Before I Knew What Had Begun I Had Already Lost

The new album from Jon Wilks.
May 5th, 2023

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On this page, you’ll find…

• Album Q&A
• Sleeve notes
• Album lyrics

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Album Q&A

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Sleeve notes

Before I Knew What Had Begun I Had Already Lost

1. Tape Machine
2. Johnny Sands
3. Greek Street
4. Gallons of Brandy/ Fox Tell
5. Haymaking Song
6. Lofty Tall Ship
7. Will Watch
8. The Old Miner
9. The Boatswain
10. Erin, Sad Erin
11. The Fowler
12. Banjo Therapy

• Album credits

1. Tape Machine

Wilks

I’ve spent a lot of time living abroad. My fondest memories are of being up before the dawn and seeing the market streets come alive. From Nagasaki to Jeddah, the sounds have stayed with me. Regardless of language, those first morning greetings are messages of goodwill and love. It’s the best time of day to experience a new city. A song for my wife. 

2. Johnny Sands

Trad, arr Wilks. Chorus by Martin Carthy. Roud 184

I found this in Cole’s Funniest Song Book in the World (1891). It had no tune, so I set off to look for other recordings, eventually finding Martin Carthy’s version. I caught up with him backstage at FolkEast in 2022 and we sang it together. The tune, he told me, was ‘The Liverpool Landlady’, while the singalong chorus was his own invention. He really is the master. 

3. Greek Street

Wilks

Previously released as a digital download, this album version features new strings and backing vocals from Jackie Oates, adding to the original ensemble of Jon Nice, Lukas Drinkwater and myself. I don’t write songs terribly often, but this one leapt out in one piece and fast became my favourite. It’s of an actual Soho morning, too… 

4. Gallons of Brandy / Fox Tell

Spiers / Oates

I learnt this instrumental directly from John Spiers, and then from Jackie Oates. I wanted to bring out the childlike nature of the tune, hence the music box. I’ve performed it as part of a duo with Jackie and it takes a lot of concentration. If you want to give it a go, the tuning is DGDGCD. Knock yourself out. 

5. Haymaking Song

Trad, arr Oates/ Sartin/ Wilks. Roud 153

I used to play this with my friends Paul Sartin and Callum Baird in around 2016. It’s a traditional song collected in Whitchurch, Hampshire, where we lived. I forgot all about it until shortly after Paul died, when Jackie Oates and I resurrected it and worked on it again. Paul’s fiddle part was never taped, so I hummed what I could remember to Jackie, and she is playing my aural recollection. I hope we got it right. 

6. Lofty Tall Ship 

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 104

I’m not particularly into owning things. I’ve moved around quite a bit during my life, so I’m quite happy to leave possessions behind. However, a first edition pressing of Now is the Time for Fishing, the 1961 album by Sam Larner, is a rare pride and joy. That’s where I first heard this, a song that has bewitched me ever since. Everyone’s had a bash at it under various titles. Here’s mine. 

7. Will Watch

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 1617

Another from the singing of Sam Larner. Some resources say this was written by Thomas Cory and John Davy in 1806. Others say it was a traditional song. Versions of it can be found on broadsides in the Bodleian Library. Wherever it came from, it’s an incredibly concise tale with a huge tune – one of those that I’m surprised other people have overlooked. I’ve since found ‘Will Watch: the Sequel’, in which his wife dies [Roud V6814]. I’ll save that for the next album. 

8. The Old Miner

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 1136

A favourite from Roy Palmer’s Songs of the Midlands book, collected in the early 60s from an old miner in Nuneaton. He said the song had travelled with him from his home in Durham. My version is the result of listening to traditional folk and Massive Attack at the same time – not a bad combination, as it turns out. 

9. The Boatswain 

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 570

Brummie folk historian and online pen pal, Pam Bishop, sent me this song because it had been published in New Meeting Street, Birmingham, in the heyday of broadside balladry. I’ve recorded it here with Lukas Drinkwater and Tom Gregory. Cecil Sharp, who collected it in 1908 from Charles Neville in East Coker, Somerset, felt it was “boisterous and unprintable”. I’ve adapted the words slightly – I’d hate to think what he’d make of it now. 

