Quietly notching up best kept secret awards, Bromyard Folk Festival capers into it’s mid 50s, all bells and hankies resplendent, with a roster of all that’s good in Folk UK.

A thing since 1968, and just down the road to boot, I can’t believe I have never made it here before, the opportunity to test the weather gods for one final time this, ha, Summer proving irresistible, and a 90 minute drive delivering me to a spot much more rural than expectation. True, there’s a town, the one that gives the festival it’s name, but few others once Worcester, the closest place with a name I’d heard of, had receded in my rear view mirror. A decently sized site, campsite flattish and looking to have good drainage, problems in the lower field having marred many a festival experience for so many this year.

Getting the tent up dry was a first this year, and further explorations revealed all the mod cons necessary to the seasoned festy pro: that’s good toilets, showers, a good choice of food concessions and, ta-ra, a Moon Gazing Hare bar. Time was available to also explore the town. I’d have said village, but the camp site, which absorbs the local football club, Bromyard Town F.C., had me duly corrected. A high street showed an area in likely flux, as new looking coffee shops, in ancient buildings, sat, cheek by jowl, with a closed down hotel, are-you-local pubs and old school hardware outlets, selling all from kettles to carrots. I liked it. It all felt very Borsetshire.

THURSDAY:

The one act on was Martin Simpson, so the main tent was rammed. Wearing a blood orange shirt, this was the only electric on view tonight. With just the one guitar to hand, he was able to display quite why he is revered so highly, seasoned musos looking on with awe and admiration.

With a repository of songs that he can call on that extends across both sides the transatlantic divide, he mixed traditions freely, as likely to bottleneck a ballad as to finger Woody Guthrie. Many came from his most recent release, Skydancers, an album well-received here. But it is in a live setting that he excels, an alchemist of both story and song, making it all look effortless. I’ll swear he just gets better, year on year, decade on decade, and not for a second did I yearn for his other, newer, life, as electric axeman exciting for The Magpie Arc.

On the day the Grenfell Tower enquiry outcome was made public, his performance of the Leon Rosselson song, Palaces Of Gold, the one he has vowed to sing at every show until justice is served, was all the more wincingly apt and evocative. Elsewhere we got Buckets Of Rain (Dylan), Deportees (Guthrie) and, to commemorate his appearance at the Linda Thompson Proxy shows, a delectable Down Where The Drunkards Roll. Of course he played his own song, his hit, in a parallel world, Not Good Enough, a song that never fails to glow. Just wonderful, and well deserving the first encore of the long weekend, and the standing ovation that led thereto.

Back in the bar, once the talk of his playing had receded, I could see the hardcore were grouping for a night of song, and bade my goodnight.

FRIDAY:

Today was another day the projected yellow weather warning failed to materialise, the day beginning with clear skies, even if somewhat grey. I had relied on the pitter patter of rain to be my alarm, aghast then to wake at 8. There is always a fair bit of hanging around at festivals in the morning, but, with my yoga mat at home (yeah, right), I had to forgo that option. True, there were workshops aplenty, for fiddlers and squeezers, in the main, as well as an entry into whittling, but a read of the paper in town beckoned. First shock was that the local Co-op had misjudged the audience, running out of Guardians, so I made do with the local Hereford Times, to catch up on all the local derring-dos. The time swept by!

Concerts beginning around 2, it was the duo of Aaron Horlock & Nick Goode that I chose to start with. Like many of the acts all weekend, they are largely a violin and melodeon duo, part of the new wave of up and coming young folkies that are seeming to arrive on the scene all at once, the tradition their bread, if buttered with a contemporary indie awareness. To that end, Greenland Whale Fisheries was one of their first songs, albeit with an acknowledgement it wouldn’t sound much like the Pogues’ original.

And, indeed, it didn’t, stripped right back into the sort of trad.arr. that the young MacGowan might have stolen and bastardised in the first place. Goode’s fiddle has that ever so slightly discordant feel, where the notes are more an energy than a set commandment, giving the tunes that same chunky feel Dave Swarbrick could bring to a party. It’s deliberate, mind, rather than any clumsiness, and complements beautifully with Horlock, at this stage on guitar.

