Michael recently played a couple of gigs in Shetland, one with Liz Lochhead, the other a solo gig. I know he has been keen to return North to perform for some time and in particular was looking forward to singing
his Shetland songs, Schnectady Calling Peerie Willie Johnson and Thomas Fraser to an Island audience.
Prior to his peformance in Voe, Michael met with Thomas Fraser's daughter and grandson and played Thomas's 1961 Levin guitar.
Not all words, there was music too!
IF Michael Marra was Irish he would doubtless be a national treasure and a household name, his songs on the lips of every drinking Irish teenager like those of Christy Moore.
But he's fae Dundee and you would be hard-pressed to rustle up a hundred in Shetland who've even heard of this striking songwriter.
We Scots wretches don't value our own like the Irish do, whatever field they perform in. Personally, I think it's to do with the ignominy of still being a British colony. But that's another story.
It's 10 years since I made a mental note to catch the Marra man the next chance I had. Mary Blance, she of impeccable cultural taste, had enjoyed him so much that time at Islesburgh I twigged I was missing out.
Since then he has gradually insinuated himself into my psyche via the rare airing of his quirky songs on BBC radio where he stood out a mile from the pipers, fiddlers and all those singers who wish they were American.
The tobacco voice, exotic surname and suave piano-tinkling led me to expect a rather elegant long-limbed gent with cravat and fat cigar. So when the great man strolled through the back room of the Pierhead pub in Voe on Saturday I was taken aback. Here was one of those wiry wee terriers you encounter in spit-and-sawdust bars, knocking back the Bells and ranting. He's been around the block a few times this one, I imagine - or maybe that's just what Dundee does to men.
That I didn't know what to expect just goes to show how low his profile is, even in his hame country. It would be a lie to say that Marra has broad appeal, although from the female-dominated crowd at the Pierhead it's clear he appeals to broads.
His name would barely register among the under-40s and my guess is that less than half a dozen of the 50 or more punters who saw this show were under 35. The youngest by far was the wonderful Jillian Isbister from Sand who thrilled us with a half-dozen immaculately-performed songs before the Marra man appeared.
Best was her ingenious and heartfelt take on Lennon's Imagine which can bring a grown man far too close to gowling in public. It is the perfect vehicle for her to show her confidence to tinker and tease with the established structure of a well-known song, using flawless vocal control to pull and twist the melody into new and much prettier places than John was able to.
Another highlight was her interpretation of one of her many Marie Williamson songs ("the best songwriter in the world") Reflecting Shadows.
Jillian has a lovely attitude: assured, relaxed and communicative. Her smile is endearing too: she's obviously having a ball. But during sad songs, like the contemplative Let it Be, it kinda takes away from the desired effect.
I look forward to her discovering inspiration in the repertoires of less tacky commercial artistes than Elton and The Corrs - perhaps moving into the more artistically mature arena of, say, Beth Nielsen Chapman, Sarah McLaughlan or Shawn Colvin.
But god, she's still only 15, although her composure under pressure led a friend of mine to guess 24. Once she's done a bit more living who knows how her music will be shaped? It's an exciting prospect.
Jillian sat attentively through Marra's twin sets and saw a performer who draws on very different qualities to create his art. The parts comprise clever lyrics telling vivid personal stories in a distinctly Scots voice as gnarled and seasoned as the ancient timbers of the Caledonian pine forest. Underneath is the musical foundation built from piano or acoustic guitar played in a range of styles from folk to jazz to blues.
The between-song patter had us guffawing into our pints, like the bittersweet yarn about splitting the record collection with your ex (Beefheart and Bones); the fox that ran on to Celtic Park after taking fright at the sight of red-dressed Aberdonians (Reynard in Paradise) or the bluesy set-opener about a Scottish gig by Dr John (Mac Rebanack's Visit to Blairgowrie).
You think you're about to get couthy old Scottish country dance tunes when he introduces the likes of Frida Kahlo's Visit to the Taybridge Bar or Bob Dylan's Visit to Embra. Instead you're in stitches as another cock-eyed and unlikely drama unfolds.
