuse to succumb to the desire to be successful in an alien country, namely England. Newport, the so-called ‘New Seattle’ is regarded as an anathema, being so close to the border that even its football team plays in a foreign country’s league.
Only after I had convinced her of my Celtic (Cornish) roots, would Ffyon ap Gryffud deign to grant me an audience. Ffyon is lead singer with the fiercely nationalist indie band, Canolfan y Dechnoleg Cymru, who have gained a loyal following in the pubs and clubs of North Wales. Their latest single, loosely translated as ‘Charlie, If You’re Prince Of Wales, Why Does Camilla Look Like A Horse?’, is played almost hourly on both Welsh Language stations and even MacDonald’s is considering using it for its latest advert aimed to the Welsh market.
So it was that I found myself with a very rare invite to the next gig, a true privilege indeed as fans have to produce a birth certificate before they’re allowed in. Llandridnod Wells was the venue for the gig, highlighting another of the band’s nationalist quirks - they will refuse to play any town with an anglicised name. Two L’s good, one L bad. The bouncers on the door brought a whole new meaning to the word thorough as all things English were confiscated. Fortunately, my Japanese tape recorder got through after I pointed out that it had almost certainly been lovingly crafted by fair Welsh maids in Caernarfon.
Once inside the hassle became worth it. After a mediocre warm up set from some obscure Welsh poet who nearly drowned the crowd, producing enough phlegm to put Sid Vicious in his prime to shame, the band bounded on stage to tumultuous applause and Celtic battlecries, proclaiming death to all English invaders. I was nervous, daring not to open my mouth.
The band’s set was reasonable, about what one might expect from an above-average pub band, the punters seemed delighted. All their favourites were played from the debut single, ‘Please Release Me, Let Me Go (You English Bastard!)’ through their attempt to cash in with the overtly commercial ‘All I Want For Christmas is Independence and every English Bastard out of My Country’ and their double figure selling charity effort, ‘Save The Whales, Harpoon an Englishman’. Canolfan y Dechnoleg Cymru have even gone as far as to join the trend for football songs with, ‘Who Wants To Go To The World Cup, Anyway?’. The gig culminated in spectacular fashion with a replica holiday cottage being ritually burnt and Dai Yucont, lead guitarist, apparently buggering a sheep wearing an England football shirt.
Afterwards I asked the band about their stance on all things Welsh. Lead singer Ffyon, the self-proclaimed mouthpiece of the Welsh underground rock movement said she spoke for many Welsh music fans in feeling that the English appropriation of their music had been detrimental to Wales.
‘Many youngsters start off playing the local clubs, but as soon as they’re discovered they’re pissing off over the border in their flash limousines, eating caviar, playing to packed stadia and selling records by the truckload. We’re not like that, we recognise where ours roots lie and who the true fans are. We’ll never sell out - I mean bands like Catatonia might wave the flag but, for JPR Williams’ sake, they sing in ENGLISH, play gigs outside Wales and even let non-Celts through the doors. They’re not Welsh anymore, then again they are from South Wales and that lot have being trying to pretend they’re English for years. It’s like Sting sticking on boot polish and thinking he can sing soul. It ain’t on.
‘We can’t do that to this loyal bunch’ the other band members intoned in agreement before the call of ‘Last Orders’ sent them scurrying off to the bar, scattering the last few remaining mad geriatrics, decidedly dogdy looking yokels and students that seemed to comprise the crowd.
At this point, I decided to take my leave. Thanking my hosts for their hospitality, I turned and waved ‘Cheerio’ to the throng. Suddenly, every eye turned towards me and I realised my cock-up. Hopefully the pigeon gets this article to Eclectic Towers by publishing deadline, all roads back to civilisation are being watched and I’m not coming down from this tree until they’ve forgotten about me. That image of the sheep has got me very worried.

Norm The Celtic Rabbi