Much of their original material has an agreeably London bent to it; the instrumental medley Camberwell/Lads of Deptford one such example, and something they made much of. I suspect Deptford may be subject to some early waves of gentrification, though, since the days of Deptford Fun Records, their vocals, for Hard Times of Old England, perhaps more Docklands Light Railway than Deptford Dockyard. A minor quibble, as their set was an enjoyable and enthusiastic mix of the received, with modern interpretation. As Horlock switched to melodeon, they stretched out more, relaxing into the vibe, so much so, that when they finished their set, with Shady Grove, you believed them, almost, in saying they knew first the song from Doc Watson. (As in Fairport who?) A duet to look out for.

Tarren were up next, must sees with their album, Outside Time officially down for release on the day following. If the record is good, the songs and tunes, in a live setting, seemed even more, the context that much more tangible.

Their mix of fiddle, cittern and melodeon carries a sound that eclipses the individual components, and, as they kicked off, with Claudia’s, from the album, their ensemble play was perfect. Sid Goldsmith’s cittern is an instrument of some beauty, both to look at, and to hear, but I think it was the delicacy and precision of Alex Garden’s fiddle play that most leapt out, it less apparent on record. Danny Pedler, meanwhile, holds it all in check with his piano-accordion. The fumes of Spiro, that no longer band, hinted at on disc, were positively flaming, as they upped the weave and wend of material. In their 7th year of existence, the tale of their meeting came out, Pedler and Garden first encountering each other in the showers here, at this very festival. Lest you wince, “in the showers” is seemingly a Bromyard euphemism, as many of the best sessions take place in the football club pavilion, with the showers offering the best acoustic. Just not at shower time.

A morris tune, Old Tom Of Oxford, gave the realisation, with its reception, just how important this festival is to the morris tradition. Yes, there were a few morris men in today, let alone women. Or, as Goldsmith suggested, certainly more than at their last gig, at Shambala! Goldsmith now was switching to concertina, so the ante for polyrhythmia and rounds was raised further, and it was a confident and competent show they gave. With the aforesaid context of live, my earlier critique of Goldsmith’s vocals semed quite churlish. So much so that, for love song You To Me, he sounded almost Gaughan-esque.

Finally, it would be remiss not to mention Neither Man Nor Maid. This song, a mix of 3, with an additional verse, tackles the role of gender fluidity and non-conformity in the folk tradition. Introduced by Garden, themself part of a non-binary world, this meant for a far greater understanding of the motives behind the mindset leading to the song construction, with the delivery becoming that much more moving and magnificent.

A mid to late afternoon gap now allowed the recommended delight of the Gurkha Kitchen van to be sampled, as commended to me, with glee, by a chum, once he spotted here their return presence. Reader, I can concur, a magnificent bowlful, this day, of their lamb curry, with an extra hot chilli oil dressing for additional poke. And under a tenner, at that. T-riffic!!!

Back on duty, and still at the main tent, the act next up were well known to me, albeit more often encountered with their sometime boss. However, with Eliza Carthy in the US, it was Saul Rose & James Delarre, down to a mere duo. But mere is never the word for either, with Rose a longstanding mainstay of keeping the melodeon at the forefront of any folk culture. Delarre is more the polymath, equally happy on guitar as fiddle, if here concentrating on the latter.

Ms. Carthy got a brief indirect mention, as it seems that it was, as an opening floor spot for Waterson: Carthy, that Rose first got drawn into the “rack and ruin” of his career, an astounding 30 years ago. Together they play in a very pastoral way, chamber folk, if you will, inviting description more as violin and button accordion than fiddle and box. Apologising for a happy song, Delarre has a higher, purer timbre in his vocals to that of Rose, who carries an earthier contrast in his. Then, with that song delivered, about loving his wife and walking his dog, an ancient song, surprisingly, given the sentiments, they made the appropriate diversion into the more usual songs of death and devilment; the proper stuff! Switching to viola, the musical palette became richer and still more majestic.

For the closing Lullaby For William, Delarre was able to stretch and bend the notes he drew from his instrument with astonishing effect, balanced well by the one man orchestral vigour of Rose, each of his hands coaxing out different melodies.

Having only heard of, rather than actually heard the Rosie Hood Band. I was uncertain quite what to expect from this quartet. Descriptions tended toward an expectation of gentle and/or twee, maybe not my bag, but were thankfully wrong, and couldn’t have been more so.

