The Adventures of Sons of Town Hall - An Abridged History
By Elias B. Worthington
12th December, ‘08
Reprinted without objection of The Illustrated London News

I hereby set down into print a tale told to me years ago on the cobblestones of old London Town. The story stuck with me, like a good side of mutton often does. It's the story of the Sons of Town Hall’s rise from gutter to glory. I tell it now, for the path to greatness is rarely direct. And so perhaps these words will be instructive, even inspiring, to those young dreamers who want to break off their shackles and tear down the walls that bind them. Nothing is gained if nothing is risked, and the harder the fight for the fortune, the sweeter the taste when it is won. Therefore, without further digression, here is the narrative more or less as it was told to me (or rather sung to me) by two devastatingly handsome adventurers, as we strolled through the mists of our good and bustling city arm in arm in arm.

When the Son of Town Hall pushed off for the first time one sweltering summer day in ‘93, there was nary a soul to bid them farewell. In fact, had there been anyone at the seashore to watch them go, she would have been there to chase them off or to reclaim a debt, certainly not to admire or wish them well. Now, of course, it’s quite the different scene. Children run to the water’s edge to catch a glimpse of their raft. They beg to climb aboard. They ask if they may, if just for a moment, run a finger along the gentlemen’s guitars or even hold their hatboxes. Needless to say, the ladies come now with their painted fans and cheeks aflush. They steal glances. They promise to be there waiting should the illustrious pair ever return.

How tempting it is, dear reader, to rewrite history. As if the current state of affairs was fated from the start. Why, when you hear them sing, you’d be forgiven in thinking they’d known each other all their lives. Are they brothers? Twins? Were they in fact singing their silver-throated harmonies inside the womb? Well, the answer to all the above is a resounding “No.” Indeed, nothing could be farther from the Queen’s truth. In fact, it seems nothing short of a gift from on high that these two scoundrels even met at all.

The swarthier gentleman fled the New Land and a fallen family, whose values (or lack thereof), he did not share. In the long wake of the war, he sailed against the tides as a stowaway aboard a merchant ship bound for England. It was there, among the sacks and crates below the deck that he found his voice, singing to fight off rats and a horrid seasickness. Hidden among the dry goods, he sang to himself of his dream that he might one day reverse his fortune and create for himself a kinder life.

The fairer of the pair was fleeing as well. He grew up in Surrey among the meat scraps and salted carcasses of the family butcher shop. Though born with the gift of song, he was cursed to follow the well-trod path of a long line of firstborn sons. He ran from that loveless labor of blood and bones, escaping the heavy mantel of a frightening and violent father and the heavy heart of an infirmed mother.

Though it didn’t seem so at the time, escaping proved the easy part. Set free from the bonds of their respective families and overwhelmed by a sudden freedom, each succumbed quickly to temptation. As of yet unaware of the other, their parallel paths were astonishingly similar. Both bounced along a succession of temporary jobs, arriving late and often lost in a daydream, always whistling a tune and seeking a laugh before bothering to strain a muscle. Out of respect for their privacies, I will spare many details but suffice to say each dipped often into the thieving life, landed on the barroom stool, flopped onto the brothel bed, slumped along the back alley. They stooped low. They racked up debt. They went hungry. They became enemies to many. They were friends to precious few. Sure, it turned out both could sing. But what good was a song when there was no bread upon the table? Indeed, what good was a song when there was rarely even a table at all?

Well, one balmy autumn evening by the St. Catherine’s docks, both found themselves eyeing the same dancer at Turner’s Old Star Public House. It wasn’t necessarily the ale or the beautifully oiled oaken bar slab that brought our protagonists in from the night air that fortuitous evening. It was Old man Turner’s unfortunate propensity for allowing men to drink on credit.

Now the heroes of this story were nothing if not romantics, charming yes, but foolish and unreliable top to tail. Each always saw a rosier world than the one unfolding before him. Each wanted to believe in a future that in truth had little chance of ever coming to be. It’s probably why they each so loved a card game, so often bet on the long odds. It’s also probably why the two would come to write such beautiful songs. But for now, this romanticism just led each to believe wholeheartedly that this particularly lovely dance hall queen, with those big green eyes and red curls falling freely down her back, had eyes for only him.

Not surprisingly, she had eyes for neither. Some of the confusion may have stemmed from the fact that one of those big green eyes was a bit on the wonk. Regardless, two bottles of brown liquor down, the hour very late, four pockets empty, not a single friendly word exchanged, and it all but inevitable that they would again both be bedding down alone, fisticuffs ensued.

