The “Small Festival with a Big Line-Up”; exactly what it says on the tin, and a whole lot more.

That’s the legend on all their merch: t shirts, caps, mugs, and, you know, that simplicity of brief gives all the information you might ever legitimately need. Or even otherwise. Some might call it an anachronism in that it is still proudly and resolutely independent, being run, since 2012, by the same Curtis family, who farm the land it occupies. Such sponsorship as there is, is not from media giants, but from local companies, friends of the farming family, so the local electrical installers who wire it all up, and an auto parts provider, who handle the environmental concerns.

There is one stage only, and that stage is a bespoke and permanent timber build of some considerable charm and beauty. One bar is enough to sustain the attendees, the capacity being not much greater than a couple of thousand; that’s 1% the size of Glastonbury. Yet the calibre of performers belies totally that small size, with many artists queuing up to return, time and time again. This year’s headliners, for instance, Feast of Fiddles, Oysterband and Steeleye Span, have all played here before, eager to reacquaint with this pocket paradise. And that Steve Knightley should be giving his new project, Dream In Colours, it’s festival debut here, well, that surely has to say something.

FRIDAY:

Actually day 3 for the doughty regulars, who meet up on the Wednesday night, for a barbie, drinks and a singaround, followed by a day of showcasing local acts, so, when I arrived, late morning, the party had already begun. Cars parked by tents is still the thing here, so no expensive car park or trudge from one to the other. Indeed, the walk from tent to arena neither likely to challenge anyone’s need for 10k steps (but they do arrange morning forest walks!)

Banter were the first band on, Simon Care’s current project, and a band we at ATB like (our recent Heroes review here). A four piece, they are made up by Nina Zella, on piano and most of the lead vocals, Tim Walker, who also sings and provides percussion, on a full kit, as well as trumpet, often at the same time, with Mark Jolley, on bass, fiddle and backing vocals. Care, a king of the squeezebox, needs little introduction, and it was with a tune by his erstwhile best buddy, Gareth Turner, another box giant, that they kicked off with, Jake’s Jig. Erstwhile? Sadly, Gareth died last year, his last gig, ironically, headlining, with Little Johnny England, the final night of this very festival.

A run of tracks from their latest album, Heroes, followed, allowing Zella to show off the smoky crystal of her voice. Walker was, meanwhile, adding guitar and bass to his roster of instruments played, whilst simultaneously maintaining rhythm via kickdrum. A highlight was their version of Lay Me Low, John Tams’ mighty anthem, where the four of them damn near matched the wall of sound offered by the then ten plus strong Albion Band, on the original. Zella added a further poignancy to the delivery, bending and cracking the notes, the boys giving her a sterling vocal backdrop. To close, came a run through of a surprising and well known song, described by Care as an “old traditional song from the North East of England.” The audience were invited to down a drink whenever the word ‘Red’ cropped up, which was and is often, in celebration of the election result of the night before. The song? Roxanne, and it was excellent, with or without all the swallowing expectations. A great start.

Up next was Sarah McQuaid, whose low key authority gripped the crowd immediately, opening unaccompanied and acapella: do pins drop in fields? A mix of her own songs, covers and traditional showed her guitar play to be equally strong. And how often does Fake Plastic Trees share the same setlist as The Banks Of The Lee? Her warm voice, with an echo of Carly Simon about it, was a tonic for souls anxiously viewing the clouds brewing up overhead, and even her between song introductions left you wanting to hear more.

