A few weeks ago I went to the Greystones – the Wheatsheaf to older residents of the appropriately named High Storrs area of Sheffield – to see a band I’d never heard of. My wife, youngest daughter and son came along. It seemed a good idea. My dad sang at the Wheatsheaf ‘back in the day’. He used to tell a story about Martin Carthy leaning over to him from the front row after he’d finished a song and, bracing himself modestly for plaudits from folk royalty, was somewhat deflated as the great man made a subtle but no doubt significant adjustment to his lower E string.