With regulars Rosie Butler-Hall and Robyn Wallace, fiddle and melodeon respectively, a second fiddle player, Nicola Beazley, is now ensconced in the line-up. Hood, herself, sings and plays occasional tenor guitar. And sings she does, with a potent voice, wholesome and wholegrain, which, as her fiddlers add their voices, chiming in, makes for a celestial chorus. Meanwhile, the fiddles dance around each other, as Wallace contains the whole with counter-melody and rhythmic precision.

I enjoyed them more than I dared expect. The songs were often about unorthodox subjects: a song about tigers had the 3 singers singing in rounds, inviting the audience, split into 3, to join in accordingly. As it was being outlined, a dog, from without the tent, decided to throw in their own opinion, with perfect timing. Many of the tunes took a swaying waltz-like structure, but, tucked into this came often some more complex 7/8 timings to maintain interest and concentration, especially for those joining in the chorus.

Thinking I may otherwise root to the spot, it was only now that I made a change of arena, over to the club tent, a smaller marquee and a little more intimate. So too was there a first change of musical direction, with all the performances thus far having been undeniably and indelibly English.

It took Heather Cartwright & Sam Mabbett to remind me of my comfort zone in Scottish music. Mabbett we know from The Canny Band, and is an affable and entertaining box player from Glasgow. I guess he is slightly unusual as it is the button accordion (melodeon) that he plays, the piano accordion feeling more usual to the timbre and texture of Caledonian styles. But, rather than the rhythmic precision of the English application of this instrument, in much the way of the Irish, melody here is key. Heather Cartwright is a new name, with only a few live gigs, in a concert setting, under her belt. She sings and plays guitar, which is trite by that description alone. She has a glorious voice, reminiscent of a stronger lunged Nanci Griffith, and, despite tiny fingers, an astonishingly adept way with a guitar, both as a metronome and for instrumental runs.

Mabbett just oozes ability, as the duo transcribed songs, from all instruments and genres, into his identifiably sparkling glide over the controls. An Anais Mitchell somg was followed by a traditional tune and then an American old-timey fiddle standard, all as if designed solely and purely for squeezebox.

At times the overall effect was akin to the more whimsical parts of the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. Obviously nervous, once Cartwright realised the audience applause was really for her, rather than out of any politeness, so she relaxed, bringing even more splendour. An inspired pairing, if they don’t get snapped up into a decent slot at a future Celtic Connections, well, something is very wrong indeed.

You have maybe noticed that there is a near monopoly on the instruments appearing throughout this first day, I wondering how long this sainted state of affairs could last. A little bit longer was to be the answer, as the headliners of the day were Oysterband. Old favourites at Bromyard, they have played near a dozen of times, between the Oyster Ceilidh Band, the Oyster Band and the current no gap Oysterband, with neither definite nor indefinite article in front. Part of their Farewell to Festivals tour, as that gradually morphs into their Long Long Goodbye Tour, this my third capture of them in as many months. I had found them seeming a little tired at New Forest, looking then a whole lot more revitalised come Sidmouth, in Ceilidh band mode, a day ahead the “normal” show, which I didn’t make. Seeing John Jones and latest drummer, Sean Randle, as they arrived here, good and early, I asked around their stamina and spirits. “Getting better and better” was my answer. Excellent.

A couple of hours later it was stage time, and the main tent was again rammed. A sly glance at the stage suggested, again, no cello, that confirmed as the remaining five trooped out. You might think this a problem, a flaw even, but it is used as a strength. Like at New Forest, this put extra emphasis on, particularly, Alan Prosser’s guitar and Al Scott on bass; each adding extra pizazz to their playing, making for a decidedly more muscular show. Likewise, and in contrast to New Forest, Ian Telfer was once more pin sharp in his fiddle play, the nuances of being the only bowman neither lost nor wasted on him, seeming to play twice as many notes, and twice as well. Jones had regained all of his get up and go, and was bouncing, literally, whether melodeoned up or otherwise. (Yes, folks, the fiddle and box diktat of the day was holding fast).

Opening with When I’m Up, by golly, they were, Prosser flailing his right hand at his strings like a man possessed, Scott clanging the bass like a good ‘un. Randle has to be the best drummer the band have ever had, and they have had a few, his pound and clatter the necessary mix of attack and rapprochement. Telfer, as said, had found all the notes traditionally lost to the more overpowering cello, and we were off.

