We are all very familiar with the modern contempt that Morris dancing is held with. So many things come and go as far as fashion is concerned, and it seems that this tradition became associated with a pastoral way of life that nearly all of the country had left behind when the factories beckoned and football and the music hall moved into those places people’s hearts reserve for their loyalty to such things. Morris dancing was, as was the way with many things that were associated with a lost way of rural life, ‘revived’ on several occasions, the most recent being in the 1960s that accompanied a wider folk music revival. Before then it has been dated back to dancers at court in the fourteenth century. The dances devolved over the centuries, spreading from the royal household to church festivals, then, as the Puritans took over, hardly anything at all. When they moved from kingly splendour, so did the costumes, and the poorer folk tended to forego the splendour of court costumes in favour of ribbons and bells attached to their everyday clothing, the continuation of which can be seen in today’s Morris costumes. As with most gaiety, it didn’t come through the thirteen years of Cromwell’s Commonwealth well and, like Christmas, faced a steady decline. When the Industrial Revolution broke up many communities in the countryside and workers flooded to the towns and factories, much in the way of tradition was not only forgotten, but deliberately cast aside as being out of step with new life in the cities. It was preserved by four teams in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire and sought out by folklorists from the late nineteenth century onwards as they rediscovered it.
Despite the generally accepted tradition that Morris dancing is so-called because it was brought into England via soldiers returning from the Crusades, and hence corrupted from Moorish dancing, what evidence there is does not back this up. Shakespeare mentions Morris twice; “I have seen/Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,/Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells. (2 Henry VI Act III scene i)” and “As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib's rush for Tom's forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding queen to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin. (All's Well that Ends Well Act II scene ii)”. This shows that Morris dancing was established by his time of writing and a tradition so common that the audience understood these references.
As would be expected with such a venerable pastime, there are many regional differences in dance, music and costume. These have come down to us under mainly regional names, although even these, as with other ancient traditions, could vary a fair amount from town to town. Other old dances, however, such as the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, are distinct from the Morris tradition and (in this case, most certainly) predate it substantially. It is worth noting that the Horn Dance is still performed to this day and can be seen on Wakes Monday, the day following Wakes Sunday, which is the first Sunday after September 4th.
The real beauty of Morris dancing, apart from preserving a part of our national heritage that property developers and local councils cannot touch, is that it is very much active and real. As with much English culture, Morris has been successfully taken with expatriates to some rather far-flung corners of the globe. As would be expected, it is the English-speaking nations that mainly embrace the eclectic nature of this style of dancing, with a slight, yet welcome, surprise being that of the Hong Kong Morris.
Many local events have a performance by a local side, and they can occasionally be seen outside (and quite a lot inside) pubs and inns. There are large annual events that are intertwined with Morris. The most famous of these is The Rochester Chimney Sweeps Festival, which takes place around the May Day holiday. Here is a large gathering of sides from all over the country and the festival also involves a parade of the dancers and their accompanists, plus performances by the cream of the nation’s folk musicians.
On a personal note, whenever I have watched Morris dancing, it affects me in the same way that looking around an old stone church or drinking in a village pub with exposed wooden beams. It’s soothing yet electric – a direct connection to our past. It does not matter that the church has been desecrated by Cromwell’s Puritans and revamped by well-meaning Victorians. It does not matter (too much) if the old pub has brilliantly-lit lager pumps. In that same spirit, it does not matter if the Morris dances are not strictly local, or if the ribbons are polyester and the bells made in China. What matters is that something that was relevant hundreds of years in our past is still relevant, living, lively, entertaining and part of us to this very day.
I last saw Wolf's Head and Vixen Morris in the foyer of Fairfield Halls during Witchfest, where I was sitting on a bar stool with a glass of mead in my hand. They have a distinctly modern twist on their dress, adding such touches as dark glasses to their all-black ensemble, but their dancing adheres to a distinct tradition and it is a joy to watch and a sight to gladden the heart. Long may they dance!