The stocky figure up next, dressed all in black, bar his resplendent (unusually) blue braces, could only be one man, the irrepressible Brian O’Neill, who gifted us with a fast forward through his exemplary talents, as well as some well chosen and acerbic asides. Adept on fiddle, guitar, cittern and concertina, he played each, his spiky burr of a voice always a potent reminder of the strength of words. The rain was now in full Marti, as in wet, wet, wet, but the hardy were well prepared, in tree to field tarpaulins and goretex: “God weeping for concertinas” was McNeill’s observation. A historian as well as songwriter, this avid Scot learnt, for the first time, about the Scottish-Polish connections of the 18th century, McNeill having written a song specifically thereabout. Howabout some audience participation? Absolutely, with the phrase “Micks and Jocks don’t wash their socks“, now lodged eternally in my mind. Rueing that he never got to learn cello, he then brought out an astonishing electric fiddle, or tenor-fiddle, as it might, or not, be called, upon which he was able to replicate the lush depth of sound offered by the much larger instrument. Destitution Road and Hamish Henderson’s Freedom, Come All Ye ended his set magisterially, ahead of some further wise words around Scottish Independence being far too inportant a matter to leave to the SNP. No wonder they call him the Professor.

Credit now to the Curtis family, as despite the rain, the drainage in this lower field was perfect, the rain unable to raise much mud at all, barely a smidgeon, and that contained at the very front, courtesy more the dancing feet of a minor mosh. Dancing feet? Yes, it was now 3 Daft Monkeys, those Celtic Gypsies, who never fail to shake some legs with their fusion of dance traditions across the century and across the world. A special mention for the bassist, and his electric red trousers, almost the loudest thing on stage. Being able to catch them closer up than at Bearded Theory, it was difficult to keep eyes off the percussion frenzy, all hands, no sticks, of fourth monkey, Rich Mulryne, on a full kit, not that Tim Ashton and Athene Roberts were exactly unforthcoming at the front. Tremendous fun, after which all stopped for tea: an extraordinary daily routine, between 4 and 5.30, when the stage closes down. How civilised is that? (Actually, it is to sound check later artists, and most people (me!) opted for beer, but the thought remains.)

Replete and refreshed, it was now a slightly diminished audiece, courtesy the still angry elements, that greeted Gilmore and Roberts. That was a pity, as they showed themselves to be yet another bright feather in the cap of the extended Lakeman family. (Jamie Roberts is brother of Kathryn Roberts, wife and musical partner of Sean Lakeman.) Jamie sings and plays guitar, whilst Katriona Gilmore sings and plays mandolin and fiddle. Rather well. A first sighting for me, that lateness to the party necessitating a hoover up of their back catalogue. Roberts oft employs an unusual and atypical guitar technique, flat across his knees, using the wood and strings as much for percussion as melody. Extraordinary. Catch them, they are rather good.

A change in musical direction was now offered by rootsy americana quartet, Hatful Of Rain, another new name for me. Local giants, relatively speaking, and world famous in East Sussex, they conjure up a rare medicine show of, mainly, acoustic dustbowl magic. Fronted by the sweet tones and acoustic guitar of Chloe Overton, she has a voice and demeanour not a thousand miles a way from that of Laura Cantrell. She also delivered some of the best mouth harp of the weekend, with a keening and poignant Nebraska tone to it. The stand up bass of Phil Jones and blistering runs of electric guitar, in the hands of Fred Gregory gave a strong bed for her to work around, mind, with Gregory marking my card as a name to watch. But their bonus feature came actually with drummer, Scott Shirley, who showed himself to have a delightfully bruised and battered voice, all the better to deliver, from behind the kit, and still playing, some of his own very Townes Van Zandt-y songs. OK, they were also not beyond playing a number of musical chairs, Overton to bass, Jones to guitar and vocal, and Shirley to guitar and vocal, just to show no limit to their variations. Gregory just doggedly kept channeling Albert Lee. An early evening yee-haw of consequence.

I didn’t know what to make or expect of Pentangle. Now Jacqui McShee’s Pentangle, clearly they are a different beast, her vocal apart, from the original legendary band. So, rather than the twinned guitar line-up of Renbourn and Jansch, it is saxophone and keyboards to the fore, and electric bass rather than Sir Danny and Victoria. But given the keyboards are in the hands of erstwhile John Martyn sidesman, Spencer Cozens, with bassist Alan Thomson likewise a Martyn band alumnus, the ground was still pretty hallowed. Saxman, Gary Foote, has played with everyone, that experience too showing. But who would be filling the shoes of Mr McShee, aka Gerry Conway, so recently deceased? The answer being journeyman drummer, Pascal Consoli, and pretty remarkable he was, utilising the full kit with precison and sensitivity. McShee, despite the lingering aftermath of a cold, was in very good voice, a worthy reminder that the talent in the original band was way more than instrumental alone.

