After the loss of his mother who suffered from dementia, John has regularly given his time to entertain residents in local care homes with a selection of songs by Noel Coward, Gilbert & Sullivan and others, along with poetry and readings from familiar childhood favourites such as Winnie the Pooh.

Recognised by care staff for their value in improving lives of residents, John’s sessions gained popularity, with poetry proving powerful in unlocking memories. In one case, Anderson recounts: “I was reading Gus the Theatre Cat by T S Eliot and stumbled over some words; a gentleman who was listening quietly prompted me correctly. When I had finished, he recited the whole of Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat, word for word, despite his dementia!”

In March 2018, John was requested by the family to read The Highwayman, the favourite poem of Barbara Ayton, at her funeral in Hellifield. Barbara had been a resident at Threshfield Court nursing home and during her time there had recorded a reading of The Highwayman with her daughter, Joanne. Touched by the recording personally, John was then taken aback by the effect his rendition of the poem had on the funeral congregation; “The atmosphere was electric and I realised the poem had a deep dramatic power.”

With the advent of COVID19, care home managers were keen for John to continue to deliver his entertaining and therapeutic sessions digitally instead of face to face due to the restrictions, so he began recording some of the poems and songs for them to be enjoyed at any time.

Revisiting The Highwayman for the project, John wanted music to add some added texture and dramatis behind the spoken word. Having enjoyed the music of The Tenmours at Grassington Festival he approached the band to see if they may be interested in the project.

A three-piece described as a ‘British alternative band’, The Tenmours were keen to get involved in the project for its artistic and community merit. Singer and guitarist Alex Johnston-Seymour spent a week arranging the piece which was then further developed by violinist Osian Gruffydd and drummer Adam Hopkins as the recording process evolved. Bridging the generation gap, their combined age lower than the residents for whom the project was conceived.

The musical texture that The Tenmours offered was a fitting match for the “passion and danger” of the poem. In the same way that John’s readings unlock beautiful memories for those suffering with dementia, the physicality and raw emotion of the Tenmours gives the Edwardian poem a new lease of life as a “short piece of drama.”

Celebrated poet Alfred Noyes first published The Highwayman in 1906 and his dark, epic tale soon became recognised as one of Britain’s favourite poems. Not only taught in schools, it has also featured in novels, been set to music by American folk singer Phil Ochs in the 1960s and referenced in Fleetwood Mac’s ‘The Everyman’ in 1987.

The poem relates the story of an unnamed highwayman in love, sacrifice, and betrayal, reunited at death with his lover “when the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor.” A powerful image for those separated by the pandemic to share in the experience of this beautiful poem.

The Tenmours treatment of The Highwayman features a music-video shot in black and white, as a supra-diegetic narration in the mind of John, sat at home reading the poem. It has been released on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssln04t7EZg&feature=share&fbclid=IwAR3CJ-zVtJz_F5-F5mHgoGcAQmcThdILXpclW3Z_E7Ag7X1f78cPO_jm_z8 

Notes:

Artists’s illustration of The Highwayman by Mandy Beckwith, commissioned for this project.

photograph of Barbara Ayton, daughter Joanne Blain and son William Ayton, taken at Threshfield Court.

image of John Anderson (a still from the video)

image of The Tenmours

Also available - M4A file of Barbara Ayton reading the poem.

The Tenmours:

https://www.thetenmours.co.uk/

https://www.facebook.com/thetenmours/

| Alex Johnston-Seymour - singer, 23 | Osian Gruffydd - violin, 20 | Adam Hopkins - drummer, 23 | The Tenmours are a British alternative band 

“Brave, powerful and sonically pleasing. This is going on my heavy rotation list. Watch out for them.” - Steven Heath 

“MAZE” is a veritable tour-de-force! The Tenmours have delivered once again with another deluxe listening experience." - Shelagh McDonnald.

The band has been going from strength to strength since their emergence onto the local music scene in 2017, with an infectious energy both on and off stage, they are proving to be one of the hardest working acts on the circuit, with lead singer and songwriter Alex Seymour’s vocal range captivating audiences, and demanding attention. Live performances (including Leeds Festival Alternative Stage 2019) respected by such luminaires as acoustic pioneer Jon Gomm “It’s SO rock!”, and Simon Johnson (Iglu Music) “The Tenmours are easily one of the best bands I’ve EVER seen live” 

As 2020 crashed all around us, The Tenmours saw an opportunity for creativity, and have used their time throughout the COVID-19 pandemic to record nine new recordings remotely. Alex and Adam both studied and graduated from the Leeds College of Music and Osian is currently studying at York University.

The Highwayman

BY ALFRED NOYES

PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  

And the highwayman came riding—

        Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,  

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.  

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

        His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.  

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

        Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.  

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,  

But he loved the landlord’s daughter,

        The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  

Then look for me by moonlight,

        Watch for me by moonlight,

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;  

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

        (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;  

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,  

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,  

A red-coat troop came marching—

        Marching—marching—

King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.  

But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!  

There was death at every window;

        And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.

They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!

“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—

Look for me by moonlight;

        Watch for me by moonlight;

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!  

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

        Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.  

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.  

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;  

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

        Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;  

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding—

        Riding—riding—

The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!  

Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,  

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

        Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood  

Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!  

Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear  

How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

        The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.

Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;

When they shot him down on the highway,

        Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

.      .      .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  

A highwayman comes riding—

        Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.  

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

        Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.