Bearded goes boldly fifteenth, a glorious mudfest for the committed, celebrating the myriad tribes of Albion.
Yes, it was muddy, courtesy the weeks of weather in the lead up, with no let up until most had already been towed in to their sodden fields. Yes, you read that right; towed in, with Peak 4×4 on full alert over the whole weekend, tugging wheels out of the trenches and cars out of sludgy ruts. Getting out again, well, no-one dared even imagine, that thought on hold for five days. For once, the tented could feel smug, if ever so slightly and footwear willing. I’ll try, and fail, to make this the only meteorological mention, as there was, actually, a whole lot else besides.
WEDNESDAY:
I elected the for Wednesday soft opening, a low key extra day, as much to take the edge off the queues that have previously beset the roads into the Catton Estate, beleaguered by narrow bridges and weight restrictions. Not a whole lot happening, with music on only two of the seven or eight stages, but an ideal taster. Even, sorry, if it was still raining.
Tent duly up it was an explore, the immediate and striking realisation that, my, Baby, haven’t you grown! My first return since covid, it seems near twice the size, if still all within a reasonable count of furlongs. It’s true, the underfoot conditions required some jiggery pokery: the popular outdoor Woodland stage was still a bog, necessitating a shift to the Convoy Cabaret marquee. In truth, all I managed was the estimable duo of Amy Thatcher and Francesca Knowles, with their accordion and drums fusion of folk, drum ‘n’ bass, jazz and ambient techno. As happy at jazz festivals as folk festivals, here they were an inspired choice, just on the right side of steam punk noise attack for this never more Mad Max road warrior jamboree. Pedals aplenty, and synths adding to and modifying the sonic output, most of the melodies came from Thatcher, more often seen in Kathryn Tickell’s band. If she was grabbing the ears, all eyes were on Knowles, piledriving about her kit with gleeful echo-drenched precision.
More wandering meant I got a bit of a backstory on Big Ed, the green man figure who guards the entrance between two sides the festival area, and the site of what seems to be a 24/24 outside disco, running a gamut of styles and genres, dependent on the time of day or night. Big Ed was constructed by Rollo and Piers of Pyrite Creative, who similarly construct their creations at Green Man, Shambala, Blissfields, Bestival and many more. I said I’d give ’em a shout; here it is, and here he is!
THURSDAY:
Another quiet-ish day, again with two stages. Thursday had always been the day for early arrivals, the Wednesday additional meaning for busier thoroughfares and bars, not least as not all the traders were up and running. Bars were good and prices fair, for a festival, usually around £6 to £6.50 a pint, in plastic glasses, needing a purchase first time around. Most punters know and plan for this, and bring their trophies from elsewhere. I spotted quite a few, suggesting these could, or should, be the new T shirt experience.
Tarantism, in their various guises, are Bearded regulars, pushing their Celtic ska punk dub dance with as much foot on the throttle as ever, and since the festival first opened bleary eyes, in an earlier setting. Made, designed and conceived for festivals, by festival goers, they have become an essential on the margins and are as much a part of the BT family as anyone has a right to be. Their set concluded, it was off to the fabled Pallet stage, BT’s Pyramid, the reason for the name lost in the mists, outside and with an extensive view of the main arena, for two recommended acts.
First up at the Pallet were Battlesnake, a seven piece from Australia. Tongue-in-cheek hardcore metal, their MO and image is all low budget gorecore, should that term not already be in existence. In possibly not real chainmail, they cavort and cosplay in a way that makes the Hives seem tame, the essential ingredient being that they can play really well, for all the devil’s horn hand signage and open mouth protruding tongues. Sample song title, I Am The Vomit says perhaps all you need to know. Utterly bonkers, utterly brilliant.