Following By Northern Light and A River Runs, it was clear the capacity audience had their singing heads on. Scott switched to mandolin at some stage and, rather than switching back, stayed with the instrument for rather more songs than previously, the jangle against Prosser’s guitar making for quite the Celtic folk-punk connection. All That Way For This drew obvious comments, in introduction, around the election, broadly in good nature, if with a hung jury and needing ever tweaked lyrics. As is his wont, Telfer spun one of his baffling preambles, getting ever more bemused glances from the singer to his left. This was around the packing failure that he, and all present, to be fair, had made, packing a case with woollies and fleeces aplenty, for what had then become one of the warmer days of the year.

On went the show, with a wind down from of the assertiveness of The Shouting End Of Life into the more melodic The Deserter. Craving the indulgence of the audience, Jones next enquired quite how many had been at those previous shows here at Bromyard. Answer: quite a few, with gasps of remembrance and recognition as they played a pin droppingly perfect Molly Bond. During this, the realisation, that Prosser really is one of the better and more inventive guitarists we are lucky enough to have in this style of music, became apparent to anyone otherwise unaware. In fact, of all the band, it was he who seemed to be having the most fun, especially as the band hit the home strait. Head, as ever, on full bob, the glee as he eked out sounds and combinations that most would never find, any idea or interpretation of the concept of rhythm guitar now needed a complete rethink.

Everywhere I Go had everybody again hollering along, as did the closer, perennial favourite, Granite Years, all the na na na-na na-nas pitch perfect, the band stopping playing to allow the audience that moment, before piling back in. It was now in the other direction that Jones needed to give a surprised glance, hearing abstract yeah yeah yeahs being yelled into the microphone adjacent to his. A broad grin and a wry nod on seeing it was Prosser!

With the tent now in a state of pandemonium, any attempt to end there was going to be denied them; none of the audience had any intent of to let them go or to leave the tent until Put Out The Lights had put out the lights. Which, of course, took place, for an exquisitely emotional rendition, a song I never tire of hearing. Randle now at the front, with his snare, the song is their most potent anthem and will last long beyond the band. The passion was all too much for all. Heck, even Telfer had tears glistening in his eyes, a suspicion he might later deny. A wonderful, truly wonderful, evening and experience, quite possibly the best I have seen them, at least until the next time.

I was exhausted. Tent, for the sleep of the just. A little annoyingly, if unsurprisingly, the unjust then had me awake until very early doors, the singing from the bar, as it wafted across, just clear enough to engage some parts of the brain for each and every chorus. Folkin’ bastards!

SATURDAY:

(Conversation with Dave: “So how long did the singing go on last night, Dave, 3 a.m.?” “No, 4, we could only manage an hour or so after they closed the bar..….” My earlier assessment stands.)

The balmy weather of yesterday now transformed to the normal and barmy, with a welsh border mizzle to reconstitute the damp. Immediately apparent was an early morning influx of morris sides, congregating from the length and breadth of the country. In an instant the average age of the festival had plummeted, perhaps down to the mid 50’s. No, I jest (a little), but it really seems this noble dance tradition is alive and again thriving. If ceilidhs are now awash with the young, so too it seems that morris is no longer the preserve of the old and the infirm. (No offence to be drawn; I am delighted by this. The side I was latterly associated with become decimated by both those scourges last century, as the boom of the 60’s and 70’s faded. Plus, my knees have now anyway gone, so it is maybe more with envy I write.)

It was lovely to see the sides congregate first at the arena, ahead of a processional up the hill, to the town square, noting, with pride, that Earlsdon, a team not so far away from me, still maintain their near military precison, their elegant march through the streets putting other sides in the shade. Another surprise was to see just how many familiar faces, from the festival stages here, are also integrally involved with the morris, either as dancers or as musicians. This augurs well.

Musically, it was time for a change, with something completely different to open proceedings. Amit Dattani is a quietly spoken bespectacled man with a bonny hollow body semi-acoustic guitar, flanked by a drum kit. No melodeons and no fiddles. Almost apologetically, he admitted he was going to be playing a tune from other than the sources usually paraded, one Mississippi John Hurt. Which he did, with a remarkable deftness and lightness of touch.