The material now is overtly more jazz than folk, if with still sound reminders of the latter, through elegant reconstructions of the heyday, with Lord Franklin especially resplendent. A newer song, Acrobat, showed off Foote’s mastery of clarinet and I left this set more impressed than I had expected. And they only closed with Light Flight, that peerless theme from Take Three Girls, in, gulp, 1969, McShee hitting all the right notes without effort.

Is this all really only day one? Indeedy so, with only Feast Of Fiddles to seal the deal. I confess to having previously had some difficulty with this superstar showcase, largely down to, my prejudice, the presence of Hugh Crabtree, at the front, with voice, M.C. and melodeon. May I say how wrong I have been, at least on this showing, as I warmed to him, near from the start.

A quick gander revealed, shock horror, no Peter Knight, Phil Beer or Chris Leslie, they frequently involved, and, even more shockingly, no Dave Mattacks behind the drums. But this was no deal breaker, as the mix of other regulars and new more than made up for it. Regulars? well that would be Tom Leary, Ian Cutler and Garry Blakely. Oh, and that man again, Prof. Brian McNeill. New, at least to me, Marion Fleetwood and a young(er) fella who had a naggingly familiar look about his features.

The setlist was a mix, as ever, of traditional and soundtrack material, often cheek by jowl. An early showstopper is Kashmir, their fiddletastic rendition of the Led Zeppelin classic, here featuring vocals from Marion “Plant”, as Crabtree quipped. This part the joy of the band, as despite their championing of the bowing expertise of their team, they are unafraid to allow each member to strut their stuff on other instrumentation. So Fleetwood also strummed her guitar, and McNeill his cittern, the latter for old Battlefield Band stalwart, The Yew Tree. After a while, Crabtree acknowledged the absence of some of their championship team, ahead of the big reveal on the youngster stage right, with a tale how he too thought something familiar about him, not so much the look, but in his play. Penny dropping, yes it was Simon, nephew of Dave, and current Merry Hell-er, Swarbrick the second, and he then administered his instrument a sound thrashing, pulling notes out of everywhere and at a lick that would make his Uncle proud. Even a touch of the old wah-wah fiddle, it all enough to have McNeill, by his side, gaze in unbridled awe, with a big grin on his face. Tremendous.

A word also about the unsung heroes of this ensemble, each pulling some astonishing notes out of their instruments, Martin Vincent, on guitar, and Dave Harding on bass. They and Simon Price, depping for DM, provided a magnificent wall of sound that, frankly, often needed the eight or so musicians in front of them. All too quickly it was the end, as ever a mélange of reels, both the dance and the film sort, kicked off by their mighty mighty theme for The Magnificent Seven! Bra- and indeed -vo. Tentward.

SATURDAY:

The weather forecast had predicted a decent day. sadly it took a downpour at 6.30 a.m. to scotch that one…… Feeling discretion beckoning, this attendee decided a morning in Salisbury might be more inviting than tent quivering, having never visited the town. Go. It is grand, and small enough to take in over a matter of hours. This meant I had to forego all but the end of Southampton Ukelele Jam. What I did capture, however, seemed gloriously and schizophrenically bonkers, as a manic leader led his huge ensemble through a gratuitously unexpected mix of songs and tunes, as what looked like a punk W.I. pumped out vigorous versions of Elton John, The Clash and The Ramones.

Needing a breather, after only a handful of their inspired chaos, Katie Spencer was just the job. The second time I have seen this singer and guitarist, she is getting better by the month, her way about guitars, including rather a lovely Gibson semi-acoustic, ever more fluid and flowing. Picking mainly songs from her latest record, Edge Of The Land, each was introduced with her shy self-deprecation, often relating to her East Yorkshire upbringing. It now took the moment to stop raining, something she immediately took Yorkshire credit for (and to which I will return.) Shannon Road, about the road in Hull where her Granny lived, was especially moving, her vocals tinged with the sort of lightness that needs intrinsic power and control to maintain. Some new songs introduced the fancy guitar, ahead finishing with a John Martyn song, resonant with more echoplex than ever that master of that pedal could provide. Classy stuff.

