Two and a half years later, the internet has caught up with my desire to host streaming videos of any length.  This is Matt and I’s first performance—ever—of Code Duello: Hamilton & Burr.  Only a few weeks earlier our costumes were on order, the structure was up in the air, and I was still pushing for the title “Burr and Hammy: Founding Friends!”

On opening night we were blessed with a warm, excited audience and some nervous energy that, thankfully, translated into quick wits.  Although the structure of the show has stood the test of time, the pace, mood, and content have evolved considerably.  Our first run’s rapid-fire tit-for-tat has made way for a more varied, dynamic pace.  On some nights the impetus for the duel unspools slowly, over the course of twenty minutes; on others, we find a point of contention in the first scene and attack it with everything we have.  We’ve had good shows, great shows, bad shows, and wonderful audiences for all of them. 

I’m amazed that video allows me to remember opening night so vividly.  I’m also proud of how far we’ve taken a concept that, admittedly, was first proposed as a joke (thank you, Matt).

Inspired by Perich’s 5 Versions of the Same Thing.

The two most ubiquitous sea shanties are “The Drunken Sailor” and “Spanish Ladies,” the latter of which is the subject of this post.  I love “Drunken Sailor,” but “Spanish Ladies” is so much more interesting.

You’ve doubtless heard the shanty before.  The most prominent performance of the song is in Jaws, sung by the character Quint.  You’ve also read or seen it in Moby Dick, Pirates of the Caribbean 3, Master and Commander, Horatio Hornblower, and a hundred other seafaring tales.  Like all shanties, it’s tough to pinpoint “Spanish Ladies“‘s birth date, but early occurrences are documented between 1600 and 1800.  It’s much easier to place the song’s geographic origin, since the verses are essentially a series of snapshots of the sailing route originating in Spain, passing France, and traversing the English Channel before landing in jolly ‘ol England.  It was originally a capstan shanty—sung while raising anchor—but it has evolved into a signature “song of the sea,” easy fodder for deckhand and folk singer alike.

Yet there are so many richer sea shanties out there to exploit.  Why, then, has “Spanish Ladies”—a machismo map of one boring trade route—proliferated so?

Let’s listen to a few versions.  The lyrics are below the player, if you’d like to follow along.

“Fair Spanish Ladies” by The Pyrates Royale:

The lyrics, Wikipedia-style:

Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish Ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;
For we’ve received orders for to sail for ole England,
But we hope in a short time to see you again.

Chorus:
We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,
We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt sea.
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty five leagues.

We hove our ship to with the wind from sou’west, boys
We hove our ship to, deep soundings to take;
‘Twas forty-five fathoms, with a white sandy bottom,
So we squared our main yard and up channel did make.

The first land we sighted was called the Dodman,
Next Rame Head off Plymouth, off Portsmouth the Wight;
We sailed by Beachy, by Fairlight and Dover,
And then we bore up for the South Foreland light.

Then the signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor,
And all in the Downs that night for to lie;
Let go your shank painter, let go your cat stopper!
Haul up your clewgarnets, let tacks and sheets fly!

Now let ev’ry man drink off his full bumper,
And let ev’ry man drink off his full glass;
We’ll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,
And here’s to the health of each true-hearted lass.

Not exactly the stuff of legend, is it?  No pirates, no whores, no Cape Horn.  On to the recording.

That track is a fairly faithful rendition by a contemporary ensemble.  The performance is decent, and I’ll cut them some slack because their primary gigs are renaissance fairs.  But let’s face it—this rendition is not authentic, exciting, or memorable.  Can you picture this sung by men straining their sinew against the rough wood of a ship?  Could you haul to it?  You could drink to it—but could you drink whiskey to it?  In short, can you picture this song in any context but ye olde renfaire?

The arrangement is a problem.  It can’t decide whether it’s being sung by men or women.  Note the choice change of “true-hearted lass” to “true-hearted soul,” and the inclusion of a female voice.  It makes the song prettier and more accessible, for sure, but it gives me no sense of the singer.  The context.  Not to mention the song is clearly about horny boys being forced to leave their whores behind.  What this version of “Spanish Ladies” does accomplish is a little shift in tone, from melancholy to buoyant, just in the last verse.  It’s practically demanded by the lyrics of that verse, but few versions attempt it.