You could see jaws dropping, in amazement at his technique. With Steph Sanders providing subtle and understated brushwork, a mix of songs and instrumentals displayed well his ability. Armed with a voice with just enough husk to covet authenticity, whatever that is, his set was entrancing. Much of the material self-penned, we also got his favourite Bob Dylan, that, along with his apology for amplification, gained him an affectionate faux taunt of “Judas” from the floor. Sanders brought in a real sense of vintage trad jazz percussion to the overall effect, and 45 minutes flashed by. The best left to last, Dattani transposed a traditional English tune into his dense fingerpicking style, introducing a concept unfamiliar, that of Mississippi morris.

Back to the club tent, for the eagerly awaited Janice Burns & Jon Doran, ATB favourites. Doran was in full morris regalia, having, minutes before, been in half-gip . Taking the time to explain his kit was to help define who the Anglo in this Anglo-Scots outfit might be, I found myself wondering quite how the wider Burns family might take to this bizarre sassenach aberration.

Doran is a fine guitarist and bouzouki player, as well as a strong singer, his voice a perfect mix of received folkie and a more contemporary voice, with neither enough to frighten either faction. Burns’ vocals are the perfect complement to his, a fresh and spicy top note to his chunkier tones. Tabasco to his Branston, if you will. Playing mainly mandolin, she also had a tenor guitar to hand, this 4 string instrument becoming quite a recurring theme over the weekend. A brace of Ewan MacColl songs were played, with no small relish, even if the ghost of the writer was invoked as a possible critical presence, a thought that met little agreement, if any. Their subsequent rendition of As I Roved Out was perhaps the best version I have heard of this standard of the Irish tradition, a reminder that this duo, even with Burns’ professed hangover, are one of our best draws on the circuit.

A dash back through the inclement heavens had me just in time for Nick Hart & Tom Moore. Hart was new to my ears, despite his run of critically well received solo work, whereas Moore I knew well from his various excursions with Archie Churchill-Moss, in various duos and trios, as well as the band, False Lights. His is a viola style that carries an instant warmth, so it was going to be interesting to see how he played to another instrumental foil. And not just any instrument, as, for the purposes of this collaboration, Hart was pairing him with the viol da gamba, a seldom seen halfway house between viola and cello, played like the latter.

The two instruments gelled very well, giving a good mix of spritely and courtly, imbuing the atmosphere with the sense of a sixteenth century dance hall. Flowers Of Edinburgh took a lilting meander from reel to air to Elizabethan dance. Less successful, to my ear were the songs, possibly just a little to well known, although Raggle Taggle Gypsies did actually benefit from their arrangement. I fear Hart had a worse hangover than that alluded to by Janice Burns, and may not have been at his best, with the performance seeming under-rehearsed and a little unprofessional, to Moore’s evident discomfort. I wanted to like this more than I did, or as much as my colleague, John, loved their album, The Colour Of Amber. Maybe next time.

Another collaboration that was unfamiliar, even unexpected, was of Tom McConville & Michael Biggins. McConville is the veteran fiddle player from Newcastle, whose career stretches back to 70’s folk band, Magna Carta, and before, whereas Biggins in the piano wunderkind who has played with a wide variety of Scottish notables, including Duncan Chisholm, as well as, with Sam Mabbett, in his/their own The Canny Band. (3rd member, Callum Convoy, was in Portugal, I gather, otherwise they’d have played a set together).

McConville’s strengths are within the repertoire of Celtic, mainly Irish, fiddle tunes, the more frenzied the better, and in the sort of sentimental ballad that can get an audience in full throat, The set largely consisted of a mix of each. But, much as his bowing is exceptional, more exceptional still is Biggins, as each hand flew, independently and separately, over the piano keyboard.

Aside from the Northern Isles, piano is a rare contributor to fast driving jigs and reels, his play making you wish it were more often. This came particularly to the fore, when McConville left him to perform a set of 3 solo tunes alone, a strathspey and 2 hornpipes, all linked together. If the percussive keyboard style of the Shetlands is all about the rhythm, here he was able to demonstrate his left hand is not short on melody either. The effect was almost of a silent b&w movie, about the ‘old country’, a theatre pianist adding the otherwise missing textures and timbre, but so much so as to come as a shock that the celluloid was entirely imaginary. With McConville back on board, their extemporisations then gave a feel of how the Hot Club de Tyneside might sound, the two Geordies mixing and matching their influences willy-nilly, with a couple of audience pleasing songs to finish.

