Multi-venue takeover of the Northern Quarter for the Manchester Folk Festival. 20th – 22nd March 2025.
BY ‘ECK…
…as they likely don’t any more say around here, it isn’t half trendy, it actually being since they last brewed Boddington’s that I was last in the City. And ain’t it grand, the Northern Quarter being the perfect setting for this sort of shindig, as the venues all nestle relatively nearby, cheek by jowl with all the sourdough, coffee and craft ale outlets populating this once post industrial wasteland.
The Manchester Folk Festival has previously been an autumnal event, associated with the English Folk Expo, a showcase for the promotion of, nominally, English Folk, a trade fair/conference where the delegates might all be agents, promoters or bookers: “the annual gathering for music industry representatives with an interest in the folk, roots and acoustic music sector in England.”
It would seem a shame to deprive other enthusiasts from the range of artists drawn in thereby, so a vibrant, related if separate, series of gigs and shows has been set up, by the organisers, around it. For this one, MFF # 8, a decision was made to shift the dates to Spring, and, with the equinox bursting in with the sunniest day of the year, it seemed a sound move. A very atypical Mancunian day.
DAY ONE : HOT, HOT, HOT.
Centered around the mother ship of Band on the Wall, the iconic venue in the heart of the Quarter, this is where most of the days started and certainly ended. Like a greenfields festival, the devil is always in the detail, that detail being the schedule, as multiple shows run concurrently, needing careful planning and a clash-finder to negotiate the musts from the maybes. With venues often several streets away, is more akin to the Glastonbury Experience over, say, that of Cropredy. Something is always going to be missed, with that no exception here, at least for those with the festival wristband, whose purchase entitled entry to all or any, as well as the occasional otherwise Expo delegate only events.
Purple Heather?
It was with one of the last that MFF began, with the Heather Ferrier Trio. Local lass, Ferrier hails from adjacent Stockport, and is an accordionist. Here with her (power) trio of guitar and drums, she gave the festival a rousing start, with way more welly than that line-up might suggest. The high miking of Alasdair Paul’s acoustic guitar made any chord resound ringingly, his picking also apt and aposite.
And as for the frankly stunning drumplay; few could keep their eyes off Adam Stapleton as he cooly and casually pounded his kit into a controlled submission. Anyone who has watched Michael Jerome in amazement, at a Richard Thompson gig, well, he has serious competition here. Ferrier, meanwhile, coaxed extravagant runs from her instrument. During closer, Apple 1, I jotted down “if Deep Purple did folk,” thinking mostly of Jon Lord and his way with jazzy classical extrapolations. Way to go!
PURE FOLK & SMOKY AMERICANA
I’d been looking forward to Hannah Sanders and Ben Savage ever since the album, not least as they were here with their band. Moving from the one posh venue to another, from Hallé at St Michael’s, to the Victoria Wood Room at Hallé at St Peter’s, these were each reminders both of Manchester’s musical heritage and ecclesiastical architectural legacy.
From the start they revealed quite why they are held with such regard, the mix and match of Sanders’ crystalline vocals with Savage’s guitar and dobro precision. Or her pure folk cadence and his more smoky americana. Or even his beatnik hipster vibe and her benign, if amused, regard for the same. The addition of keyboards, double bass and drums gave the same sense of added depth as does the record, without ever quite taking away the jaw drop of their duo play, for the segment when the band peeled away.
OLD AND NEW
The set was a good mix of the older and newer material, a cherry pick across their repertoire. Early highlights would have to be opener, Come All Ye Fair And Tender Maids, as much for the full band thrill of it, and Clayton Boone, with Sanders now on dulcimer. Savage was switching, song by song, between his extravagant guitar picking and the sweeping runs he can coax out his dobro. The combination of dobro and mini-moog may not be an obvious one, but it is a good one, and Savage and Jacob Stoney are well matched, each firing off on a mutual love of the music of 1960’s San Fran. Jon Thorne can do no wrong on bass, his playing both for time and tune, with Josh Clark simply uber-reliable at his kit, a calm and competent backdrop.