Circumstances meant I had to miss much of Daphne’s Flight, all but their last few numbers. A pity, as I picked up, almost immediately, quite what a boost Miranda Sykes has given the quintet, and I speak as a huge fan of the outgoing Christine Collister. Another time, maybe. But now I was back, no way was I going to miss out on Slim Chance. A highlight of my earlier trip to Wickham, 2022, my hopes were as high as the now baking sun. And they did not disappoint one bit. Without Steve Simpson, for reason of illness, the absence of guitar was barely noticed, as leader, Charlie Hart, on vocals, accordion and fiddle, urged his players on through the songbook of Ronnie Lane, Those players included another original, having played on The Poacher, Steve Bingham, on bass and vocals. The band was rounded out by Jim Russell on drums and two megastars, were there any justice in the world, Geraint Watkins, Van’s old musical director, on keyboards and vocals, and Nick Pentelow, veteran saxman for many, including Andy Fairweather Lowe and Roger Chapman. He was also half the brass section for Wizzard, back in the day.

A stonking set was delivered, proving the adage about old guys doing it best, running through a set encompassing Lane’s solo hits of How Come, The Poacher and Cushty Rye. Tom Leary, from last night’s Feast of Fiddles, also got brought on for a few songs, adding his second fiddle to the hedge of sound. A bonus meant a volley of Faces songs that Lane had a part in, so we got Debris, You’re So Rude and, to end, Ooh La La. Ooh La La indeed. Set of the day and, so far, of the festival.

Reg Meuross then brought his singing and guitar to lift the post teatime crowd back to alert. This time solo, unlike his inspirational set at last summer’s Shrewsbury, he showed he didn’t actually need any vituosi support, his voice and songs enough. As he played, I was struck how transatlantic is the construction of his songs, the skeleton of each tune and the fingerpicked framework, coming from the old west, very much in the style of Townes Van Zandt or Guy Clark. Yet his words and delivery are then so intrinsically English. He included a trio of songs from his ‘Stolen From God’ project, about slavery and it’s impact, as well as a surprising cover of No Regrets. The culmination of his hour came with a song about the Titanic and the violin owned by one the band, both going down with the ship. Called The Band Played Sweet Marie, he brought Marion Fleetwood back on stage, to add some bounteous fiddle to it,

We like The Haar, reviewed recently, up next. I had seen them later, a month or two ago, at Norton’s, in Birmingham’s Irish Quarter, Digbeth. Sadly, however good they were then, and they were, the paucity of attendees left their fizz a little flatter than it deserves. So what a difference a packed field can make, as, playing broadly the same set, they blew any residual grey clouds away into Dorset. Their brief is to kiss new life into the standards of the Great Irish Songbook: The Wild Rover, Whiskey In The Jar, all of that, and they did it with more gusto than an explosion in a stout factory. Molly Dunnery’s vocals seared and scythed through the exhilarating accompaniment of Murray Grainger’s accordion and Adam Summerhayes’ fiddle. Said never to play quite the same song twice, their ability to mind read the directions of each flourish in turn was isnpiring. And I haven’t forgotten the impact of fourth member, master of the bodhrán, Cormac Byrne, able to bring out nuances of rhythm that seem impossible from, in his words, just a piece of goat and a stick. Remarkable.

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the Gerry Colvin Band in advance, his legacy, largely in Brum, stretching back through Terry and Gerry and ColvinQuarnby. The latter I had caught, decades back, possibly at the fabled Red Lion Folk Club. I seem to recall a country inflected new wave vibe, with Terry and Gerry being much neo-skiffle. What had Gerry become now, as this natty dude came out on stage, suited and booted, the only person here, he suggested, wearing cufflinks?