Next up, Dutty Moonshine Big Band, even bigger, at least ten of them, from Bristol, originally, with a massive brass section, two trumpets, two ‘bones and two sax, along with a standard rhythm section, with bass, drums and percussion. All topped and tailed by guitar and twinned male/female vocals. With the vocals erring on the side of hip-hop and grime, they made a monster monster sound that had the audience in their palm. Uncertain where all the keyboard squelch came form, but I think I saw consoles at the side of each percussionist. Very much a party band, the material was a mix of their own and the doctored: like You Are My Moonshine and the finale of Sonny & Cher staple, Bang Bang. Huge fun. Tent time.
FRIDAY:
Bright eyed and bushy tailed today, bolstered by the appearance of wi-fi and electrickery in the press area, a luxury for most, an essential for us plucky scribes and shutterbugs. Everywhere much busier, the fabled (and Ofsted approved) school open for the day, so lots of pups eager for the educating. Ground? Let’s say the going was still heavy.
Back at the Pallet, it was for Ibibio Sound Machine to open my day. Broad daylight and outside is perhaps the better place to catch this Africatronic juggernaut, the show several notches above their late night set, indoors, at Cambridge Folk last year. Eno Williams, the impossibly charismatic face and front of the band, was on fire, her vocals steaming out of her, whilst the equivalently impossibly cool Alfred “Kari” Bannerman plied his guitar and korego. But the main ballast of power comes from the brass and electronics, combined, with a keyboard ahead each of the three piece horn section. A magnificent noise, they just get better and better…
…As do, in my humble, the pride of Stornoway, Peat And Diesel. My second sighting, and the balance between Boydie’s chaos and Innes Scott’s endeavours to keep him reined in, is as fraught as ever, relying on the rhythmic thump of Uilly Macleod to hold it all together. Raggedly effective AC/DC guitar frenzies, from Boydie, may sit as odd companions to swirly Scots accordion, from Scott, but the unorthodox mix is a genius. Their songs, most written by Boydie, are full on hooley central, with shenanigans an equal partner to an occasional whiff of sentimentality. A blinder, ending with, itself a representation of how it is, (That’s the Way We Do It, in the) Western Isles. With a mother from Melbost, just up the road from Stornoway, I can confirm that, pretty much, that is is how they do it, in the Western Isles, Laldy duly given, I needed a lie down.
With the Woodlands now open, it soon became time to catch Headsticks. One of the wake of bands who have followed in the tide of Ferocious Dog, levered onto the circuit by their patronage, as indeed seems many present here this year, exposure to live performance has upped their game. Now, into their thirteenth year of existence they are a sturdy package of folk-punk, the heartfelt and headstrong vocals of Andrew Tranter more than equal to the task of delivering their often political message. Tranter, adept also on harmonica, the trees were soon alive with their lively racket, irrespective the “cold grey English skies“.
Bob Vylan were already playing, back at the Pallet, as I returned. The two Bobbys were getting a rapturous response to their torrid mix of grime, rap and punk. I guess I am the wrong demographic, as their posturing left me cold, even if subsequent social media had them the standout act. What is it about duos of frontman and drummer, they being decidedly this years thing? Plus, as I learnt later, sometime during their show, up came a back projection to suggest that the next act, after them, was cancelled, which a large number of the field took to heart, leaving ahead said act.
Said act? Dexy’s. And they were anything but cancelled. Indeed, any report of Kevin Rowland being anything other than in fine fettle were similarly bogus. Drums, keyboards, fiddle, sax and trombone comprise the relatively slimmed down unit that the band currently comprises, but the sound, from the start, was fat. Kicking off with a spirited version of the Bee Gee’s To Love Somebody, Rowland bounded on in a, for him, fairly restrained red suit, with a green frontage and a natty straw boater. His vocals as flat as the morticians pancake liberally daubed all over his face, he was utterly brilliant from the off, all the vocal tics and mannerisms (“brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr“) present and correct.
