Craig Fortnam is by no means a stranger to the Buds & Spawn stage, we’ve hosted him under his Arch Garrison moniker and playing his solo work. But to have him bringing his wonderful chamber ensemble, North Sea Radio Orchestra, to Sheffield is a rare, rare treat indeed. Aitch Nicol caught up with him in the run up to their performance at the University of Sheffield Drama Studio on Sunday 8th June 25.
I’m wondering what is your earliest musical memory?
Probably when I was really little. I must have been, like, four or five or something. We lived in a in a really old cottage in a village near Didcot in Oxfordshire. I would go to bed, and my Dad would be listening to classical music in the room under my bedroom. It was a really old cottage, and I could see into the room underneath, through the gaps in the floorboards. Dad would listen to Elgar and Vaughan Williams and stuff like that. And the light and the sound of that music, coming up through the floorboards, was quite amazing. I’d lean over the bed and look at this light coming up from the lounge and the music coming with it. It was quite a powerful experience. I remember it making me feel all warm and safe. I always wonder whether that’s when it all started. I think it must have given me something I needed at the time.
And then there’s the first Gryphon album. They were sort of medieval musicians, who ended up doing quite proggy stuff in the seventies. All crumhorns and bassoons, acoustic guitar and recorders. That first Gryphon album was the only album we had in my house that wasn’t classical so I listened to that a lot – it’s probably one of the most influential musical things for me. And I suppose also a lot of the kids’ music at that time, a lot of children’s TV music in the seventies was all acoustic, guitars, often a lot of bassoon for some reason. I don’t know why the bassoon was particularly fashionable then. But it was like chamber music, a lot of it. Small ensembles. The odd synthesizer in there, but lots of acoustic instruments.
My mum was a violin and piano teacher and my Dad loved music but it wasn’t a thing for me at that time. I did have piano lessons with my grandmother when I was little, so I was very fortunate. I was probably about six or seven, learning piano and learning to read music. I never really thought of music as something you could do. That never really occurred to me. I was much more into football. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that music really became a big thing for me.
Do you remember why your attitude to music changed?
I was nine or ten – we’d moved to London by this point. I think I had a Boomtown Rats record, and I was really to ABBA, maybe some ELO. But then my older brother came home from school with Overkill by Motorhead and there was something about it. I’m not a massive fan of that album now, but I just thought, these guys aren’t dicking around. This isn’t entertainment. This is serious shit. Just the sound of it, the cover, the photos on the back, Lemmy… it was like, this is something else. And I think that’s when I started going off sport and getting into music.
I got really into rock – metal, Sabbath, all those sort of bands. I was a real rock kid, a head banger. Music became a way of life and a tribal thing – it becomes your identity. Then I got into proggy stuff like Genesis. Also by that time I had a band, heavily influenced by Hawkwind.
So music had changed for you, to something serious, part of your identity – what did you do with that realisation?
Well, nothing really. I was learning classical guitar – I had a really good teacher. It was the one thing I worked hard at, unlike school where I just coasted a bit, tried to keep my head down and avoid anybody noticing me, really. School is a bit like being in prison or something. But the guitar was the thing. I really practiced. I didn’t have to be told. I was really into it. I’d written a few riffs, but I didn’t get into writing at all until I heard Cardiacs.
We’d moved to Kingston, which is where Cardiacs are from. I met Bill (William D Drake) when I was 16 and by then I was a massive fan; then I started going to see Cardiacs, and that’s when I started wanting to write music. I don’t know why. It just made me think I wanted to have a go at that. And even then, it wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life. It’s just I wanted to try and write tunes. I heard a lot of things that I already liked in their music. When I was learning classical guitar, the stuff I liked the most was renaissance lute pieces, like John Dowland and those sort of things. When I heard Cardiacs, I thought, “oh, it sounds like John Dowland”, but punkier and more shouty.
So I was lucky – I was in the same town, I’d gone and see them so many times, I’d got to know them all. We became friends. And that urge to write music, well I’d fucked up all my A levels, and I didn’t really know what to do so I decided to try for music college because then if I wanted to write something, I’d have access to musicians who could play it. I was quite the hippie at the time so that’s probably why I went to Dartington College Of Arts. It had quite a hippie reputation back in the day – this arts college on top of a hill in Devon. By that time I wanted to be Stravinsky…..
I mean, I’d always loved Stravinsky and composers like that, so by the time I was 17 or 18, I think I probably wanted to be a composer with a capital ‘C’. Cardiacs were the catalyst for that really. But my problem was that Tim (Smith)‘s music was such a strong influence, I found it very difficult writing music that didn’t just sound like crap Cardiacs. It took me about ten years really to figure out a way of having my own voice – it took me quite a long time to figure out how to accommodate that influence.