PIN DROP PIQUANCY
From the pin drop duo piquancy of mid-set Polly O Polly and I Gave My Love A Cherry, the band returned for the full Haight-Ashbury of Lilac Bloom, merging into the pristine beauty of Quiet Joys Of Brotherhood, a wincingly eye-moistening rendition. Mindful this is a shorter festival set rather than a full concert experience.knowing what and not to include must be a challenge, but it is one this engaging couple rise to, closing with Youngest Sailor, a highpoint of last year’s In The Dark We Grow, and the exquisite A Thousand New Moons, leaving the room in the dusky sheen said moons might provide. Wonderful.
WITHNAIL DEFIES DISDAIN
Which left me with a quandary, with a clash of Sean Cooney’s Peter’s Field project and Jon Boden’s Remnant Kings. With the former event already rammed, I chose the latter, inasmuch to see if I could shake off my Boden prejudice. Believe me, it is difficult to keep any folky credibility intact with an innate, um, difficulty around his vegemite vocal delivery – as in I love Marmite – especially when the boss thinks so differently! Instantly glad I had, suddenly those Damascene scales fell, if not flew, off my eyes, suddenly getting his wayward charm, and some. Resplendent in a sparkly jacket, and with a stellar band, he came across with the full splendour of a Richard E. Grant Withnail, conducting school assembly.
The band? Well, with an unorthodox mix of oboe, pedal steel and concertina, alongside bass, drums and the bandleader’s toy piano and guitars, the accompaniment they gave this mix of music hall, madrigal and worldwide family favourites (circa 1830) was little short of magical. Boden’s oozed charisma and cracked tenor crumpled my stony heart. Even the debateable merit of Oggie Man, from that limited selection of songs about fast food, was delightful, it an early marker of the direction of flow.
SPECIAL MENTION (1)
It is hard to believe this concept is around a genre despised by the purists of their day, not least as several have become staples. Bonny Bunch Of Roses being one such, the full ensemble gifted it with an ungainly grace that defied disdain. The sudden realisation that it was fiddler Sam Sweeney behind the drumkit only amplified the sense of awe, he having the presence of mind to have his usual instrument hung up aside the cymbals, for easy multi-tasking. Superb drummer, too.
SPECIAL MENTION (2)
Other special mention must go to the steel man, M.G. Boulter and to Sally Hawkins on oboe (and sax), each of whose additions added out of ordinary textures to the overall sound. Also, to see and hear that Rob Harbron is also quite handy on the banjo came as a distinct pleasure, although his concertina was the usual pleasure otherwise. Concertina did I say, suddenly realising the whole band, bar their boss, were wielding one at one stage, for a wall of squeeze. Boden didn’t pick up a fiddle at any stage, concentrating on his tiny piano, swapping occassionally to guitars, showing he is no slouch on those either. Similarly, several songs had him as just lead singer, with a microphone style somewhere between Plant and Daltrey, if with no, yet, helicopter swinging.
NOVEL AND EXCITING
I confess the arrangements were often so novel and exciting as to sometimes render the songs unknown, something remedied by a purchase the album(s) promptly thereafter. It mattered not, I and the disappointingly small, for the venue, Band on the Wall audience lapped it all up, recognised or not. And sang along, recognised or not. Having failed to mention other band member, Ben Nicholls, it was both a joy and a surprise to see him wield an electric bass, even if his sturdy upright was also available. This line-up is yet another dream team in Boden’s formidable list of dream teams. By the time an impasioned Rose of Allendale came to close the set, I was fully converted.
Sean Cooney, Eliza Carthy and Sam Carter apparently played a blinder over the way, but I was more than happy with my last minute substitution.
LATE NIGHT EXTRA
With the day nearly done, there was only the late night sessions, held each night, still at Band on the Wall. 11pm to 1am. 3 artists/bands each night. Thursday got off to a head start with 3 Daft Monkeys, adept practitioners of whipping up a storm, if more often outside in a field or large marquee. This short set showed the quartet fitted equally well to the constraints of four strong walls and true. Tired feet meant I was sitting, on the balcony, a rarity for their sort of show, but meant I could more fully assimilate quite how good a fiddle player is Athene Roberts.
I have seen the band a number of times over the last year or so, and they get better and better; Tim Ashton is much more than a random singer and shouter, his 12 string a shimmer of some consequence, whilst “new boy” Jamie Graham is either holding down the groove on his energetic bass, or adding whistle contrasts to Roberts’ Eastern European vibe. Finally, hand drummer Rich Mulryne really should only be witnessed from above, so as to fully contextualise the sounds he beats out from his bespoke kit.