Luckily, at least for me, the curse of clashes had been largely absent, with now the only real dilemma presenting: would it be O’Hooley & Tidow, followed by Spiers & Boden, or a 15 year special anniversary performance by Granny’s Attic.

It was Granny’s Attic who drew the long straw, mainly as I haven’t caught them live previously, even if familiar with their last album, Brickfields. A good decision, as I was also allowed exposure to a name hitherto unknown, Seb Stone, a winner of Bromyard’s’s Future Of Folk Competition of 2022. This 23 year old, from the Peak District, is a singer and player of the uillean pipes and whistle. And what a player!

Claiming to have been playing the pipes for a couple of years, I’m thinking he surely must have meant the lovely shiny set he was holding, as his control and precision was pindrop perfect. With a voice akin a fruitier Paul Brady, he was confident to sing both unaccompanied and with the sole adjunct of pipe drones, the latter making for a very effective combination. It was a short and uplifting set, ending with What Will We Do When We Have No Money, giving Radie Peat, of Lankum, a fair old run for hers.

Into the headline set, and Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne, George Sansome and Lewis Wood seemed in impossibly high spirits. If Braithwaite-Kilcoyne can seem sometimes dour in demeanour, when playing with Angeline Morrison or with Reg Meuross, tonight he was all grins and gurns.

A different set than their current staples, this was to be a snapshot of their journey, from secondary school in Worcester to here. Professing to be rusty with these now seldom played tunes and songs, even allowing the audience a degree of decison making as to what they might play, or, at least, in what order, the reality was either that they are just magicians or very, very well rehearsed. A bit of both, I suspect.

It is difficult not to see B-K as the focus, but the reality is that he isn’t, with Sansome taking at least as much attention. Wood, as the only one not singing any lead vocal, might this be assumed to be just the glue, but his fiddle playing showed him to be very much an equal part the structure. B-K plays both melodeons and concertina like the undoubted king of squeeze that he is; only John Kirkpatrick can offer any similar mastery of the instruments, and would imagine he is delighted as to how B-K has swooped in to share his crown. Similarly, with a booming vocal that shivers even more timbers than Kirkpatrick, his auditory earprint is almost contradictorarily retrospective, it taking his youthful vim to squeeze new life into the tradition. His extravagant mop of Struwwelpeter hair harms no little either.

Sansome’s vocal style is silkier and makes for a good contrast, his guitar largely responsible for holding the threeway street of their chiarascuros together. They have become adept at onstage patter too, a recurring theme being of the real explanation behind their name, with various unlikely explanations brought forth. Not Grandad’s Basement was possibly my favourite. All too swiftly the alloted 90 minutes for the concert was up. If a highpoint were needed, I think it their rendition of Lovely Nancy, a song they reserve for soundchecks, and so which never usually gets an official performance. It was lovely that it, at last, did, even if they have yet to discover where it should start, and how it could end. (Hint: Sansome’s top notes were a good way for the close.) Bringing back Stone for a couple of encores was a good idea, Granny’s Attic plus pipes, and it all felt a celebration as much as it was enormous fun.

A swift sprint caught the final song or so of Spiers & Boden, but, with the tent overfull, standing room in the rain being all left available, the warmer delight of a return trip to Gurkha Kitchen and their chicken curry, this time, had to be my consolation. (Apologies to one of my editors, who holds them in high regard.)

SUNDAY:

Late night curry notwithstanding, sleep came easier. The bar provided a more soporific backdrop tonight, from afar, the entertainment seeming more instrumental than vocal, so it was merely the sound of rain that disturbed me.

A further trip into town made sure my 10k step requirement at least was acknowledged. Once more it had been taken over by a morris sides. I had hoped to find Jockey Morris, having had fleeting involvement with them a decade or two ago, but somehow missed them. I was also taken by how the good people on Moon Gazing Hare, providers of ale and other necessary sundries to the classier folk festival, had a mobile bar in the town square. Annoyingly, today I was driving, later in the day.