With guitar, fiddle, stand up bass and accordion all present and correct, to his own acoustic guitar, the answer came swift and unexpected. With eyes closed, it sounded every bit as vibrant as any of the current crop of folk-punks can provide, yer Ferocious dogs and similar. Eyes open, an odd mismatch, given Colvins engagingly cheeky chappy persona. A natural performer, the audience were licking every bon mot off his hands, the introductions and explanations near as good as the songs. Extraordinarily odd and oddly extraordinary. ( I got to chat with him in the bar, afterwards, his stage personality seemingly one and the same as his own, and we got chatting about his back story. And, as I admired his bespoke tweed coat, with a suede collar, he revealed it was given him by Steve Gibbons, Birmingham rock royalty, actually one of his cast-offs. My image of him, of both, was just getting better and better.)

Oysterband are slowly winding down, ahead of a long farewell tour, stretching out over into next year. Their headline here was part of a final round of Summer festivals, with several more to follow. Unfortunately, with the band James being also on the road, cellist Adrian Oxaaal was unable to be present (and didn’t even get a mention from the stage). this time, rather than inviting back Chopper, as at Shrewsbury last year. And what a difference it made. Clearly the setlist couldn’t include anything too much orchestral, so we got a much livelier and, dare I say it, punkier show than of late. Al Scott’s bass was mixed high and trebly in the mix, demonstrating not only his way around the instrument, but a hint of JJ Burnel in the punch offered. Likewise, guitarist Alan Prosser seemed more electric, figuratively and otherwise, chopping out notes that added so much more than a metronomic pulse.

New (ish) drummer, Sean Randle, has now fully bedded in and provided the welly that his predecessor, Pete Flood, could neverquite give. This was their night, as slightly strangely, both Ian Telfer and John Jones seemed a little distant. Certainly Jones seemed to be struggling a little with his voice, only too happy for the audience to do much of his heavy lifting, and Telfer’s fiddle seemed a little more restrained than usual, he also offering fewer acidic asides than usual. (Having said, his application of the election result into his introduction to All That Way For This, with a quizzical single raised eyebrow, was genius.) This isn’t to say either weren’t good, of course they are, both seasoned pros, and every night can’t be the best.

The song selection traversed some songs less well featured, as well as some favourites. I Can’t Get Up and The Deserter was given a welcome reintroductions, as was The Shouting End Of Life, with a rousing Roll Away from latest album, Read The Sky, ahead Granite Years, to close, with the eternal London City as the encore, a song that never fails to twist my heart and soul. A great show for anyone unfamiliar, but I expect more at Sidmouth, next month.

SUNDAY:

Matt Black, first on, is a regular here, although Lord knows why. An accomplished pianist, his schtick is to add “humorous” new words to existing songs, with long and similarly “humorous” introductions. This allows him to insult all and sundry, and to offend with his archaic and insensitive barbs. Calling one security person a paedophile and another a diddyman scarcely warmed him to the audience, any applause more polite than deserved. Absolutely vile.

Praise be that ATB poster band duo, Plumhall were up next. My colleagues here are huge fans, and this was my first opportunity to see what the fuss was all about. Michelle Plum and Nick Hall are said duo, each singing and playing guitars. But wait, there’s three of them, they joined here by a bassist, that extra heft paying dividends to their melodic tight weave of songs. Plum unarguably sings like an angel; very few people could dep for Lou Watt’s exquisite tones in Chumbawamba, whilst she took maternity leave, but she could and did just that. Hall has a slightly rougher timbre, the two coming together like chocolate and ginger, for some striking harmonies. From Yorkshire too, as the rain returned, they, in the opposite of Katie Spencer, blamed that too on being from God’s own county. (‘Appen). The songs are strong, and bridge a gap between folk, pop and something edgier. I hope their album, One Star Awake, ordered there and then, is on my step when I eventually get back home.