10. Erin, Sad Erin 

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 1629

In July 2022, Paul Sartin put on a concert for refugee aid. Around the time he asked me to take part, I had been looking through the EFDSS archives. I found this song of migration, which I subsequently performed, having learned it from the singing of Hazel Askew. It was collected in 1908 by Cecil Sharp from 68-year-old John Murphy of Tipperary, an inhabitant at St Marylebone Workhouse. The yearning violin is performed by Akito Goto. 

11. The Fowler

Trad, arr Oates/ Wilks. Roud 166

‘The Fowler’ is a differently titled version of ‘Polly Vaughan’, which I learned from a recording of the source singer, Harry Cox, singing it at the Windmill pub in Norfolk during the 1940s. The lyrics are about as odd as you might expect of a song about a man mistaking his beloved for a swan, but that melody…my word. What a treat that is to sing.  

12. Banjo Therapy

Wilks

In late 2021, I was stuck at home for three months with a prolonged illness. One day, my dear friend Martin Simpson arrived and thrust a beautiful 5-stringed banjo into my hands. “Banjo therapy”, he said, by way of explanation. So I taught myself to play it, and this was the tune that kept turning up beneath my fingers. A frivolous little piece, but one that kept me merry in dark times. Many thanks, Martin. What a fine fellow you are. 

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Credits

Recorded in Whitchurch, Hampshire.

‘Tape Machine’ recorded in East Harling, Norfolk. 

Produced and performed by Jon Wilks. 

Mastered by Nick Cooke. 

Lukas Drinkwater, double bass (3, 9, 12). 

Tom Gregory, percussion, backing vocals (9). 

Jackie Oates, backing vocals and viola (tracks 1, 3, 5, 11). Viola (2, 12). 

Jon Nice, keyboards (1, 3, 12). Backing vocals (1). Electric guitar (1).
Knees Thompson, knees (4).

Advice and occasional tweaking, Jim Moray. 

Art direction, Alex Merry. 

Design, Charlotte Lloyd. 

Huge thanks to Emi, Kai & Hana Wilks for being the best family ever. Eliza Carthy for extensive title advice. Richard Davies and Angeline Morrison for listening and moral support. Alex Merry for her arty skills and folkie enthusiasm. Jim Moray for participating in the Accountability Club. Jon Nice, Jackie Oates & Lukas Drinkwater for being wonderful musicians and friends. Claire Patterson for agenting and general Claireness. Martin Simpson for the banjo, the friendship, and the banjo friendship. Rachel Wilkinson for correcting all the words and dishing out the gold stars. 

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Album lyrics

1. Tape Machine
2. Johnny Sands
3. Greek Street
4. Gallons of Brandy/ Fox Tell
5. Haymaking Song
6. Lofty Tall Ship
7. Will Watch
8. The Old Miner
9. The Boatswain
10. Erin, Sad Erin
11. The Fowler
12. Banjo Therapy

1. Tape Machine

Wilks

At the age of just 22 
I discovered my calling
Watching streets as they come alive
At five or six in the morning
You can really define a town
By the first light of day
Like a face before the paint goes on
Shadows carved out of grey

I’d been given a tape machine
It lived here in my satchel 
I’d sneak it out to a cheap cafe
I’d hide it under the table
From Nagasaki to old Soho
Greetings cast on the rise
Voices hewn in the analogue
And there I severed my ties 

In Jeddah I taped the prayer call
In Porto, Christ on the breeze
In Singapore, well I caught them all
Floating in from the seas

From a Tokyo window ledge
I heard the morning begin
Same way it does everyday 
From Tokyo to old Medellín 
Won’t you please take good care of yourself
And without words understand
Because I love every part of you
Because you’re all that I am

2. Johnny Sands

Trad, arr Wilks. Chorus by Martin Carthy. Roud 184

Well, a man whose name was Johnny Sands
He’s married old Betsy Hague
And though she’s brought him gold
And she’s bought him land
She’s proved him a terrible plague
For, oh, she was a scolding wife
She’s full of caprice and whim
When he said he was tired of life
Well, she was tired of him
Right fa la
Right fullerum fullerum 
For she was tired of him

