Dr Evil: “Gentlemen, it’s come to my attention that a breakaway Russian Republic called Kreplachistan will be transferring a nuclear warhead to the United Nations in a few days. Here’s the plan.  We get the warhead, and we hold the world ransom… (dramatic pause)… FOR ONE MILLION DOLLARS!”

Perhaps it’s the Robbie Williams’ effect, but the one million pound record deal seems increasingly to have a touch of Dr Evil’s futility to it. Cryogenically frozen in 1967, Austin Powers’ nemesis returns 30 years later to hold the world ransom for the biggest sum he can imagine, a comparatively trivial figure in the modern world. Today it seems that if you haven’t launched yourself on the internet for free, you’ll probably be signed for a contract worth (dramatic pause). Well exactly.

Following in the footsteps of the Salvation Army Band and Rock Choir, the latest offering, Fisherman’s Friends, have been cast (ho ho) into to the publicity machine. We will no doubt be hearing more on their sea shanties and bucolic Cornish lifestyle in the coming months. Normally I would be burying my head at this point, visions of Three Priests, Peter Andre and a decade of Simon Cowell stars convincing me that there is little to be gained from buying into the latest heavily sponsored talent. But the fisherman have grabbed my attention – which means either the machine is getting slicker, or (hopefully) that there is something about this group worth considering.

Group, actually, is something of a misnomer. The ten baritones should really be referred to as a choir. Yet the word, angelic and glorious, doesn’t seem to fit the workmen who like to sing with a pint of ale at their toes. Choir, for all its holy connotations, is actually derived from the word chorus (a polysemous derivative of a Greek dance). A chorós, like all dances, is something best done with someone, a thing to do in chorus.

Lesson over, but singing and dancing are comparable expressions in this context. Like singing, like music, dancing is usually paraded at the highest level as art – a balletic feast or a physical triumph. Form and physicality are what separate the greats from the not quite so goods – the precise placement of extended fingertips and toes the difference between Nureyev or anyone else.

However there is another expression of dancing, another raison d’être quite removed from power and beauty, found in the basic human need to belong. While a few will dance for art, practicing slavishly alone for hour upon hour, the majority of us dance unrehearsed, to unite and commune. That sense of fitting in was part of the cultish Saturday Night Fever – behind all its style, a story about love and friendship brokered through dance.

These dual inspirations for dancing, let’s call them professional and amateur, can also be found in music, and it was the chorus of St Ives’ men that reminded me of this. Dominated, as we are, by the art of music, the professionalism of the thing, it is easy to forget one of the great functions of music and of amateur song in particular – to be in chorus.

As a sports fan, there is ample opportunity to sing in unison, to bond through shared words and melodies. Chanting Swing Low, Sweet Chariot at Twickenham, or Glory, Glory Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane, is an opportunity to sing without concern of whether or not an audience is in thrall. In fact, the only consideration really is a) how loud is it? and b) is everyone else is joining in? Nevertheless, in those gatherings music (no matter how low-brow and amateur) still serves a purpose. Without it, with only conversation and pleasantries to offer, factions and isolation would surely make the spectator’s life a lonelier affair.

Today, the sporting arena is one of the few places we still use music as a social bond. What was once a staple of community life in the Welsh mining towns, or countless homes for an evening’s entertainment, has now been replaced by more comfortable distractions. But we do still play a national anthem (a piece designed entirely for union) and we do still sing at funerals. It is a strange request of the bereaving, yet by spluttering out our dreadful tuneless paeans when we’d all much rather have a good cry, we can at least be sure of offering comfort and support to each other, a temporary community that will rally and revive.

I’m sure the sea shanty singers (a tongue twisting job title for sure), are aware of music’s capability beyond art and performance. As childhood friends and neighbours who formed to learn songs of which many knew only random lines and verses, the choir appear to have found comfort in one of the most endangered species of music as union – the working song.

Although consigned largely to history (less 15 Men On The Dead Man’s Chest should suddenly become part of the P&O training programme) these songs still have a relevance. Not in the words and melodies or skill required to perform them (unfortunately for us the audience) but rather in the performance – to ten men to whom the act of singing means friendship, union and a chance to bond. Their greatness, to us and their record label, will no doubt be measured in returns on their Dr Evil-esque reward, but I am sure that for the chorus of lifelong friends who sang together long before we, the congregation, arrived, the bill has already been paid.

A song and dance worth sharing

Whilst on the subject of things dance; a tip-off worth sharing. On a recent trip to Paris I was encouraged to visit the Opéra at Bastille. The opening night of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, with choreography by the great Nureyev himself, would normally be beyond this writer’s means but a little local knowledge can go a long way. By queuing outside the ground floor entrance at 5pm I was one of 50 discounted admissions at 5 Euros a piece that are given away for every show.

If there is a more lyrical piece of music than Tchaikovsky’s ballet, I have heard not heard it. To have concession for such an event, and memories to keep forever, a tribute to French priorities. With all planned ‘culture’ funds heading towards the deserving Olympic committee for the next two years, I hope the keepers of the purse remember that some things (even if they are not made such a song and dance of as the Games) are worth sharing with all people – not just those who can afford to luxuriate in art.