The brawl was more farce than frightening, for neither was much of a fighter. A torn scarf here, a ripped trouser there, but certainly no spilled blood or blackened eye. And then, amidst the scuffle, a strange shift occurred. Whilst tumbling around in the sawdust, they began to sense an undeniable similarity in disposition, a sympathetic energy, an obvious kinship. Despite the difference in accent, in hair color, in mannerisms, there was an astonishing sameness of spirit. They couldn’t help but crack two broken-toothed smiles. They helped each other up, brushed the dirt from each other’s beards and britches, and then, without paying their tab, and without even a glance back at the woman, they strolled out the door.

Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe it was the adrenaline from the rumble, or it could have been the unseasonably warm autumn air, but they walked and talked for most of the remainder of the night. Oh, to have been one of the gas lamps on the lanes they strolled, or one of the benches upon which they sat for a spell to rest, and to have been able to listen in on their conversation. One can only imagine the sense of discovery, of connection, of sweet relief, as they talked of their dreams and hopes, as lifelong loneliness cracked and fell away, as the two boasted of their adventures, as they began to hatch a plan to sail the seas for the New Land.

Of course the darker gentleman was all too well aware of the potential hazards of the land on the other side. He also knew how wide and wild the water could be. Naturally, he was hesitant to return. But the other was a smooth talker, and of course there was much chatter of gold in those days. The promise of going west ultimately proved irresistible.

A vessel would be required. Neither had any money to hire a ship, and certainly no one in his right mind would want either aboard his boat. Thus the notion of building a raft of scrap and junk was born. Never in recorded nautical history had this been tried before. It’s the kind of reckless genius only possible from those not tethered to reason or rationality. It’s a project only possible for dreamers, believers, perhaps madmen. And in this way, their raft may just be the greatest symbol both of their optimism and their resourcefulness, but also of their brazenness—that despite their lack of any relevant skills, the great ocean would not intimidate them. They ultimately came to believe so wholeheartedly in this half-formed vision, that with just the flotsam and jetsam found, gathered, and lashed together, they built something capable of crossing that vast and violent expanse. Anything that seemed seaworthy and buoyant was tethered. Anything that might prove edible and lasting was stolen and stowed on board.

She looked like something a child might have dreamt up. And when they pushed off, they couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the endeavor. Though neither was much of a reader, they noticed a few nautical miles off the rocky shores of England that burned into a length of driftwood near the prow of this ramshackle ship were the words “Son of Town Hall.” They knew not what that meant, but that is what they christened her, and that is what they would ultimately cling to during the ensuing weeks and months.

The crossing was utter hell. It is a true miracle that they didn’t die. Neither, it turned out, was a strong swimmer. Washdays were near fatal affairs. Neither was much of a fisherman, either. So eating was scarce and rarely tasty. And forget about navigation. They drifted for months, floating north when they thought they were heading south, even traveling east for a fortnight when west was obviously their goal. Skin burned. Lips split and swelled up like overcooked sausages. Faces turned to skulls. They grew thin to the very bone. Was it an act of God that kept them alive and delivered them? It’s a worthy question.

Though they are not quick to shortchange their maker, they have a different answer for what allowed them to survive. And it’s their answer that I believe to be closer to the truth. It was song, they’ll tell you, that sustained them. They wrote songs of the sea. They wrote odes to Poseidon. They wrote hymns to St. Christopher. They sang of fabled western towns and of the gold they prayed they’d one day find in California, should they not drown. They wrote tributes to the morning fields upon which they feared they might never again set foot. They dreamt of the women they had left behind. They sang serenades for Louise. They sang songs you’ve never heard before and the likes of which you won’t hear again. They put the legends of other sailors to music. They sang of the lines and bonds that connect us. They sang to the moon. They wrote with an intensity matched only by the great gray ocean herself. When the winds blew hard and the rain beat down, they only sang louder. When the waves threatened to wash them both from the boards, they tied themselves together, and they raised their voices above the scream of the sea. They sang, and they survived.

When the two finally washed ashore, they kissed the ground and wept sweet tears of relief. They had no clue where in the world they were and were grateful to hear at least a crude version of the Queen’s English being spoken. It took them a good year to restore their constitutions, their proper skin tones, their waistlines. Dry land proved no easier for them. The two stuck together out of habit. But apart from singing, their skill sets didn’t overlap in the least. Both pictured himself the managerial type, but in truth neither had the head for it. Nor was either hearty enough for tilling the land or laying track. So work was awful hard to come by. Life in the New Land began looking sadly similar to the lives they left behind in the old. Eventually, they wandered west for the fabled gold. But like so many of their other pursuits, nothing panned out. So they roamed the land. And like other great duos in history, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza come to mind, they had little to show for their efforts.