Oh, says he, “Then I will drown myself
In the river that runs below” 
Says she, “I pray you do,
You silly old elf,
I’ve wished long ago” 
Says he, “Upon the brink I’ll stand
And you run down the hill
And push me in with all your might”
She says, “My love, I will”
Right fa la
Right fullerum fullerum 
She says, “My love, I will” 

“All for fear that I should courage lack
And try to save my life,
I pray you tie my hands behind my back”
“I will,” replied his wife
She’s tied them fast as you may think
And when securely done
“Now stand,” says she, “upon the brink
And I’ll prepare to run”
Right fa la
Right fullerum fullerum
“And I’ll prepare to run” 

Well, all down the hill his loving bride
She’s run with all her force
All to push him in…
…but he’s stepped aside
And she’s fell in, of course
Now splashing, dashing like a fish
“Oh save me, Johnny Sands”
“I can’t my dear, though much I wish,
For you have tied my hands”
Right fa la
Right fullerum fullerum
“For you have tied my hands” 

3. Greek Street

Wilks

It’s of a Soho morning in shades of dirty grey
At 6am, well I stumbled once more into the day
The street’s in need of hosing down to wash away the gloom
And I was 19 years of age, the time has gone so soon
‘Twas there I spied a maiden with glitter in her hair
And it fell in shards of crimson and it lit the morning air
She’s teetered on her platform heels and scaffolded my mind
Me, without a hard hat on, just begging to be fined 

Chorus
And I would recommend
And I’d write it in a song
A night that ends on Greek Street
To anybody young

Well, she took her name from winter, no robin went without
And she fluttered on the petrol breeze as neon picked her out
The soul of Cambridge Circus, a phoenix from the frost 
Before I knew what had begun I had already lost 
So we took a bus to Lewisham where her mother had a place
And against the kitchen sideboard, well I kissed her on the face
And on a Swedish packing bed I kissed her naked breast
And it wasn’t ‘til the midnight moon we stopped to take a rest

Chorus 

It’s strange what I remember – it’s strange what I recall
I don’t remember conversations – I don’t remember words at all
I remember trips to Brighton, wrapped warm against the cold
I remember thinking time had stopped and we weren’t growing old
And that’s the wonder of the transient; a sense of life alive
And the magic of the twilight sky and fingers intertwined
And fingers then unravelled, and distance in the sheets
And distance in the way she gazed way back on down the street

Chorus

So we lingered in the summer months, my winter maid and me
And in the Soho evenings I loved her tenderly 
But by the time the autumn came, her eye began to roam
And I wandered back to Lewisham all longing and alone
So she took her Swedish packing bed for some other blade to game
And I tried my best to blame her but the blame it never came
For she was but 18 years of age and barely in her bloom
That one sweet misty morning on old Greek Street in the gloom

4. Gallons of Brandy / Fox Tell

Spiers / Oates

Instrumental 

5. Haymaking Song

Trad, arr Oates/ Sartin/ Wilks. Roud 153

‘Twas was in the merry month of may 
In the springtime of the year
When down in yonders meadow
There runs a river clear
To see those little fishes
How they do sport and play
Calling many a lad and many a lass
All there to making hay

Then in come both Will and Tom
With pitchfork and with rake
And likewise black-eyed Susan
The hay all there to make
With sweet jug and sweet jug
How the nightingale does sing
From the morning to the evening
As we go haymaking

Then just as Bright Phoebus
The sun was going down
Along came two piping men
Approaching from the town
They pulled out their tabor and pipes
Which made those pretty girls to sing
Then they all put down their forks and rakes
And left off haymaking 

6. Lofty Tall Ship 

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 104

As we were gone sailing
Five cold frosty nights
Five cold frosty nights
And four days
It was there we a-spied
A lofty tall ship
She’s come bearing down on us
Brave boys

Now, where are you going
You lofty tall ship
How dare you to venture so nigh?
For I have turned robber
All on the salt seas
To maintain my two brothers and I

Now heave up your courses
And let go your main sheets
And bring yourself under my lea
For I shall take from you
Your rich merchants, goods merchants
And I’ll point your bow guns to the sea