How did you manage that?
Well, I moved back to London – I knew a lot of jazz musicians there, so I’d play a lot of jazz in restaurants to earn money. I wasn’t very good at it, but I was learning, focusing on trying to be a composer. I was writing contemporary classical music and trying to get pieces performed. And what I was writing, well it was pretty crap. I don’t think there’s anything from my twenties that was any good. I didn’t know what I wanted. I sort of knew what chords and tunes I like, but I didn’t know how to realise what I wanted. Then I hooked back up with Bill Drake. Me and Bill were both living in Tooting at the time – I went down to his house, and he said,
“I’m doing this thing (Lake Of Puppies) with this singer, Sharron (Saddington, later Fortnam). You should play guitar.”
So I went to hear them rehearse for the first time, and my jaw dropped open. It was so amazing. And I thought, “Oh, this is what I want to do!” It had all the influences that I was talking about, but it was chamber music. It was so beautiful.
And that that was a big springboard for me – I found my voice, through doing Lake of Puppies. North Sea Radio Orchestra was a bit of like Lake of Puppies really. So it’s funny. It was really Tim (Smith) and Bill (Drake) who were both big figures for me, on an accidental journey. I was very lucky. I was really glad my parents moved to Kingston. I do wonder how different my life would have been if we’d moved somewhere else, and I’d never really heard that stuff. Maybe I would have been an archaeologist – that was the other thing I was into.
Some synchronicity, some tapping into musical history then?
I do like that sort of thing – you can do that with music. I’ve sort of connected with a group of musicians and a scene, and it’s in a historical context. It’s really interesting, English music, through the sixties and how bands form, how things fit with each other.
The brass bands to acid house map? (Jeremy Deller, The History of the World, 1998). It’s those intangible networks of influence, isn’t it, everyone being affected by or connecting with everyone else, taking a piece of that experience with them when they move on…
Definitely about the people, actually. But it’s funny because back in the day, I guess, in the nineties, when I was doing Lake of Puppies, and then Sharron and I did Shrubbies, there was Richard and James (Larcombe) doing Stars in Battledress. Kavus (Torabi) was doing The Monsoon Bassoon. There were all these bands. And we were all kind of floating around Cardiacs gigs, doing support for them. We’d do gigs with each other on the London toilet circuit; Dublin Castle, The Monarch. And we were a little scene then. We’d all just go to each other’s gigs, basically. Tim (Smith) would be doing the sound – it was just a nice little crowd of us doing stuff together. But we’ve all kept going. That’s the amazing thing. And as we’ve kept going, more and more musicians have become part of it. And gradually, and I mean, god, really gradually, its grown. There are Lost Crowns (Richard Larcombe), Bill (Drake) is about to release new records, there’s loads of stuff going on, and it’s gradually spreading. People all over the world are buying this stuff. I mean, not loads of people, but we’re part of a scene. And that feels really important, particularly these days, because how do you find an audience when there’s 2,000 records being released every month. The sheer volume of releases is just insane. But to be part of a wider scene, well that’s a blessing, People tend to get into the whole scene.
And I’ve never really wanted to do anything else really. I never thought I wanted to be a musician. I just became one. Maybe it’s because I don’t, or can’t, apply myself to anything else with that much seriousness? In my mind, it’s why I’m here on the planet, it’s to make records, to make music. That’s how I see myself. And if I couldn’t do that, I just think, well, I’d just be a waste of space. And everything would nosedive. It’d be all out of balance. It’d be grim. There’s a feeling that we’re supposed to choose the things that we end up doing. I never had to do that, luckily. I mean, I was fortunate, falling into music, because it naturally feels like the right thing to do. I mean, it’s also a double-edged sword – it’s rather thankless, never ending, a bit like a prison you’ve voluntarily walked into. I don’t earn much money. It’s hard work, blah blah blah. And it’s quite stressful at times. But it’s amazing as well. I’ve never had to think, “oh, what am I gonna do with my life”, which is great. But then sometimes I think, “oh, I wish I’d have just been an archaeologist”. Perhaps it would have been easier, and I’d be more content or something. Because when you’re doing music, or anything creative like that…you’re constantly striving for this unknown thing, that you can’t even put into words. It’s bizarre.
That’s the nature of humanity isn’t it? Striving to improve, reaching for some indefinable aim? Possibly?
Right there, ain’t it just. It’s very self indulgent, though, being a creative person. I’ll be stressing and angsting over something I’m working on that isn’t going very well. I’ll be in a right grump. But I guess it has to be self-indulgent. That’s what I don’t understand sometimes when you read reviews saying that this music is really self-indulgent. It has to be, doesn’t it? Otherwise it’s just…
Self-indulgence to me implies good – indulging the self to be able to express it. Because then it’s got soul.