It may seem strange that it took them so long to see it, but eventually they came to realize that the only thing they were any good at was singing. Literally every other trade they tried caused only anger and frustration in those around them. But when they sang, why Lord, even the sweet angels above swooped down to listen. How could men so rough around the edges, with such tempestuous pasts, sing with such tenderness? How could men who seem so incapable of producing anything of any tangible value write a melody and a turn of phrase capable of softening the very stones we stand upon? That is a line of enquiry that we’ll have to leave to historians far more insightful than I. But I will tell you that when I first heard these gentlemen sing, I laughed and I wept simultaneously. I nearly soiled my britches. I shook. I completely lost control. And then I began emptying my coin purse into the top hat that came around, for I couldn’t think of a better use for my money. Judging by the weight of that hat, and the bizarre mixture of emotions on the faces of the others in the crowd, I wasn’t alone in my thinking.

They say that one should only be a musician if he absolutely must, if he has absolutely no other options. When all other endeavors went literally nowhere, all that remained was song. And so they sang. And it turned out that the people wanted to listen. They came. They danced. They sang along. They gave them their savings. They opened their halls and houses. They shared their food. They shared their beds. Our heroes were at first stunned. They were grateful. Then they were relieved. After searching for so long and so far, after working so hard for so little, it turned out that redemption was inside them all along. It was that which came the easiest that would prove the most rewarding.

Through these years, the raft remained docked in New Bedford. It rocked in port near where Cobbler’s Hill rolls down to the sea, just south of the old saltbox. No doubt, it should have been condemned, sold for scrap, or simply burned. But, and here we must acknowledge yet another miracle, when the two found their way back to her, she was intact. She was ugly as ever, but the Son of Town Hall was still afloat. Like our heroes themselves, it seemed nothing could sink her.

Times had changed for our friends, however. Their beards had gone whiter, their face lines more pronounced, but they also had gained a measure of clarity, of purpose. They had found a calling, and they knew what they needed to do. They would make a few improvements to the vessel. They would think more carefully about what to pack. They would bring aboard fully strung guitars. They would even roll an old upright piano aboard. They would name themselves after the vessel that had sustained them. They would take again to the water. They would record a record, the very record you now hold. For the world needed to hear these voices, and the raft was the means by which the Sons of Town Hall would sing for the world.

The making of “The Adventures of Sons of Town Hall” (11 minutes)
(As told by the Sons of Town Hall themselves)

Yes, it is mostly true what the good and venerable Mr. Worthington so thoroughly and painstakingly put into words. Indeed, when we set off initially we set off alone. Two men caught between the endless sky and sea. Two heavy bags of regrets. Two sets of dreams. Two voices. And one shared hope that out there somewhere was a gentler world that would look more favorably upon us, where we might be able to settle down, earn a decent wage, and even start a family (or two).

But it is widely known that the sea is a fickle maiden. And she lays waste all the best of plans. We were grossly unprepared for that first crossing and so were relentlessly beaten down and tossed around. We were lost the vast majority of the time. Sure, we performed acts of great heroism, but more often we did things we weren’t proud of and will not be shared here or anywhere ever. Through it all, what kept us afloat, what kept us alive, was indeed song. Mother melody and her sweet nurturing sister, harmony. We lost ourselves in verse. We transcended our circumstances through singing. Music brought us together. It gave us hope. It gave us reason to get across.

They say the sea is the great equalizer. That is certainly true. But what proved of even more importance in determining our path is the less known saying that music is the great unifier. For after we tried and failed on dry land and so went back to sea armed with our guitars and books full of verse, we encountered many a good soul who were converted from foe into friend by our humble melodies. We met quite a cast of characters out there. We brought them aboard one by one (and on occasion several at a time) to lend their voices and their instruments to our songs.

The first we met was Sara Watkins, a fiddler it turned out of great renown (though we knew her not initially). We found her busking in the summer of ‘05 by the Port of Tangier, and a sweeter sound had surely never entered either of our sets of ears. Truth be told, we were left utterly dumbstruck by the music she poured forth. Sara was used to such reactions, we suppose, for she took quick advantage, robbing us of several of our most precious possessions. But in the ensuing days, we managed to get our valuables back and convinced her to bow her blessed violin for us.

Beside the Chesapeake, that very winter, we encountered a Salvation Army brass choir. Shabbily dressed and mournful in disposition, we became fast friends. The two who played with by far the most vigor and heart were Jordan Katz and David Ralicke We invited them to board our raft. They feared their instruments would sink, but as it turned out, the Flugelhorn, French Horn, Trombone, and Baritone are quite buoyant. That would prove fortunate for them, for after we caught them hiding cards in their shirtsleeves, we threw both of them and their brass overboard. It occurs to us now, as we retell the tale, though, that we actually haven’t heard from either fellow since, making us wonder whether those instruments actually did float.