I’ll not heave up my courses
Nor let go my main sheets
Nor bring myself under your lea
Nor you shall take from me 
My rich merchants, goods merchants
Nor you’ll point my bow guns to the sea

Now broadside to broadside
These two vessels they went
They were fighting for hours or more
When at length Henry Martin
Gave her a broadside
And she’s sank and she’s rose never more

Bad news Henry Martin
Bad news I must tell
Bad news it is going around
Of a lofty tall ship
Lost on the salt seas
And the most of her merry men drowned 

7. Will Watch

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 1617

One morn when the wind
From the northward blew keenly,
When sullen roared
The big waves on the main,
A famed smuggler, Will Watch,
Kissed his Susan serenely
Took helm, and to sea
Boldly steered out again.
Will had promised his Sue
That this trip, if well ended,
Should coil up his ropes,
And he’d anchor on shore;
When his pockets were lined,
Why his life should be ended,
The laws he had broke
He would never break more.

His sea-boat was trim
Made her port, took her loading,
Then Will stood to sea,
Reached the offing, and cried,
”This night, if I’ve luck,
Furl the sails of my trading.
In dock I can lay –
Serve a friend or two besides.”
We lay to ‘til night
Came on darksome and dreary,
To crowd every sail
Then he piped up all hands;
But a signal soon spied –
‘Twas a prospect uncheerly,
‘Twas a signal that warned him
To beat from the land.

“The Philistians are out”,
Cries Will, “we’ll take no heed on’t,
Attacked, who’s the man
That will flinch from his gun?
Should my head be blown off
I shall ne’er feel the need on’t,
We’ll fight while we can;
When we can’t, boys, we’ll run.”
Through the haze of the night
A bright flash now appearing,
“Oh ho!” cried Will Watch,
”The Philistians bear down.
Bear a hand, my tight lads,
Ere we think about sheering.
Our broadside poured in;
Should we swim, boys, or drown?”

“But should I be popped off,
You, my mates left behind me,
Pay regard of my last words,
See ’em kindly obeyed.
Let no stone mark the spot,
And, my friends, do you mind me,
Near the beach with this grave
Where Will Watch should be laid.”
Poor Will’s yarn was spun up –
For a bullet next minute
Laid him low on the deck
And he never rose more.
The crew fought the brig
While a shot remained in him,
Then sheered, and Will’s hulk
To his Susan they bore.

In the dead of the night
His last wish was complied with,
To few known his grave
And to few known his end;
He was borne to the earth
By the crew that he died with;
He’d the tears of his Susan,
The prayers of his men.
Near his grave dash the billow,
That wild low last billow,
Yon ash struck with lightning
That marked his cold bed.
Will Watch, the bold smuggler,
That famed lawless fellow –
Once feared, now forgot –
Sleep in peace with the dead.

8. The Old Miner

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 1136

Oh, who’ll replace this old miner? 
And who will take my place below?
And who will follow the trepanner
Oh, dear god, when I go?

Oh, who will wield my heavy pick?
That I did wield for forty years?
And who will hew the black, black cole?
Who, dear god, when I go?

Oh, who will ride the miner’s train
That takes him to the dark coal face?
Who’ll take my place upon that train?
Who, dear god, when I go?

Oh, who will load this great iron tub?
Oh, who will strain his bending back?
And who will work, sweat and ache like hell?
Who, dear god, when I go? 

Oh, who will cry when the roof caves in
When friends are dying all around?
And who will sing the miners’ hymn?
Who, dear god, when I go? 

For forty years I’ve loved this mine
For forty years I’ve worked down there
Now, who’ll replace this old miner
When I’ve paid my god my fare? 

