Without the tremendous influence of guitarist and vocalist Martin Carthy, England’s folk scene would be a far different place. Carthy’s singular ability to infuse traditional songs from the British Isles with new tunes, additional lyrics, and virtuoso acoustic guitar work played a major role in propelling the ’60s U.K. folk revival forward, and he has remained a pillar of the ongoing movement since that time, inspiring several generations of followers.

Carthy’s latest CD, Waiting for Angels [Topic], is one of his finest to date. A collection of solo and ensemble tracks that further mines the endlessly rich reserves of traditional British music, the disc finds Carthy in prime form, with his riveting guitar work and trademark vocal delivery ebbing and flowing according to the drama of each song’s lyrics, rather than strictly adhering to its musical meter.

Carthy is equally well known for his collaborations as he is for his solo recordings and performances. During the late ’60s, he recorded a series of groundbreaking duo albums with fiddler Dave Swarbrick, and then shifted gears in 1970 to join an early line-up of pioneering folk-rock group Steeleye Span—a role that saw him briefly take up electric guitar. He married British vocalist Norma Waterson in 1972, and became a member of her renowned family folksinging ensemble, the Watersons. Carthy also joined Brass Monkey in the ’70s—an inventive group that explores traditional music with trumpets, trombones, squeezeboxes, percussion, and guitar—and in the late ’80s he rekindled his partnership with Swarbrick. He and his wife formed Waterson:Carthy in the ’90s, a trio that includes their daughter Eliza, a prodigious fiddler and vocalist. The group continues the Watersons’ long tradition of exploring traditional music within the unique chemistry of a family outfit.

In 2003, Martin Guitars offered a major testament to his six-string prowess by issuing the 000-18MC Martin Carthy Signature Model. Among the instrument’s several atypical modifications is a zero fret below the nut that results in more accurate first-position intonation, and helps facilitate dropped tunings, such as Carthy’s long-standing favorite: C, G, C, D, G, A (low to high).

Recent years have seen other honors bestowed on Carthy as well. He was named a Member of the Order of the British Empire for his services to English folk music, as well as being the subject of tribute concerts, documentaries, and boxed sets. In a rare example of justice in the music industry, it’s possible that Carthy’s profile has never been higher.

Tell me how you initially encountered traditional music.

I first came across it as an afterthought through skiffle, American railroad songs, and work songs. It dawned on me that some of those songs had British Isles antecedents, so I investigated that and became involved in folk music. The only folk songbooks available at that time were things like the Burl Ives books, which I found interesting. I also heard some recordings and found them intriguing and odd. Then I saw a singer named Sam Larner at a pub in 1958, when I was 17. He was a fisherman from Great Yarmouth on the east coast of England. I’d never heard music like that in my life. Some of it made no sense at all, but it had to be right because the bloke would keep hitting the same note at the end of the tunes. He was a wonderful performer and I walked away from that with my head spinning.

There’s a social aspect to this as well. After World War II, it took a hell of a long time for things like clothes, vegetables, and meat to come off ration. In those days, people wore either gray or black, and their shoes were either brown or black. When I first heard “Blue Suede Shoes,” I thought, “Come on. There’s no such thing.” It was from a fantasy world like Alice in Wonderland. What happened after skiffle is that tens of thousands of kids in England started making music at home. Some of these people became jazz or blues players, rock and rollers, folkies, and classical musicians—but they all started with skiffle. The whole thing was opening up culturally, like a whopping flower just blooming. For me, this 17-year-old, traditional music was wildly different from anything I had heard before. It took me a long time to absorb, but also ensured I would be looking to that area of music for the rest of my life.

Dave Swarbrick’s musical philosophies relating to traditional music greatly influenced you. What are the more important ideas you gleaned from him?

When we first started working together, I had never played dance tunes. Of course, my first reaction to playing them was, “I’ve got to learn them exactly right.” So, on a couple of occasions I’d find a tune and teach it to him and the first thing he’d do is change it. I would protest and say, “You can’t do that. That’s not how the tune goes.” His reaction in 1966 would be, “What you’ve got to understand is that a tune is like a coat hanger on which you hang your variations.” Much later I finally understood that a song isn’t gospel. You have the right and sometimes the duty to mess with it. One of the other things he said to me, which I’ll say to anyone who’ll listen is, “You can do anything to music. It really doesn’t mind.”

You’ve sometimes extended that philosophy into rearranging the same song in several different ways.

One of the great things about doing this music is that you can always go back to old material and rework it. There are songs in my repertoire I’ve been doing for well over 40 years. With some of the bigger songs, the longer you know them, the better you understand them, and the better you’re going to perform them. My voice is not nearly as well equipped as it was 30 years ago, but I think I’m a better singer now. That comes from understanding the songs and letting them reveal themselves to you over the years, which they do. These songs don’t give up all their secrets at once.