Again, I was unable to give full attention for Edwina Hayes‘ set, itself nearly keelhauled by motorway mayhem in her journey to the site. This necessitated some swift making do, with a swiftly assembled trio of Catherine ‘CJ’ Jones, Sally Barker and, fast becoming the Dave Grohl of this festival, Marion Fleetwood, convening and playing three songs. Hayes then came and gifted a a well curated set of covers with her smooth voice, all, I am told, to a good reception. Fake Plastic Trees got its second outing of the weekend, for any Radioheaders keeping tally.

I didn’t have to like Roving Crows just because their fiddle player, Caitlin Barrett, is a fellow scribe here at ATB. As it happened, I didn’t like them, I bloody loved them. Sometimes you can have a little too much heritage, a little too much polish. Their feisty take on folk-punk was just what my ears needed at this stage of a Sunday, my feet needing also a shuffle, and feck the rain, to quote singer and guitarist, Paul O’Neill.

With Celtic, or possibly more accurately, Irish, writ large through every slice of their material, this was a blast of energy to frighten the elderly and scare their cats. Unable to speak for the cats, the audience lapped them up and were on their feet in an instant, if unable to quite match the calisthenic of Barrett. Terrific rowdy fare, the impact piledriven home by the never more Download Donington rhythm section of Jim Smith and Laurence Aldridge. Unsurprisingly, their merch queue stretched longer than any thus far, their legion of new fans eager to accrue the evidence of their ears. Book ’em back, Nigel!

Probably just as well it was the teatime gap after that, so as to give palates a good cleanse ahead of the eagerly anticipated Dream In Colours, Steve Knightley’s new cross-cultural and cross-generational supergroup. This was to be their debut at a festival, and was actually their third or fourth ever show. Knightley needs no introduction, the Show of Hands chief singer and songwriter, and undoubtedly one of Britain’s best voices, he now joining up with Johnny Kalsi, the effervescent dhol percussion man, of Afro Celts, The Imagined Village and his own Dhol Foundation. They have long cross-pollenated and are old buddies. But it is the addition of Eliza Marshall and Bennett Cerven that is transformational, she the flautist from Ranagri, he the fiddler from The Trouble Notes. To say flautist and fiddler seems ridiculously trite, given their barnstorming brilliance, each emitting banshees of sonic maelstrom. Cerven relishes his role as the boy in the band, with good natured jibes betwixt he and the two “seniors”.

If Marshall was earlier known to be a bit handy on her instrument of choice, it became now clear she has phenomenal powers on both orthodox flute, bansuri and an extraordinary tenor, possibly bass, flute, a Heath Robinson contraption of some wonder. Whilst these two strut their stuff, Kalsi astounded both behind a kit of hand percussion and eastern drums, stepping out, intermittently, for extravagant dholplay, as smartly presented as he only ever can be. Knightley seemed often more to be an avuncular master of ceremonies, conducting his team through their paces, but, clearly, that alone would be a waste of his talent, there being songs too, new ones. (And, so far, without names songs making this job no easier, until a quick snarf at the setlist!)

The Deep was a terrific paean to Knightley’s new extra-curricular passion, wild swimming, and I Tried a stunning after the event rumination on failing in love. Dedicated to his wife, he was quick to assure that it is of entirely imaginary origin, her heart hold to him, from the audience, a touching moment. How did the throng take to all this? Hugely was the answer, seldom a totally unheard set receiving such applause and acclaim. The quartet seemed delighted by the reception, and were likely much relieved.

Encores at festivals seldom fit the tight schedules, but the field wouldn’t let them go, with a reminder of past glories sending them off, SoH favourite, the Galway Farmer. I doubt even Phil Beer could have kept up with the speed of Cerven’s accelerations in the home strait, mind. A wonderful, wonderful festival first outing. (And I can confirm that, reassuringly, despite the presence of Cerven, from the Windy City, U.S.A., in the band, they dream in colours, rather than colors, as some earlier promo material might have suggested!)