A set largely of the hits, he looked at ease with himself and the audience, almost disbelieving the reaction. From there into a full on Tell Me When My Light Turns Green, from the debut and we were off into prime time memory lane, via his distinctly odd, (Can you dig it, baby?”) cover of Grazin’ In The Grass. Geno, I’ll Show You, Plan B and Jackie Wilson followed and all was well. Followers will be aware of Rowland’s eccentric penchant for walkabout conversation with his second singer, that role now in the hands of Sean Read, also on saxophone, and yes, there was a bit of that, proving, as ever, beguiling to the novitiate, but, when expected, actually, it’s Kev, it’s what he does. Until I Believe iIn My Soul was immense, the keyboard filling out the brass depth of delivery.
By the time he launched into Come On, Eileen, the sun was almost out and, along with the crowd, eating it all out of his hand. A prolonged This Is What She’s Like, false endings aplenty, and more walkie-talkabout, that being largely the basis of this Come Stand Me Down stalwart, and he and they were off. Truly magnificent, wholly memorable and, as I later heard, entirely divisive.
Who could possibly follow that? Well, for me it was Urban Falafel for one of their salad bowls, with extra toasted halloumi, and a pint of Bass, both essential at this time. A shoofty around had me catch another of the celtic punk contingent, Bar Stool Preachers, who were appropriately shouty for their perma-roused rabble, decent at what they do, with then a trip to CoDa. CoDa is the new dance tent, and not without criticism, many missing already the vibe of Magical Sounds, who have curated such needs previously. Utah Saints were in full pelt as I tried, and failed, to gain entry, so heaving was the internal maelstrom. All sounded good, though, terrific, in the old money, old school techno.
My day was deemed to bookend with New Model Army, a popular and returning draw at this festival. Unusually, their T shirts seemed less prevalent than usual, they usually vying, neck and neck, with Ferocious Dog for their emblazoned representation, whether either band playing or not. Maybe this was down to the necessary extra layers needed to brave the elements. Be that as it may, The Meadow, the new, as of last year, second main venue, a large marquee much the size of Glastonbury’s Field of Avalon stage, was rammed.
Possibly the second, maybe the third time I have caught this band, each time also at BT, this was by far and away the best, mainly down, again, to the perfect sound balance, vocals and instrumentation held together, yet apart, with some precision. (Sadly, I gather this was less pristine at the peripheries, that putting some folk off.) A wide reaching set carried a selection across their, gulp, forty-four year history of unbroken service. Justin Sullivan, give or take the grey of his swirling mane of locks, looked and sounded astonishing, and as committed as ever, switching from electric to acoustic guitars, the 12 string acoustic benefitting especially from the balance of sound. Blasting off with fan favourite, Get Me Out, from 1990, songs were snarfed from all stages of their career, if with a majority, four, coming from this years triumphant Unbroken.
When it came to, aptly, Wonderful Way To Go, to close the show, all had to be in agreement that it was, with uncertainty as to whether the shaggy struwelpeter of bassist, Ceri Monger, was sweatier than the front rows of the audience. Tent time.
SATURDAY:
From quagmire to clogmire, today was now even beginning to be bouncy underfoot, the drainage in the lower field belying the pessimism of the Fast Show’s Ted. Heck, the sun was really out and layers could be shed, allowing a better tally of T shirt loyalties. This revealed an enormous eclecticism, over and above just the Ferocious Dog vs. NMA ongoing competition. The Cramps, Grateful Dead, Rancid and, disarmingly, Fleetwood Mac, were all in evidence from the bands absent, along with ageing momentos of festivals past, with my favourite being the genuine frayed and threadbare Reading ’86. I had come along to Convoy Cabaret to find John Robb, singer, polemicist and writer. Last time I was here, his band, The Membranes, were playing. Today he was doing, or supposed to, a Q&A around The Art Of Darkness, his written volume on the history of goth. Sadly, it wasn’t to be: “it’s tomorrow,” he had replied, on being phoned as to where he had got to, and he had a gig today.
I had wanted to catch Jess Silk for some time, her agit-folk from the ramparts looking and sounding to be a good thing. So, back into the Woodland for her early afternoon slot. I was not disappointed, her burly presence a tonic in the trees. A partisan crowd were singing along with every word of her estuary English delivery, my immediate comparison coming to me of a younger and angrier female Billy Bragg. Billy Bragg with pronouns, if you like, or Frank Turner minus the expensive education.