Do you typically record your guitar playing and vocals simultaneously?

Yes. I like to record everything at once because these are narrative songs. You’re telling a story and the guitar is integral to that communication. It’s an intuitive, emotional thing. But I also recognize that recording is entirely different from performing live, and that you can play all kinds of games in the studio—so why not? I don’t feel bound by rules. There are those who say you should do exactly what you do live in the studio, but I prefer to go in with an open mind.

What attracted you to the C, G, C, D, G, A tuning?

When I started doing traditional music, I became very interested in other tunings because I felt a normally tuned guitar wouldn’t do the job. I met some Americans who played old timey music, and their banjo tunings and how guitar players dealt with them fascinated me. I started messing around with some of the tunings the banjo players were using on the guitar, and eventually arrived at the tuning I use now. The person that made the big difference was Davey Graham, the inventor of the DADGAD tuning. Everyone in my scene flocked to DADGAD initially, but I found it unsatisfactory and evolved away from it. I felt English music was more melody-driven than harmony-driven, and I wanted to play in a tuning in which you could concentrate on the melody and have the harmony appear as you played, rather than making up harmonies that would encompass the tune. This is the direction I’ve been going ever since. I can’t describe it in more detail because I’m not a trained musician. I play something until it sounds right and when it does, that’s where it stays.

How did it feel to have Martin issue a signature guitar for you?

It was absolutely astonishing. My reaction was, “Gulp!” It’s a fabulous honor. Dick Boak at Martin asked me what I’d like on it and I initially said, “I’d like a slightly wider fretboard, a split saddle, and a zero fret.” They told me the slightly wider fretboard was taken care of because they’d gone back to the original wider neck they used on the 000-18 during the 1930s. I’ve played some of those early Martins and the fretboard is truly lovely up there at the top on the dusty end. Dick didn’t like the idea of the split saddle, though. He said, “Most people who buy your guitar will probably tune it normally, rather than the way you do,” and I accepted that. They initially weren’t enamored by the idea of the zero fret either, probably because they had never done one before. I defended that and told Dick about the value in terms of the response and speed it offers. He agreed that if it was going to be a signature model that it should have the one major thing that made my guitar distinctive, so they chose to do it. It’s a wonderful, beautiful guitar and I’m very grateful to them. They really have done me proud. I use the guitar all the time.

You believe musicians have a responsibility to tell compelling stories and get the truth out there. How good a job do you think the current generation of songwriters is doing?

It depends on the songwriter, but there are a lot of “me” generation writers who I don’t find very interesting. Writing songs has become the thing to do for people, but there aren’t that many good songwriters around. There never have been in all honesty. There’ve been a lot of good journeymen workers, but when it comes to good songwriting, that’s a real rarity. The trouble with the “me, me, me” songwriters—some of whom are extremely good musicians—is that they have fairly limited horizons when it comes to writing and crafting something interesting. I think it’s something that takes time. For instance, Richard Thompson was interesting when he was 20, but fascinating by the time he was 35. It’s a craft.

These days, it seems many younger musicians are determined to jump out of the gates as consummate songwriters, arrangers, and singers.

Good luck to them. I think they’re going to find out that’s not the way it works. It may be a shock when they hit the floor with a bump. When I was 20, I thought people who were 30 were far too old and ought to be getting out of it. When I was 30, I thought the people who were 60 ought to maybe have taken a proper job. But as I got older, I began to understand the music a little more and realize that music is a thing for life. The more I came to understand music, the more there was to learn. It’s incredibly sustaining and very exciting.

There’s been a renaissance of interest in your work in recent times. What do you make of the increased attention you’re receiving?

There’s been an interest in English music because of the interest in world music. People are saying, “Hang on a minute. We’re part of the world. Maybe we’ve got some music too.” So, there’s a lot of young people taking an interest and taking it up and doing it. It makes me really glad, but I don’t feel particularly adored. I’m just an old git and people are very nice to old gits. I still enjoy playing and I do a good gig, but there’s a kind of respect you get anyway, if you know what I mean. It’s very nice.

How have you evolved as a guitarist over the last 40 years?

Overall, I think my guitar playing has improved enormously. I couldn’t be more grateful to the folk club scene in England for indulging me for more than 40 years while I’ve walked up blind alleys, fallen flat on my face, made dreadful noises, and then come back to try to unpick the knots and start again. I’m just in awe that ordinary people made up this fabulous music out of thin air and that I’ve learned over the years how to get the guitar to accommodate some of it. It’s really been a journey of discovery and it’s not over yet. •