He's not short on caustic social comment, as you'd expect from the world-weary bard of Bistle's Bar in Dundee, with his observations on religious zealotry in the Western Isles (Chain up the Swings) or the hideous extremes to which families go in punishing a member who has brought them shame (The Lonesome Death of Francis Clarke).
The barbs were out for the Scottish establishment too. "I wasn't actually taught Scottish history," he tells us, "because I was educated in Scotland." Nice one.
The man burrows even deeper into our affections by performing two Shetland songs he's written over the years, one a salute to Peerie Willie Johnson and the musical spell that a US wireless station cast on him and the other a more recent tribute to Burra country legend Thomas Fraser.
Marra has been compared to Tom Waits - but he doesn't sing in the Yankee drawl that's universal in rock - and with Randy Newman for his acute powers of observation on life. But in truth he's unique - and that's a word we're not allowed to use in this paper.
My only complaint on the night would be his over-reliance on the Yamaha piano. When he did strap on his Martin acoustic it sounded so rich and warm in comparison. Incidentally the poor man recently had his old acoustic stolen in London, a cruel end to his 25-year love affair with her. There'll be a song about that some time I'm sure, if it's not too painful for words.
Maybe we'll find out next year when he'll be back to charm us all over again.
John Robertson
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Dr Dog antics had them in stitches
TWO ambassadors of Scottish culture - Liz Lochhead and Michael Marra - coming together for a night of "flagrant delicht". Where on earth do I start?
Going into Islesburgh last Friday I was not quite sure what to expect. I knew there would be laughs and I knew there would be wit but songs about failed marriages and grief and mildly erotic poems told from the viewpoint of a pool?
At first they may seem an unlikely pairing - one of Scotland's finest playwrights and a widely acclaimed singer-songwriter from Dundee - but as they said themselves, their work shares many themes.
The duo covered topics as wide ranging as love and sex, paint and painters, childhood and death, heroes and heroines and Scotland and football.
The show was a cross between character mono/duologues and poems and songs, with a cosy repartee bouncing between the pair and holding the whole night together.
Marra's piano was the perfect backdrop for Lochhead's wit and Lochhead's obvious enjoyment of Marra's songs made you feel you were viewing the material on an opening night, not after several years of touring the length and breadth of Scotland.
Anyone who knows Lochhead's work will be familiar with her fantastic use of language and her ability to bring people to life in front of you. The three Glasgow women she created, after overhearing conversations in changing rooms, were wonderfully vivid and I'm sure everyone could (unfortunately?) see elements of them in folk they knew.
The Baker was a thought-provoking and hopeful poem about a baker's role at a funeral, and Advice to Old Lovers was some comic guidance for two old lovers bumping into one another at a party: "Don't tell her current Younger Man that she was brilliant at the Twist . . . Do be married to someone who has an even worse record than her as a Weight Watchers' Recidivist."
I have to admit I was not as well acquainted with Marra's work but was pleasantly surprised. I wouldn't say he had the voice of an angel, but his songs wouldn't sound right in anything other than his gravelly tones. He is a natural storyteller with a droll wit - the song about a divorcing couple dividing the record collection was fantastic and had the audience in stitches.
The woman tells him she always hated the way he breathes, so the guy starts smiling because she doesn't know a record is scratched right through her favourite song - all hilarious.
He sings about the Mexican artist who has to await her entry to heaven in the Tay Bridge Bar because the pearly gates are jammed, and in He Said, She Said we are taught several new acronyms from the lonely hearts columns. (NS is nasty sadist apparently, and watch out for EDKIAB - enjoys drowning kittens in a bucket.)
Lochhead's shrewd observations of human nature, combined with the storytelling abilities of Marra, made for a pleasant night away from the pubs. However, I couldn't help thinking the pair would be great fun to have a few drinks with . . . until you found yourself the subject of a song or poem.
K.A.H.
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