Well, I mean, you’ve got to become self-obsessed and navel gazing a little bit to do it in the first place. Because it is, it’s chucking a part of your soul out there, really. And really, it’s too late now to change horses. This is what I am, and it’s fine.
You’ve you have multiple projects that have been loosely musically related, but really different in their vibe. Do you feel that’s different parts of your personality, different parts of your identity coming out, based on being driven to make music but doing it with different people?
No. I don’t. Because to me, it’s all the same thing. It’s just wearing different clothes. So, North Sea Radio Orchestra is chamber music; it’s got a certain sound. Whereas if I do an Arch Garrison song, it’s got a different style, but all the actual chords, the actual ingredients of it, they’re the same. I have my own thing that I like to do, and that doesn’t really change. It’s just that it sounds a bit different because of the nature of the project. I’ve written things, and I think, “oh, that’s gonna be an Arch Garrison song”, and it ends up being a North Sea Radio Orchestra song. I don’t I always know how it will turn out, how it will be played. I write the same material, it’s just different stylistically or it has different instruments on it.
If you listen to Richard (Larcombe)’s music or Bill (Drake)’s music or Kavus (Torabi)’s… it all has a strong individual sound. You can hear it and know it’s them. And that’s what you want – the voice – your own, original voice. There’s no point doing it to sound like somebody else, I don’t think. And I’m happy with that. I don’t want to constantly be trying to completely change what I do. It’s more that you’re trying to perfect something, but in your own voice, in your own style. Every song is another attempt to try and write something better.
How do you know when it’s done? When do you stop trying to make it better?
When I can’t face working on it anymore, basically. Nothing has to be perfect – I quite like things not being perfect. I mean, I spend a lot of time checking everything to get it exactly how I want it. But certain things might sound a bit scruffy and I’ll leave it in.
Do you have complete control then, with the music you write and perform, or do you engage everyone else in the creative process?
Well I did an album in Italy with a French recorder player. I prepared a lot of the material, and then we went to Italy and recorded it, in a week or something. It was how people used to do it – you go to a studio and you make a record. That’s it, done. And I really enjoyed that, because I often spend two years at home in my studio, alone, working on an album, and then it’s a bit, well you can do your own head in. It was a very refreshing change to go somewhere and just do it the old-fashioned way, rather than months and months of tinkering.
I’d really like to do a North Sea Radio Orchestra album like that. I mean, spending my time at home on my own working on my music – it means I do have ultimate control, but it would be fun to try it another way. If you go into a studio with other musicians, you compromise more, but it’s less time in your own head. At the moment, I write the songs, and all the parts, then go around people’s houses, and record them. Then I just assemble it all at home, and I mix it all. I do it all myself, which is great because as I say, I think you have complete control. But you end up being a bit fed up of it.
But then again, it’s making worlds – a bit like playing in a sandpit, you can do what you want and you can move things around. That’s what Special Powers is (the new North Sea Radio Orchestra album) – if you’re a musician or a painter or whatever, you create things that didn’t exist before, and if people like them it becomes a real thing to them. A painting or a song or an album you really love – it’s a real actual thing in your life, and it’s important. It’s like having a special power, being able to create that thing.
I guess Cardiacs had that kind of impact on you? Tim Smith using his special powers?
Cardiacs started it all for me. I think because Tim (Smith) was so open in what he put into his music, and he was trying to save himself, I think, when he was doing it, like everybody does really. People respond to that. And a lot of Cardiacs fans, they’ve got something they need; something that they need to work out. And that’s why they latch onto that music. And I think that’s what I’m doing with my music. My older brother was schizophrenic – I’ve written a lot of songs about that – it’s a real tragedy in my family, and it’s something I’m still trying to work through. I’m trying to make things better for myself through the music I write. It’s like a balm. And I think the people who like my music might pick up on that.
You were part of the ensemble of musicians that blew us all away by performing as Cardiacs (or as near as damn it!) for the Sing To Tim tribute gigs last year. What was it like to learn all those songs? Which song was the hardest?
Well it was amazing to do it. I mean, I knew all the songs. A lot of them I knew really, really well, from back in the day. I knew them all, but I didn’t know how to play them. I knew the structure – but the hardest thing was, well, I’m not actually a trained percussionist or anything. So I was playing vibes and glockenspiel, and I had to physically think, right, I have to start this bit with that hand because if I start with the wrong hand, then it fucks me up. So I had to really knuckle down and just learn how to play a lot of that stuff. I don’t know what was the hardest song though. As Cold As Can Be In An English Sea maybe.
