Ask any
Glaswegian of my generation, “What’s the carnival?” and they won’t mention masked
romances in Venice
It was an annual
pilgrimage made by countless thousands of Glaswegian youngsters, usually accompanied
by a stoic parent or grandparent. You were hurried through the inevitable turn
of the year rain from bus stop, tram stop or subway station. Then, at the
entrance, you paid your entrance fee to a cheery green uniformed lady at a line
of turnstiles resembling cinema kiosks. Then the door opened and you entered a
different world. You were met with a wave of warm noise. The temperature inside
was tropical. There was the sound and smell of machinery and the joyous
screaming from the scarier rides. It was a world of colourful cacophony. Of everything forbidden in day
to day life. Everything that mothers hated. Cheap sweets, hot dogs and candy
floss. Toffee apples were the closest it came to health food.
Some games demanded
impossible skill – like “throw the table tennis ball in the bucket”. They
always bounced out. And there were the scary rides – like the roller coaster that
nearly touched the ceiling. There was one famous ride called the Rotor. It
always had a packed spectator gallery. It resembled a huge spin dryer. People
stood at the perimeter as it spun faster and faster – then the bottom dropped –
leaving them stuck to the wall with centrifugal force. There was usually at
least one fat person who slid slowly down the wall to the amusement of the spectators
heckling from the gallery.
It was a world of
colour and aroma and danger, far removed from the cold dreich grey world of
early 60s Glasgow
So, when I first heard
the song “The Carnival is Over” my interpretation was rather different from
that envisaged by Tom Springfield, the lyricist.
As I saw it, there
is a relationship between two people working at the Kelvin Hall carnival. The
woman who sang the song sounded and looked like one of the green uniformed women
at the turnstiles. The man I considered to be one of the cool young men who collected
the money then burled the waltzers, stepping on and off the whirling platform
with a nonchalant swagger. They always seemed popular with teenage girls. I pictured
the pair meeting during a cigarette break – there always seemed to be a scrum
of workers smoking at the side entrance on Bunhouse Road
The Carnival
always ended in January. So, they were parting, as the stalls and rides were
being packed up into the huge lorries and disappearing off to new pastures.
They may never meet again. The waltzers might not come back next year or she
might be working elsewhere for the corporation.
Maybe some of the
larger items were transported by sea. The Kelvin Hall was then close to Glasgow
Harbour - where the Kelvin flows into the Clyde .
Hence the harbour
lights.
She shows a
mature courage and accepts the inevitability of their parting. His views on the
matter are unclear. Perhaps he is heartbroken – or maybe he is relieved at his
escape.
Listening to it
now, it is still a tremendous record. It seems the perfect match of tune (a
Russian folk song), lyrics, a well worked arrangement and a perfect performance.
There is a quiet nobility in Judith Durham’s voice – a restraint that adds a
dignified emotion to the song.
My horizons have since
broadened. I now know of other carnivalsaround the world, like New
Orleans , Sydney , Notting Hill and Rio .. And who is to say that the song is about a
relationship between a man and a woman. And listening again – perhaps the
pudding is being over-egged about so brief a liaison. But, still, whenever I
hear the opening notes, I picture the star-crossed lovers standing outside the Kelvin Hall,
on a rainy January night, looking over towards the Art Galleries