How to follow that? Only the most seasoned of professionals, with material beyond compare could possibly manage that. So it was lucky that P.J. Wright and his Sandy Denny Project were on hand to take up that gauntlet. If you haven’t yet come across their album, confusingly entitled SDP 2, remedy that, as it is corker. Live, well, it was a veritable Portuguese bumper bark harvest, the six piece rejigging, recalibrating and reformatting the Denny songbook. Most of the vocals were taken by Sally Barker, her voice an uncanny echo of the band’s inspiration, but with Marion Fleetwood (again) on hand, and Gemma Shirley, there was no shortage of alternate voices, let alone fiddle/guitar and keyboards respectively. Wright was celebrating his 11th appearance at New Forest Folk, and, yes, there have only been 11. He was on fine form, his muscular slide guitar adding whole new vistas of experience to these well known songs. Banks Of The Nile made for a stunning opener, extra spooks added by another drummer with trumpet, Mark Stevens.

A moment to relish came as Wright mouthed “11” to Fleetwood, turning his axe right up , all the better to rip out a righteously bluesy solo. Most of the album got a run through, highlights being personal favourite, It Suits Me Well, voiced by Fleetwood, and Autopsy, which was set to an evocative string arrangement, on backing track, arranged by Stevens’ brother. As Shirley took the microphone for One More Chance, the words of another writer came to mind, being wow, just wow, that further amplified by their never more funky Matty Groves, in a version that Little Feat could have given. Ending with a tumultuos John The Gun, dwarfing even Richard Thompson’s recent revisiting of the old gem, they too had to be given the opportunity to finally close with, what else, Who Knows Where The Time Goes. A tremendous show, this lot have legs, and any old covers band they certainly ain’t.

Surely the day could give no more? I hadn’t seen the Sunday headliners this century, and this was my third ever exposure at that. Hell, apart from the singer and the drummer, I hadn’t a clue who the other four folk on stage even were. Well, almost. Line-ups, however, are never a static foregone concluion in the world of folk-rock, and, as long as Maddy Prior was present, this was always going to be Steeleye Span.

To be fair, the sound had precious little to do with any Steeleye I remember, either, but, jings, what a sound it was, more rock now than folk, something a certain band near Banbury might take note of. Liam Genockey, a near constant since 1989, had me immediately revise the rankings of best folk-rock drummer in the world, as he provided a constant barrage that mimiced The Somme. The twin guitars of Julian Littman and Spud Sinclair seemed likewise set to P.J. Wright’s 11, sweeping and searing about the vocals, aided and abetted by the fiddle fritilleries of Jessie May Smart, all locked in by Roger Carey’s bass. The vocals? Suffice to say, Ms Prior still has that voice, unmistakeable and pure, that mix of balsamic with honey. She can still dance and sway a bit, too. With a set largely coming from latest album, The Green Man Collection, a compendium of recent releases and unreleased archive, it was with Green Man they opened, setting the bar high.

A rollicking New York Girls was an early highpoint, but it was a set that had as much original material as traditional, with a brace of Rick Kemp compositions a nice touch, and an effective opportunity to showcase the instrumental prowess of the team. Their version of Elvis Costello’s Shipbuilding, seemingly an odd choice on the record, worked better in the live setting, with Littman now moving to keyboard. So far, this was an undoubted triumph, and one I hadn’t expected them to have in them, respect for the brand, like the drum ranking, leaping up a few notches. Ending with an exuberant Thomas The Rhymer, yes, of course, they too had to return, my worst fears confirmed. But, you know, All Around My Hat, that curse of many a young folk loving fan, was absolutely bonzer, my decades long prejudice evaporating. As stated from the stage, this was the Status Quo version, rather than theirs, but even that was too kind; it was simply definitive.

To think I had been toying with an early getaway, class truly outed, demonstrating how fitting and worthy they were to be closing this fabulous little festival. Next year? I should cocoa!

With a myriad of festivals folding under the financial strains of survival, Keith and Nick Curtis, whose baby this is, give a good impression of bucking that trend. Whilst never cocky or overconfident about it, knowing the cloth they cut backwards, are they the only festival that can confidently publicise the line-up for next year, even before this one had begun? (And it looks another cracker, by the way!)

New Forest Folk Festival online, with next year’s confirmed line-up and ticket links: website

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