A battered acoustic, emblazoned with stickers to make plain her credentials; one might believe this machine capable of killing way more than just fascists, Preaching From The Barricades felt and almost certainly is her MO, with most of her lyrics simply and succinctly put together: “this is what I love and sometimes that’s enough”, that ambience at one with those there to support her. A first circle dance was unveiled for Home Is Where The Heart Is, and it was actually quite lovely. as was to hear her rendition of Bella Ciao, the Italian protest song that derived, originally, near a century and a half ago, if then revisited by the anti-fascist movement of wartime axis Italy. Old timers like me recall it, with love, from Chumbawamba. A good set and she deserves to go far.
My editors here are big fans of Green Lung. Wondering quite what the fuss was, I gave them a go, seeing at once, from the throng, that the ATB hierarchy aren’t alone. Me? Again, let’s just say wrong demographic again, that being the kindest way to say their industrial metal histrionic seemed overly in debt to the sound of early Black Sabbath, with added keyboards, with Ozzy channeled through a hybrid of the Daves Vanian and Gahan. Fine for how it sounded, if overly reliant on Old Nick for spiritual guidance. Talking of unknown to mes, somehow I missed the whole Carter USM glory years, it possibly coinciding with my first full on folkie affectation.
So with Jim Bob I was unfamiliar, now glad to have made the acquaintance (if a little aghast for the discogs prices for You Fat Bastard.) The ten or so song selection was largely Carter stuff, to the delight of the crowd, although a surprising cover came of Geno, sung only hours ago in the same field, and coming as a delight. A different sort of version, but no less rousing, translating surprisingly well to the six piece horn-free band. Am I allowed to say Jim Bob’s personal ambience reminded me a little of a little less refreshed Wreckless Eric? When the be-bonneted figure of Fruitbat appeared, sneaking in slyly behind his erstwhile cohort in crime, the field erupted, as the much hyped Carter reunion made a last gasp manifestation. Good party vibes, good festy band. I only hope Jim Bob returned the favour, when his old buddy’s band, Abdoujaparov, played the Something Else Tea Tent.
Anyone remember Kitty, Daisy and Lewis, the band of young siblings who plied an electro-acoustic acid soul-jazz vibe around the turn of the century? Kitty is now solo, and plays as Kitty Liv, with songs that reflect a flavour of a slightly rootsier Amy Winehouse. Her short slot, accompanied by bass and drums, with the players changing role midway, was quite the distraction from the more full-on elements that were a majority elsewhere, but the day was really demanding more dance and drama. Which was why I made this years first contact with Maui Waui, the autonomous festival within a festival tent.
Shanghai Treason were playing, whom I had last seen at Holmfirth Picturedrome, with Ferocious Dog. And blimey, haven’t they come on! Delivering a barnstorming set, the change is remarkable, in terms of confidence, showmanship and overall bandplay. If the main focus is upon five string banjo master, not that one, Tom Hardy, and his lead banjo bravado, now as much attention goes to Sam Christie, the vocalist for their “Yorkshire flatcap banjo punk”, with a hefty Celtic bent thereto. With Hardy swapping to accordion for a couple of songs, his lead figures were always underpinned by the guitar bass and drum inferno in the band basement. Bigger stage, next time, BT!
I missed all but the tail end of outdoor summer perennials, 3 Daft Monkeys, now with an added fourth monkey on drums. It looked standard and reliable, a band who will always deliver, hopefully I can catch them elsewhere this summer. But I didn’t miss Chainska Brassika, a band I had missed last year at Glastonbury. Nine of them, the clue is in the name, or bits of it, namely ska and brass. Sorry, nothing to do with broccoli or sprouts. A tightly bonded team, from group hugs beforehand, to the onstage encouragements, this is party central, and energetic party central at that. Bold and very, very, brassy, they gave an hour of their all, running on the spot from start to finish. Catch them when you can.