Maybe a hundred miles southwest of the Azores, we met the next and most bizarre addition to the family. We heard their vessel before we saw it, the fog being so thick. But when we finally got close enough to see (which was quite close due to the aforementioned fog), we couldn’t have dreamt a stranger sight. It was a German circus barge, full of exotic animals and their handlers. Weeks earlier, we learned, they had mutinied and thrown their cruel and miserly ringleader overboard, thus they were now adrift looking for a safe harbor. Completely lost and dangerously low on supplies (a situation we knew all too well), we gave them nautical advice and some rum. As if on cue, they broke out into a hearty and inspiring song of gratitude. Without their knowing, we captured their voices through our makeshift recording device for future use.

Near the treacherous waters around the Florida Keys, we saw another sight we’ll never forget. A ship was sinking, having run aground on a barely submerged reef. Though most of the passengers and even the captain had managed to escape, the orchestra, who had been hired to entertain the deep-pocketed guests, was still playing. We convinced their conductor, a Mr. William A. Robertson of Atlanta, Georgia, to allow his players to cut their requiem short and let us rescue them. He resisted for far longer than a man of his intellect should have, arguing that it was their duty to perform their entire repertoire and not abandon the ship. Ultimately, though, he relented, and in thanks for saving our lives, his ensemble played for us every morning and night for seven weeks. Naturally, we recorded them as well.

Back on dry land, we completed the band when we found Col. Mark Clark, who had served as martial drummer in the Spanish American War before he defected. Since then he had been wandering the Southwest like some bearded hermit hobo. Drawn by a distant heartbeat coming from the hills, we ascended the Great Sangre de Cristos only to find Mark living in a cave surrounded by various percussive instruments he’d crafted from gourds, bone, and animal skins. Needless to say, he slapped a few of them for us.

We learned the hard way that it is not musicians alone a record make. And so we were fortunate enough to make four other essential acquaintances after forming our waterborne symphony. The first was a man of mystery we met known to most as Oskar Winberg. He was sitting on the edge of the Baltic Sea on an island called Namdo near Stockholm. He sat atop a wild box of magic with the ability to hear and capture sound. He referred to it as a recording device. It actually could take the way the air moved out of our mouths and off the strings, wood, and brass of our instruments and turn it into an imprint on wax. He recorded a great deal of what you now hear.

The second person we stumbled upon walked the same streets of London we used to knock around on. He was a gentleman of infamy who answered to the name of Darren Heelis. He had a set of unusually keen ears and managed to take the soup of sounds we had created on the seas and across the globe and blend and mix it together into the sounds you now possess and hopefully find pleasing.

We found the third in the hills of Cornwall. We were lost, as per usual, and very dehydrated. We happened upon an old stone well. And as we were about to jump into it for the water we prayed was within, we heard a voice calling to us. Sitting beneath a giant oak tree not far off, an easel and a pail of cool water beside her, was a one Claire Chamberlain. She was sketching that very well, and after letting us empty her bucket, she added our likeness to her drawing. She then sold it to us for a song and traveled with us for a spell, during which time, she chronicled many of our goings on.

Finally, near the sole of Italy, in the village of Matera, we heard tell of a portraitist by the name of LaMothe. We searched for a Leonardo type of a man with an impressive beard and a coterie of apprentices in the royal court. As it turned out LaMothe worked alone, was actually a lady (by the name of Diana Prescott), and worked a plein air near the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean near Salento. We shared several bottles of the local vintage and convinced her to let us sit for her. She then worked a kind of witchcraft upon her paper and inked an image that resembles us more even than our actual faces do.

And so in the end, we created a strange global assemblage of like-minded adventurers. The notes carry some of our story but certainly not all of it. With few exceptions, modern recording technology has managed to erase the sound of the trade winds, the squawking of the gulls, our struggle for survival. You will have to use your imagination to taste the salt on our skin, to see the blood on the piano keys. But if you listen closely, you may hear the lapping of the waves and the snap of the wind in the mast. Almost as much as the beating of our hearts, that is responsible for the songs we wrote.

They say one should always write songs with equal measures of fear and love. That has certainly always been how we approached it. But if it is only love that you now hear, well then maybe we did our job right. We conquered the ocean like King David, sweet singer of Israel, slayed the great philistine. And in doing so, we wrestled with fear and held him beneath the waters until he breathed his last. We turned the shrieks of our struggle into these sweet harmonies.

So it is that we pass this music on to you. And like saying farewell to a trusty friend, or helping to push a neighboring boat out to sea, we must be content to let these melodies go. We are mighty proud of what you’re about to hear. In a sense, this is our life story you now hold. Take good care of it. We believe in these songs and in their power to bring a little more good into the world. We hope very much that they translate on dry land. If they do, share them with your loved ones and neighbors. Sing them in the marketplace and your sanctuary of worship. Or if you just have a little taste for adventure, a bit of the wanderlust, a flicker of gold in the eye, know that you are always invited to sail with us, to see and hear for yourself. You know where to find us. Join us upon the waves. Sway with us. Sing with us. Sail with us.

For we are and will always be,
George and Josiah