9. The Boatswain 

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 570

There was a bold boatswain and in Dover he did dwell
And a handsome wife had whom a tailor’s loved well
And when the bold boatswain was out of the way
His frolicsome young wife and the tailor they would play
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay

One day she’s gone a-walking and she’s out into the street
When this loving tailor man, well she has chanced there to meet
“My husband is on board with the rest of the crew
So on this very night I shall frolic here with you”
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay 

Now as it all fell out, about twelve of the clock
Well, the boatswain he’s returned and on the door there he did knock
Which surprised them in their frolics, for neither were to sleep,
Says the tailor, “loving woman, O where shall I creep?” 
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay 

So there they’ve laid a-pondering and musing in the bed
When a comical fancy has come into her head
“My husband’s chest’s a-waitin ‘neath the dresser, there,” she’s cried
Where in it my young tailor you may certainly hide
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay 

So down the stairs she goes and she’s opened up the door
Where she’s found the boatswain there with sailors three or four
“My dear I am so sorry I’ve disturbed you in your rest
But here I am returned for I need to have my chest”
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay 

From the chest the tailor whispers, “woman, pay me some regard
They’ll be breaking all my bones and they’ll be cutting off my yard
And if that were to happen then I’m ruined I’m afraid
For I get more from my yard than from the tailor trade”
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay 

Well the sailors scarcely carried that old chest from the town
When the weight of it had drenched them in sweat all running down
They sat themselves all comfy on their baggage for to rest
Saying one to another, well the devil’s in the chest
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay 

Now, neither of these sailors this old chest could undo
So up comes the boatswain and the rest of the crew
He’s opened up the cargo and in view of them all
There lay the tailor like a dog inside a stall 
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay 

“Now, what have we here, bold fellow,” the boatswain cried
“I’ve been cuckolded on shore many times I’m afraid”
So he pressed this bold tailor and took him off to sea
Saying, “he’ll not be staying at home with his yard to cuckold me”
To my rally tally tall, oh rally tally tay 

10. Erin, Sad Erin 

Trad, arr Wilks. Roud 1629

Erin, Sad Erin, it grieves me to ponder
The wrongs of thy injured isle
Thy sons in their thousands deploring do wander
On shores far away in exile
O give me the power to cross o’er the main
America might yield me some comfort from pain
Though I’m only lamenting whilst here I remain
For the joys I shall not see no more  

With wonder I gazed at that lofty high mountain 
As in grandeur it rose o’er it’s lord 
With sorrow I beheld my own garden yielding 
The choicest of fruits for his board 
Oh, where is my father’s low cottage of clay 
Where I have spent many a long happy day? 
Alas has his lordship contrived it away 
It is gone I shall not see no more 

The sloe and the berry hung ripe on the bushes 
I’ve gathered them off without harm 
And I went to the fields for to view the green bushes 
Preparing for winter’s cold storms 
And I’ve sat by the fire on a cold frosty night 
Along with my friends telling tales of delight 
Those days gave me pleasure and I could invite 
But they’re gone I shall not see no more

So, farewell then to Erin and those I’ve left weeping
Upon this disconsolate shore
Farewell to the grave where my father lies sleeping
The ground I do dearly adore
Farewell then to pleasure, I’ve once had a home
Farewell, now a stranger in England to roam
Oh give me my freedom or give me my tomb
Friends, in pity, I ask for no more

11. The Fowler

Trad, arr Oates/ Wilks. Roud 166

Well, come all you bold fellows who handle a gun
I would have you come home by the light of the sun
For young Jimmer was a-fowling, and a fowling alone
And he shot his own true love by the light of the sun

When Polly was walking in a shower of rain
Well, she stopped by a green bush, her beauty to save
With her apron wrapped ‘round her, well he’s took her for a swan
And he shot his own true love by the light of the sun

When first he’s come to her and he found it was she
He was shaking and trembling, his eyes couldn’t see
For now you are dead love, and your sorrows are o’er
Fair thee well my dear Polly, I’ll see you no more

Well, home ran young Jimmer with his dog and his gun
Crying uncle, dear uncle, d’you see what I’ve done?
Cursed be the old blacksmith who made me this gun
‘Cause I’ve shot my own true love by the light of the sun

Well, up spoke his uncle, his locks hanging grey
Saying, Jimmer, oh Jimmer, don’t you run away
Don’t you leave this old country ‘til your trial it comes on
For you never will hang for the death of a swan

When his trial it’s come on Polly’s ghost did appear
Crying honor, your honor, let Jimmer go clear 
With my apron wrappen ‘round me, well he’s took me for a swan
Now his poor heart lies bleeding for Polly his own

12. Banjo Therapy

Wilks

Instrumental