With now the question between raising the tempo still further or seeking salvation of a different supplier, the choice now was between Jane’s Addiction, again with Dave Navarro back in the fold, alongside Perry Farrell, and Orbital. For purely sentimental reasons, Orbital, it was, mainly as I have neve quite seen them. Seen the lightshow, yes, being driven out of Glasto in ’93, and getting then only some flavour of their sonic majesty. I’m told J.A. were good, very good, even, but played for less than their time allotted, so felt, in hindsight, my choice the right one. Not least as I was, as you would expect from this publication, right up at the barrier. Given the recent tour, celebrating each tof he Brown and Green albums, it was a cut from relative outlier, 2012’s Wonky, the reformation album, that set the metronome banging.
Trademark headlighter specs on, the pair were their usual mismatch, Paul Hartnoll in a maroon suit, very much the sober half to his brother Phil, in cut off trousers, bare feet and arm waving. Straight into Dirty Rat, with Sleaford Mod, Jason Williamson invoking his acerbic growl on the video backdrop. This was the case for all the varied occasional vocal samples, dispelling any hope of any being live; the Mods had been playing here only slightly earlier. New album, Optical Delusion, got four tracks, against four from Brown and three from Green. There was also the delight of Spice, their Spice Girl tribute(?!) with added zig-a-zig-ah. With Belfast and Chime to close, the two oldies getting the biggest cheers thus far, it was ninety minutes very well spent, the bucket list now ticked off.
SUNDAY:
Dear reader, a confession. With an eye on the forecast, I had packed up my tent mid Saturday, and gone home to bed after the Hartnolls. And it were grand, with bath, to boot, in the morning. But, lightweight as I am, back I came for more, if now a-ponchoed, the rain back as predicted. My old carpark now abandoned by the festival, a new and more distant field was my home for the day, high on such hill as the Trent side can offer. Hence my date with John Robb failed.
I did catch Katherine Priddy, mind. Ideal pastoral fare for a Sunday lunchtime, her so very English singing and playing seemed parachuted in for the wrong festival. Probably a blinder at Cambridge or Shrewsbury, here she seemed just too polite. With an electric guitarist of some taste and subtlety to balance her Nick Drake-like picking and song-construction, I wonder if she too felt in the wrong place. If so, she didn’t let on, and received a good response from the half-filled tent, no small feat after the night before.
Gentleman’s Dub Club had the wake up slot for befuddled attendees at the Pallet, 3pm, and picked up the baton with gusto. On the scene for some years longer than Chainska Brassika, you might lazily say they provide a similar service, if at the slower speed of dub reggae. Even between intermittent showers, it was a glorious and upliftingly slinky set. “Music is the girl I love every day, every night” is certainly something the field could buy into, and did. Brass is the prominent texture, with never squelchier bass coming from one of two keyboard players, he also responsible for the “live” dub interpolations that featured also large. Jonathan Scratchley makes for an engaging frontman, his suit and bare feet a challenge to the skies. As a lover of dub, I can also report that, so far, Toby Davies, on the keyed bass notes, came the so far closest to dub’s fabled ‘brown note’, the bowel trembling lower register that, here, had the earth beginning to move.
Finally came the hour! One band had cemented my desire to be here once more in Catton Park, that being Ferocious Dog. Whilst they haven’t played here every year, they have played most, citing the festival as their stepping stone to bigger and better stages. And the festival loves them too, with the roster attracting ever more of their roster of sometime support bands, which, in itself, adds to the attraction to the myriad host of Hellhounds. This tribe is now as large and motley as the Dead’s fabled Deadheads, all following these Worksop troubadours about the country, whether it be gigs, benefits or festivals, the latter including folk festivals, metal festivals, punk festivals and who knows what else.
With a new record barely in the shops, Kleptocracy, they had a field to slay! Slay? No problem, as Ken Bonsall and his merry five trooped on. Fresh from an acoustic mini-show in the accessible camping field, it was with Iron Mike Malloy they pelted off with, multi-instrumentalist and ferocious frog, Sam Woods, on fiery banjo.
