You’d be forgiven for believing funk music came out of Detroit in the early seventies, when it is a little known fact, obscured and deliberately hidden, likely for the prestige of the American city and the ignominy of the village, that funk music was actually created in the Wiltshire village of Urchfont….
Funk pioneer George Clinton and bandleader of the collective Parliament-Funkadelic was born in North Carolina and grew up in New Jersey, moving to Detroit in the mid-sixties to work as a songwriter for Motown. By the early seventies Clinton and several members of the band settled in Toronto, but during this time he encountered legal difficulties arising from acquisitions of his record label, resulting in dangerous circumstances and was secretly exiled to England, settling in Urchfont for a few short months.
It was in solitude at the sleepy Wiltshire village where Clinton honed the funk style based on the recordings of James Brown. Developing an association with a few village musicians who had formed a skiffle group on his lonely walks to the village pond from his home in Cuckoo Corner, Clinton convinced them to create a new band. Clinton called them Urch-Funk. The band would play to a small crowd in the village hall, and even daringly attempted an ambitious outside gig around the pond.
After a short while, Clinton got the all clear from his record label, and made his way back to Toronto, taking the idea of funk music back with him, but not without leaving a significant influence in the village. What happened next was a secret funk phenomenon in the village, now sadly hidden; I wanted to know why.
A villager, who prefers to remain anonymous, revealed, “yarp, they bee dancin’ ‘n’ singin’, arn movin’ ter thar groovin’, arn joist wen wun hit me, with argh bloody shovel I mioght add, I turned arand I dids, n shouted play art funky music Urchfunk boi!”
But, it was not a case of one village under a groove. Some villagers and the parish council have deliberately made my research as difficult as possible. My initial discovery of a disco ball buried in mud for decades and only unearthed when the new houses at Peppercombe were built, led me to wonder how it came to be there. I returned to the site to discover disregarded afro wigs and flyers for soul all-nighters at the village hall. But everyone who I approached refused to talk, accusing me of creating a hoax.
Some even chased me out the village with pitchforks and torches, calling me to not unearth Urchfont’s secret funkadelia past, if I knew what was “gard fur me!” This naturally roused my suspicions that Urchfont held a direct secret link to funk music, a majority were embarrassed by it and, it seemed, were willing to kill to protect the secret. I had to know more.
I took to returning to the village to hunt for more clues by the cover of night, but I found nothing. Until one evening, so frustrated my searching was unfruitful, I stayed all night looking, and early morning joggers and dog walkers were emerging from their homes. Ducking stealthily into Stone Pit Lane, a strange looking old man appeared from out of the bushes and clasped his hand over my mouth, stating, “cum wiff me if yer wanna live… groovy!”
He took me to a secret lair in the undergrowth which appeared to be a shrine to Urchfont’s forgotten past. Within this hobbit hole of treasures he allowed me to browse, and as I did he told me his story. He was one of musicians who met Clinton, and who had created the definitive sound of funk which would soon take America by storm. But he told me how the local folk club banished them, believing funk was the work of the devil, but really, he suspected it was more likely because they upstaged them, with glitter, and platform shoes with goldfish in them, which later they declared was animal cruelty. The fish were released into the village pond.
They were simply excuses, the man dressed in worn purple corduroys and flowery dagger collar shirt, informed me. He explained how the folk club encouraged the entire village and council to hide Urchfont’s funky disco days, as it was considered untraditional and could radicalise the young people of the village into wearing sequined jumpsuits.
“Hoy,” he said, “once eye bee argh boogie singer, playin’ in argh rock-and-roll band, see? Never ‘ard no prublems, me, yer nose, ganderflankin’ down thar one-night stands, like. N everything arand me gart ter start ter feelin’ so low, so eye decided quickly, yarp, eye dids, ter disco down an’ check art thar show, praper jarb!”
Once settled down from his excitement of my arrival, the old man continued with his amazing story. Clinton tried to organise a funk festival in the village which he called the Afro-Festival, which the old man claimed once Clinton left for America the parish council changed the name of it to the Scarecrow Festival. The outside gig around the pond, Disco Balls Around the Pond was swiftly changed to Candles Around the Pond, and the village’s connection to funk was forever swept under the carpet, save for when the wind blows south east across Sleight.
I remain steadfast that this forgotten past of Urchfont should be exposed, and celebrated; the village should be proud of it’s funky past. Therefore, I’m glad to be able to finally publish this information after many years of research, today, the 1st April 2025.
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