So, that’s our baseline interpretation of the traditional.  Keep in mind these shanties evolve to fit the times, the singers, and the context, so there’s no “right” way to sing the song.  But oh, boy, do they vary:

A Terribly Produced “Spanish Ladies”:

Nice and jaunty.

BUT AT WHAT COST?!

It’s completely flat. The accordion—or whatever the fuck that is—is totally distracting.  There’s a woman here, too, but her voice doesn’t add any melody.  It’s too clean to be interesting.

The recording’s most notable feature is the nasally shout of “Heave, and pawl!” in the background.  According to shanty tradition, “heave and pawl” was often shouted after the chorus as an actual command to the sailors working the capstan.  It essentially means “pull, you fuckers, and then lock it in.” The “pawl” is akin to belaying in rock climbing, a kind of locking technique that prevents the capstan from suddenly reversing, unspooling and dropping the anchor.  Presumably, this dash of nautical flavor was added by whomever produced this track.  Unfortunately, it sounds just like it was produced in a studio.  It’s also far too obnoxious to be sung in a bar, so again—who is the audience for this shanty?

I hate this version because it has the pretense of authenticity but not a roar to back it up.

However, the next version of the same thing is one of my favorites:

“Talcahuano Girls” by Rudy Sunde:

“Talcahuano Girls,” not Spanish ladies.  This is a perfect example of how traditionals—shanties in particular—evolve and mutate to suit their geography.  Rudy Sunde is a Kiwi, and all mentions of British soil have been excised from this shanty.  The context has changed, too—sounds more like an old man celebrating some of his ports (and maidens) of call than of a melancholy young man.  My favorite part of the song is this:

There was one pretty maiden a chewin’ tobacco
Just like a young kitten a chewin’ fresh fish

Rrowr! 

Earthy. Crude. Sexual.  It’s pure sea salt.  The performance, too, is joyous and simple.  We’re starting to hone in on what I believe gives Spanish Ladies its longevity.  Let’s listen to one more, very different, rendition:

“Spanish Ladies” by The Robert Shaw Chorale:

Now! This ship be steered by the hands of a hundred able-bodied men.  Their mighty gale-driven voices fill the sails and speed the journey home.  Don’t let the air of nobility fool you, Spanish Lady; you’ve got a bastard in the oven.  Whatever authenticity is lost by such a complex arrangement is recouped by the spirit of the performance: brave, strong, and soaring.  It’s a mantastic manwhich at the height of mansoon season.  And it’s the most glorious “Spanish Ladies” I’ve heard.

That’s what “Spanish Ladies” is, fine reader.  It’s a love letter from sailors to other sailors, cleverly disguised as a plaintive farewell to landlubbin’ females.  The nautical chart painstakingly rendered in the song is an homage to the tedious life of the sailing man, a common point of reference that any young deckhand can grasp.  Landmarks, here, aren’t just a symbols of a hopeful voyage home—they’re a call sign for the good ‘ol boys.  If you can’t picture Rame Head, you ain’t a British sailor.  Is there truly any melancholy for the Spanish Ladies?  Do we really believe that the men wish to tarry on Spanish soil longer than is necessary to wet their wicks?  If we cared about the Spanish Ladies, wouldn’t we have changed it to “Farewell and adios” in the last two centuries?

As much as folk reinterpretation would sway you otherwise, “Spanish Ladies” is about the men.  The work.  The gritty logistics of returning home—and then, to sea again.

The film version of Master and Commander understood this better than I can express it.  Here is the film’s take on “Spanish Ladies.” If you haven’t seen the film, I might recommend watching the annotated version on YouTube proper; I’ve provided a little bit of context.

Poor, effete Mr. Holland.  Even if he could describe the South Foreland Light, would it matter?  I won’t spoil the film, but his fate is not pleasant, and it’s due largely to the kind of boys’ club ostracizing that you see here.  “Spanish Ladies,” like hauling the line or heaving and pawling, is men’s work.

As we pasty modern kids continue to romanticize the golden age of sail, it’s refreshing to actually dive into the mood of the seafarin’ life.  The best shanties are bawdy, depressing, and thoroughly sexist.  (If response to this post is positive, I may post more.) I’m mostly obsessed with “Spanish Ladies” because it’s so boring, and yet here I am, analyzing 5 versions of it.  I believe “Spanish Ladies” owes its longevity & ubiquity to a combination of factors—its catchy melody, its accessible content, and its myriad mutations.  However, like most traditionals, its social context has become irrelevant and archaic.  The sailing routes—and even the geography—have already changed.  The song is doomed.

