Northern Broadsides let slip the clogs of war

http://www.theguardian.com/stage/2014/feb/12/northern-broadsides-clog-dancing-first-world-war

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Conrad Nelson is in the middle of a rant. "Left foot crosses right," he barks. "In 6/8 time – more syncopation. Don't stop skipping." A rant, I should explain, is not a stream of abuse directed at an ill-coordinated journalist, but one of the basic steps of Lancastrian clog dancing: a percussive, hopping manoeuvre that, like many such clog steps, is meant to imitate the sound of industrial machinery.

And it's bloody difficult – especially when you realise you can't stay ranting on the spot, but must wheel around in formation with a team of eight sturdy morris-dancers wielding sticks. We're in a rehearsal room at the New Vic in Newcastle-under-Lyme, and my left foot has trouble moving in the same direction as the short poles I'm holding. My other left foot flatly refuses to go with it. And the clogs themselves feel about as natural as having a couple of small barrels tied to your ankles: the curved wooden soles make a satisfying clack, but the lack of grip makes you feel as though you're on ice.

Clog dancing has been part of Northern Broadsides' style since the theatre company's birth 22 years ago. It featured in its very first production, a staging of Richard III in an abandoned weaving shed, using footwear the vanished workers might have left behind. The company's take on Romeo and Juliet included a wooden-soled dance-off at the Capulet ball; and they once clattered through the Henry VI plays, making the houses of York and Lancaster wage the entire Wars of the Roses with their feet.

I'm joining in the preparations for the company's latest production, An August Bank Holiday Lark, which depicts the impact of the first world war on a small Lancashire village that no longer has enough young men to scrape together a morris team. Perhaps unwisely, I've expressed a desire to try out a few steps. But even after my shambolic showing, Nelson – associate director, musical arranger and resident clog-dancing expert for Northern Broadsides – remains encouraging. "Clog dancing isn't meant to be pretty," he says. "It's visceral, intense and celebratory. Done well, it's exhilarating."

Deborah McAndrew's play was commissioned to mark the war's centenary and takes its title from Philip Larkin's poem MCMXIV, which describes newly enlisted soldiers "Grinning as if it were all/ An August Bank Holiday lark".

"The brief," says Nelson, who is married to McAndrew, "was to find a subject that could be uplifting as well as tragic." The action is set in the valley of Saddleworth, one of the strongholds of traditional Lancastrian morris (the website of its dance team promises "no speeches, no PA systems and no coach parties"). Saddleworth morris men are famed for their hats, towering willow structures woven with flowers that resemble elaborate birdcages. It's also the home of the Rushcart, an August bank-holiday procession in which a wagon is loaded with freshly cut reeds and hauled round the valley by hundreds of dancers.

Nelson became so fascinated by Saddleworth lore while researching the play that he decided the only way to fully understand its mysteries was to join the group himself, driving three hours each way from his home in the Midlands to train in a remote Pennine pub. "This Easter, I will be dancing for my waistcoat," he says, proudly. This coveted, candy-striped garment is awarded to any new member who has attained a sufficient standard to dance in public – along with two ankle bells for every subsequent year of service. "Some of the older guys have bells up to their knees," Nelson adds. "They're the ones who revived the Rushcart parade in the 1970s, when there were still a few villagers who could remember the dances."

In addition to performing these dances, the cast have to recreate the construction of the Rushcart on stage. The towering edifice in the corner of the rehearsal room looks less like a hay wagon than a thatched cottage on wheels. The highest honour a morris man can achieve is to be appointed the Rushcart Jockey, who gets to balance on top. I'm not volunteering to try.

Nelson looks me over, then jumps to his feet declaring: "Right, let's put you into Denshaw." Like all the dances, this one takes its name from the village where it originated, and begins with a complex, place-swapping manoeuvre known as a ronnie. Inevitably, there are two of these, followed by some perilous high kicks and a pole-thrust. Nelson has dubbed the manoeuvre Ski Sunday. Is that what they call it in Saddleworth? "No," he grins. "They call it a bastard because it takes so long to get it right."