‘Our oral history’, Norma Waterson once said, ‘is what made us march. It’s what made us sing, it’s what made us happy, and it does deserve as much respect and dignity as any of those history books high on a shelf.’

The folk singer, who has died this week aged eighty-two, was an immense talent—a unique, soulful voice which breathed new life into every song she interpreted. Emerging in the British folk revival of the 1950s and 1960s, Norma was a tireless advocate of the traditional English music that was once the primary art form of the working class—the class from which she proudly came.

Born in Hull and brought up by her half-Irish Traveller grandmother after the premature deaths of her parents, Norma—along with her brother Mike and sister Lal—formed The Watersons. Among the folk revival scene, the siblings’ distinctive blend of harmonies would stand out, having learned their distinctive style from years of communal singing at home with relatives.

But despite this link to the bucolic past of traditional singing, The Watersons were anything but old-fashioned. The folk music scene onto which they emerged in 1965 was—in contrast to its reputation of bearded men and real ale—subversive and defiantly political.

Driven by figures like Ewan MacColl and A. L. Lloyd—two committed communists—what became known as the Second Folk Revival was a complex movement. Unlike the first, more narrowly focused and somewhat academic revival, it sought out and showcased both surviving musicians and singers from British industry, and the political songs of the industrial proletariat. Young musicians, most of whom were regulars at CND and anti-Vietnam War demonstrations, founded folk clubs and sang traditional songs, seeking an authenticity self-consciously free of American influence.

In this environment, The Watersons made an instant impact. Their sound was like nothing else on the scene. Their unaccompanied, starkly beautiful harmonies lent an eerie quality to their songs, which were mostly interpretations of traditional northern ballads, songs about the fishing industries of the east coast and the travelling life of Gypsies and Travellers. In a song dominated by the folk clubs of London, their northernness was unusual, the contrast between their beatnik clothes and the otherworldliness of their singing only adding to their distinctiveness.

The power of Norma’s voice is clear to anyone who has listened to her in song. By all accounts, her personality was just as formidable and warm. In a male-dominated music scene, she was fiercely independent and adventurous. Having been manager as well as performer for The Watersons (and driving their tour bus), she spent several years working as a DJ on the Caribbean island of Montserrat, making several critically acclaimed solo albums upon her return to England. She went on to record more albums with The Watersons, as well as with her husband, the legendary folk singer Martin Carthy, and her daughter, Eliza.

Following the peak of the folk revival, folk music’s reputation took a battering; for many, the term ‘English folk’ brought up dreary images of half-empty folk fests or Morris dancing. For a long time, it seemed that the radical potential of folk had ebbed away, dying along with the spirit of the 1960s. But recent years have seen a wave of younger people rediscovering folk—an interest surely not disconnected to the mass renewal of faith in a socialist future. It makes sense that precarious, indebted and insecure young people would crave communal, authentic experiences as a respite from the brutal realities of life; Corbyn’s Labour was one such experience, and the inclusive and subversive folk tradition is increasingly becoming another.

Norma Waterson was a champion for the idea of folk being a voice of the people. She spoke about the folk song’s role in communicating history, protest, and revolt. The songs she and her siblings sang are sadly still relevant today, notably those such as The Thirty-Foot Trailer and Moving On Song, which concerned the persecution of GRT communities. There are countless lessons from the past contained within folk songs—about strikes, inequality, land ownership, the injustice of war.

But for Norma, songs didn’t have to be explicitly political to express the traditions of the people. In a literary culture dictated by the ruling class, folk songs are the true literary canon of the poor, who found poetry in the everyday—falling in love, appreciating nature, taking pleasure in work. To give this cultural tradition the respect it deserves is in itself an act of defiance against the ruling class with its lack of respect for such sentiments.

Tragically, Covid-19 meant that towards the end of her life, Norma and her husband Martin Carthy were struggling financially due to Martin’s inability to gig and a lack of government support for musicians. Several days before Norma’s death, the family was forced to ask for financial help from well-wishers, to help get them through the winter months. The world is poorer without Norma, but her legacy will live on.