Another song from Kleptocracy prove they weren’t ashamed of new, with, even less than a month old, the audience already word perfect. Woods shifted from banjo to mandolin, to whistle, to guitar and back again, with Bonsall just grinning all the while, between singing and playing his low slung six-string. New(ish) fiddle man, Jamie Burney, is very much more a livelier presence than his predecessor, and the whole stage was his playground, his playing fluid and fervent. He won’t thank me, but, in appearance and demeanour, he increasingly takes on the presence of Oysterband’s Ian Telfer.
The rhythm section are no slouches either, the drums of Luke Grainger noticeably more prominent today than on disc. Kyle Peters and Nick Wragg, meanwhile, hold it all together in a meshwork of slash and burn riffing on guitar and bass, respectively. Some folk(ish) songs are then introduced, that tradition being but one cog in the post industrial wheel they crank. This is now the opportunity for Bonsall to invite a circle dance, but in lines. The two sides group for a face off, during the slow build, before the faster chorus beckons them into a heaving pit of mud and passion. If carnage can ever be polite, this was it, any falling casualty immediately helped back to their feet. On and on they strove, with recent single, Sus Laws inviting a mass chorus of “More Blacks, More Dogs, More Irish“, a truly heartwarming moment, not least for the fella at the front with a T shirt of the same instruction. All too soon it was time for Slow Motion Suicide, their Freebird, if you will, a long and extended chug with flyaway fiddle that goes on forever. A longer version than ever, it could have gone on all day and it wouldn’t have been long enough. Whatever else you do, see this band, hear their songs. This is more than just music, this is a movement, and now, right now, they are at the top of their game.
Unfollowable, this presented a dilemma. Luckily curiosity killed that, as I decided to see where Ed Tudor-Pole has been these last thirty years, and what he been doing. The singer of Tenpole Tudor, if that helps remind the name, with a slot in the Woodlands, this had to be seen. As to the where and what, if appearance is anything to go by, he looks as if has been sleeping in a skip, and in the same costume, he now an extravagantly decayed figure of a man, in a handpainted shirt and regimental trews, each a mix of rips, frays and half-assed repair.
With an expression midway between bewilder and bemuse, and toting a battered acoustic, he was off. A wonderfully bizarre performance, which included most of the hits, Who Killed Bambi and a marvellous Swords Of A Thousand Men to close, this was a refresher course in stagemanship. For all the thrashing of hands and fingers, he hides the facy that he can actually play, a shrewd and quick wit also lurking beneath the deceptive rabbit in headlights look. Anyone familiar with John Otway and who finds him faintly annoying, this was a masterclass how to project the same imbecility and still be endearing. Full marks to him and his physician.
Five full days in, I’m flagging and something has to give, with a decision to cut my losses and take in one final show. So, apologies to Michael Head, who at any time I would walk over broken bones to see, my preferred choice, this Sunday night, was to catch the yin of last night’s Orbital with the yang of The Orb. This proves to be an excellent decision as Alex Patterson and, these days, with Andy Falconer as his right hand man, was arguably an even better experience. A completely different style of a banging electronica, the contrasts were clear and consuming, certainly one in the eye or ear for any one who thinks all doof doof music sounds the same. It’s true, of course, the visuals are nearly as important. Orbital had a basic, if effective, lightshow, whereas the Orb was of a constant computer graphic, ever evolving, getting ever deeper or ever distant from a fixed point, and was mesmerising, even if unaided pharmaceutically.
With the sound likewise more psychedelic, it was with the dubby influence (and sampled vocal) of Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry that the journey began. With track after track merging, it was hard to discern any join, the result being a continuous sonic journey, the beats morphing from dub to doof and back again. One “song”, instantly recognisable from the spoken word, was Little Fluffy Clouds, something that, illogically, back in the day I couldn’t stand, rendering a decades long prejudice against all things Patterson. Thankfully, I recovered and, tonight, it was illustriously good, and a fantastic endpiece to five days of weather, wonder and wahay. I’ll be back.
Bearded Theory online
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