Back to the melèe, it was again Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne, to open my entertainment, rather than closing it. In solo mode, he lets rip his enjoyment of music hall, in addition to his encyclopaedic around the history of English folk song. With neither fiddle nor guitar as ballast, he gave a demonstration of the orchestral power of his various boxes. They were the synthesisers of their day, remember, making redundant full bands of fiddle and pipes, by being able to replicate that full sound alone. Which he did, with aplomb.

Similarly, by having a selection of instruments on hand, I was able to discern the different nuances of sound available from each, something I hadn’t really appreciated before. A proportion of the setlist was drawn from his forthcoming release, Play Up The Music, with much of the rest from his last, Rakes And Misfits. Here he has explored the journey of songs as they travelled from their British roots, digging them up again in the versions they took on in the West Indies. The same songs, separated by time and tide, emerging into new, if dimly recognisable, appearance. It’s wonderful stuff, coming soon!

There is something undeniably exciting about seeing quite how absorbed is B-K in his art and trade, and the feel of hope he offers for the future of this style of music. Whether I am quite so certain about music hall is, or was, debatable. But, if anyone can convince, it would be he, with his set closer, From Marble Arch To Leicester Square, a corker on so many levels. He is a patron of Bromyard Festival, or, at least, Granny’s Attic are. This performance, and last night’s, demonstrates exactly why.

I missed Banter, the concert, but mades sure I did not miss Banter, the ceilidh, the dance band iteration of the same four musicians, plus caller. This gives space for them to expand out and along from the instrumentals in their set, which is all manna to the mindset of Simon Care, who has been in dance bands for as long as I can recall. But rather than just applying a received ceilidh band brush to the brief, it is his companions who add the additional gloss to his already shiny coat.

His melodeon is, naturally, pristine, the same pink jobby he was touting at Sidmouth, but it is Tim Walker, Nina Zella and Mark Jolley who surprise. Walker is never your typical percussionist, finding rhythms where most can’t. His trumpet is also here, and in normal performance, the Banter secret weapon, the strident brass scouring out a place in your heart. Mind you, Zella’s piano is a tinkling cascade, again a feature notably absent from the usual folk dance suspects. Which leaves Jolley, who shows himself, given the space, to be a far more inventive bassist than one may have thought, especially as he relaxes down into the dub groove that Care can so easily slot his playing into. Plus he plays fiddle. I wish I had caught more but time and all that………

My curtain call for Bromyard 2024 came now, and was one eagerly anticipated. Apologies if you have read this far, awaiting opinion on, say Fay Hield, whose trio closed the festival proper, but I had a deadline to meet. but I wasn’t going to miss Gnoss.

Having missed their set at Cambridge, last year, by minutes, I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. A sensible decision, as it was one of the best slots of this many festivalled summer. The four piece, Connor Sinclair on whistles and flute, Aidan Moodie, guitar and vocals, Graham Rorie, fiddle and electric tenor guitar and Craig Baxter on bodhran, brought another waft of other than Albion to the festival, their music distinctly Caledonian, much of it from further north still, from the Orcadian home of Moodie and Rorie.

Using an occasional additional synthesiser drone, the collective sound was much bigger than the four individuals, evoking windswept isles and stormy seas. Moodie has a voice not far distant from a cheekier Paul Simon, which, set against the tenor guitar, offers a more midwest vibe, with the whistle and bodhran then bring back to wilder shores. Mood music and evocative songs made for the perfect end to my four day jaunt, their between song patter full of an innocent Sunday Post charm. Given Moodie is concurrently also in Mànran, it is even money as to which gives the better show, with, tonight, my money erring on this quartet. Check out their last album, Stretching Skyward.

So then, Bromyard 2024, farewell. A first for me, it came to offer a little other and beyond my expectations. I had fully expected Sidmouth to be the staunchest defendant of the folk world, or, dare I say, the old order thereof. Strangely, Bromyard gives a far stricter and straighter offering; no laptop ceilidh bands here, and even amplified instruments were few and far between. Yet, courtesy the age and enthusiasm of the predominantly younger performers, this all seemed less set in stone, allowing evolution, maintaining the spirit, at the same time as testing the tail feathers for future flight. I’m impressed.

Here are Janice Burns & Jon Doran, proving just that point, if in a performance from a year or three back, and elsewhere:

Bromyard Folk Festival online: Website

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