There’s a lot of back and forth on and off the keyboards, but it was such fun. I mean, god. It was amazing. It’s sort of incredible really, how they’ve been in my life constantly. When we first moved to Kingston, I remember walking into town and seeing one of those DIY flyers, when bands used to photocopy them and paste them onto lampposts. I saw a Cardiac Arrest poster with the little man and the house logo and it stuck in my head. And then, about five or six years later, I remember hearing Cardiacs and thinking, oh, it’s them! Then I was in the mosh pit, about 16yrs old. I became good friends with them all. And then after all that time, to play that stuff, I mean, what a privilege. It’s been an amazing thread through my life. And like I said, we’re all still doing it, and that’s the lovely thing. Richard and Kavus and Bill and me and others, Stephen EvEns...making such awesome stuff. I think it’s because we all knew Tim (Smith). He’d come to our gigs. He set such a high bar and I think we were all thinking “we can’t be shit”.
So you’re bringing the North Sea Radio Orchestra to Sheffield in June. Where does the name come from?
I was thinking about getting a chamber music type group together, when Lake of Puppies and Shrubbies were over, but I was fed up with playing in pubs. In Shrubbies, there’s quite a few quiet bits. You’d be playing those, then you’d hear everybody talking. We’d spend all that time rehearsing and people would just be talking through it, standing there with a pint chatting away. And, obviously, it’s up to us to shut the audience up, but I just got a bit fed up with that. So I thought it would be good to play somewhere different, like a church or something, where people sit down, and then they won’t talk.
So we got some musicians together, and because Sharron (Fortnam) was from Hull, I was thinking something North Sea related might be quite good. We considered North Sea Ensemble, but it sounded a bit ‘poncey’. I’d heard this sort of Danish radio orchestra, and I was thinking that radio orchestra sounded good, a bit like it could be many different things – like a radio station. And I remember we were sitting out in the pub with Tim (Smith), talking through ideas – like, ‘collective’, ‘ensemble’, but then ‘radio orchestra’ stuck. I just wanted it to have an interesting name, that didn’t sound too up its own arse basically.
When we started in 2002, nobody was really doing what we were doing. We got a fair bit of attention when we released the first two or three records, which was amazing. However we never had any label interest so we’ve always done everything ourselves. And one point we were like a 20 piece band and chorus – we had about eight or nine people singing. People like Bill, Kavus, Mel from Sidi Bou Said…
Because we had a 20 piece band, we basically just played in London all the time. We started off just playing in churches in the City of London, in old Londonium. There are these amazing churches tucked away down little alleys, people would come down these alleys to find us playing in dusty old churches. It was really good. I think that was probably why people were interested initially, because it was this new thing. But it’s unsustainable, to do that for a long time without any kind of funding or label support. You hear horror stories about people who get signed to labels – getting stuck in terrible arrangements. You just don’t know what’s for best, do you?
I’ve made over 20 records now. It’s a lot of recordings, and I’m really proud of that. And that’s what it’s all about, really, for somebody like me, who sells records all over the world but not a huge amount. I’ve got a body of work. And if somebody does discover what I do, they’ll tend to end up buying a lot of it, which is great. People can look at what you’re doing and say, well, this guy is not dicking around. If I knew I was going to die tomorrow, I’d think, “Well, I haven’t wasted my time.” That’s as important as success maybe. I don’t know.
Well, that is success isn’t it?
I mean, it’s not what I wanted when I first set out, in terms of the number of records I sell or successful concerts, in terms of who might have heard of me. I wanted more. And in that sense, I can think “Well, you failed. That’s not what you set out to do”. But on the other hand, I did, ultimately, set out to make good music. And I think I’ve done that. And I wanted to be a composer. I wanted to be seen as a composer. And I think I’ve done that too. So I’ve succeeded. Right? And there’s a danger of reaching the end of your life and thinking, “Oh, shit. I thought I was a failure all my life, but, actually, I was succeeding all the time, and I never realised”. I don’t want to look back and think, “You dickhead. You spent all that time beating yourself up.” So I sort of have to tell myself not to get too down about not selling loads of records or whatever, tell myself “You’re doing it, you’re succeeding”.
Lovely. Thanks very much Craig. We’ll see you in June in Sheffield.
Find out more about North Sea Radio Orchestra here:
northsearadioorchestra.bandcamp.com
https://www.facebook.com/northsearadioorchestra
North Sea Radio Orchestra will be performing for us at the University of Sheffield Drama Studio on Sunday 8th June 2025 from 5pm (note the early start!), with support from William D Drake.
Tickets £27.50 (£15 low / no waged) including booking fees.
All ages welcome. Free carer tickets available on request.