I hear it’s not even really 35 leagues from Ushant to Scilly....

I haven’t been in front of the lens for a while. Taking the photos is easier.

This is the finished cut of Kilroy Productions’s 48Hour Film Project, Boston 2008 edition.  Competing teams have 48 hours to create a short film, from script to score, from scratch.  Our designated genre was sci-fi, and we had to incorporate 3 items: a receipt, a character named Reginald H. Higginbotham (diplomat), and the line “This could get complicated.” I’m proud of my team!

I have improv on the brain.  Walk with me for a moment.

A common note given to me, and my fellow improvisers: “that scene was a little dark.” Also: “you’ve been playing a lot of dark characters tonight.” Worse: “That was a really dark show.” I first encountered the note when playing with the ImprovBoston Family Show, where its frequent application made total sense.  That scene about borrowing Dad’s gun?  A little dark.  That scene about divorce?  A little dark.  That offer about stabbing your brother?  Wee dark.  Part of me would always delight in scenes that flirted with age-inappropriate subjects—the parents never seemed to mind, the kids were very forgiving, and by the 45-minute mark I’d get talking-animal-fatigue.  But I always knew what “dark” meant in the context of the Family Show.

After leaving the Family Show, I got really, really excited to return the world of censor-free improv.  My first two months in UnNatural Selection, every scene I drove was about divorce, rape, genocide, and hilarious combinations thereof.  I attacked that stage with a year’s worth of pent-up whateverthefuck compels you to mime fistula or crack jokes about Nazis in front of a paying audience.  More shocking than my horrible mind/mouth was the realization that many of these scenes worked.  Not just worked, but soared.  With devilish glee, the cast would support the most awful initiations, and usually one-up them until the line was irreversibly crossed and we were saved by an edit.  Nary a mention of how dark the material was.  Quickly the fever ran its course, and the number of “dark” scenes petered out.  Yet, that cast still reminisces about those shocking and amazing moments.

This past Saturday, the Mainstage had a very dark 10pm show, and I was a primary contributor.  Unfortunately, it didn’t win us any favors with the audience.  We had the usual array of divorce, family strife, and messy breakups, but most scenes had a heaviness, a grim pallor, which is the epitome of what we have come to term the dark scene.  It’s pretty common for the 10pm show to have more dark scenes than the 8pm—we justify it as the more “adult” show.  But the justification ignores the pattern: if we retrospectively label the scene or show as dark, it’s because the scene tanked or the show didn’t resonate.  Scenes that deal with dark material but are funny are never “dark” scenes—they’re hilarious!  So good!  I couldn’t stop laughing on stage!

Outside the context of a family show, I believe that a scene or show’s “darkness” has nothing to do with its subject matter.

Furthermore, I will posit this, knowing that it’s sometimes unfair: dark is improv-code for slow or lazy.  What we’re responding to is not the subject of the scene, but the pacing, and often, the lack of real content. 

The scenes are superficially fine: there’s a clear relationship, location, and strong emotional choices.  There is conflict, damnit, and we hope conflict is the path to hilarity.  It should be.  But when we’re lazy, tired, or just slow, we don’t get there in time.  There’s always tension, but it’s not enough.  The scene sags; everybody in the room can feel it sinking, and as the players’ mood gets heavier, the scene gets dark.  At a certain point the players trick themselves into thinking that this heavy conflict must be “the game.”

Two veteran improvisers can circle each other for five minutes with their basic tools (relationship, emotion, character, conflict) and still not identify a game worth playing.  If we were less practiced improvisers, it’d be painfully obvious, but we have years of bullshitting to fall back on, and we can “act” without actively thinking about the choices we’re making.  Hence the phenomenon of more dark scenes in the 10pm shows, when we’re worn down and the smaller audience’s silence isn’t quite as oppressive.

I’m a principal perpetrator of this unfortunate habit; if this analysis seems critical, it’s meant primarily for myself.  I get the “that was dark” feeling too often these days, for all the wrong reasons.  I hope that I’ve correctly identified the pattern—the first step to breaking it.

Improv-savvy readers: thoughts?