BROAD CHURCH
Uncertain who or why Brazen got booked, an instrumental brass ensemble, featuring a host of young women: seven brass, drums and (very enthusiastic) tambourine smasher. Little to do with folk or, indeed, much else, but their medley of disco favourites seemed to pass muster with those still standing. Broad church and all that, so fair enough. Sadly, the final act, Remorae, whom we reviewed last year, were beset with set up and sound problems, starting late and then hoisted by the petard of the curfew, failing to give other than the barest hint of their capabilities, which was a great shame.
DAY 2: FINE, FINE, FINE
Cascade of Canadiana
So the sun may have decided to hide, but it was still and dry, which is always a plus in this city. It being morning, well, early afternoon, it was another wristband only special to kick the day off. The English Folk Expo have teamed up with Folk Canada for some international cross fertilisation, with, as an aperitif, three Canadian acts making their UK debuts. First of these was a minstrel of the guitar/vocal school, Luke Wallace, with just time for three songs to claim hearts. Coming across a little like Steve Forbert and a more serious Loudon Wainwright III, he also had a touch, compulsorily, perhaps, given his nationality, of Ron Sexsmith. One song, Snowin’ In Vegas, stood out.
Next up came the duo, Bassett, whose closeasthis harmonies carried a distinct hit of vintage Simon & Garfunkel, assuming one or other one were female, (or possibly as noted by one attendee, the Canadian Sanders & Savage). When she then took a solo lead vocal, it was Dar Williams that filtered through, so a combination of some merit. Lastly, and most intriguingly, we got Diyet, perhaps loosely described as First Nation Country and Northern.
Diyet is the singer and songwriter, a formidable performer of considerable stage presence, who sang in both her own language and English, regaling us with tales of life in the far flung Yukon. Backed by two of her Love Soldiers(!?), more often a six piece, I gather, she played bass, at least to start, and sang. And what a show they gave, a barely 30 minute extravaganza of Canadiana.
The two soldiers represented fair looked the part, grizzled ranch hands of indeterminate vintage, able to add guitar, pedal steel, mandolin and a drum, when needed, as well as immaculate harmonies. Bob Hamilton, who tackled steel, electric guitar and mandolin was the perfect counterpoint to his bandleader’s strong vocal presence: if Dolly Parton came from Burwash Landing and was a member of the Kluane First Nation, she might sound a lot like this. Superb, not least when the three crowded around a single radio microphone for the tight vocal harmony, mandolin and guitar of their closing number. As I said to a chum who runs Birmingham’s premier small roots venue, book ’em, Brett!
BAREFOOT
Back to St Peter’s Victoria Wood Room, this was for the pocket dynamo of Hannah James, of voice, accordion and feet fame, paired with occasional collaborator, cellist remarkable, Toby Kuhn. Who needs a rhythm section when Kuhn can play lead, bass and saw accompaniment on his instrument, with James providing complex foot percussion with her bare feet, simultaneously singing and playing hers? The size of her full piano accordion threatened to swamp her, but she always won. Pretty astonishing stuff, as much to observe as listen. The time rushed by, as they reproduced material old and new, her often wordless vocals as beguiling as when any narrative becomes apparent, as in The Giant, which prove one of the standout’s in this all too brief appearance.
WOW FACTOR
The longest walk of the weekend, down to Victoria Station and the Stoller Hall, revealed another stately venue, perhaps more used to classical performance than much else. Be that as it may, it is a lovely hall and suited well the ambience offered by Grace Smith, support for the subsequent performance. Without her trio, the fiddle player gave a delightful set of solo tunes, describing the history and the how and why of where she tracked down the versions she was playing.
Absolutely enthralling, the wow factor then rising a few further notches when she introduced a special guest, where the decision he join her was seemingly made on the hoof and not long before. That guest being the Dave Grohl of this festival, given his tendency to pop up all over the place, the mighty Sam Sweeney. It’s true, they have played together a time or two, it seems, but the consummate professionalism with which they played a further selection of old tunes, neither ever quite playing the same melody line, was little short of astounding. It must happen again and more formlly, should either ever find time in their packed schedules.
I KNOW WHERE THE TIME WENT
It was going to have to be not only good, but great, to top that. Which, without any shadow, it was, as Josienne Clarke, took a night off from her own superlative songwriting, to give us a masterclass (mistressclass??) in tackling the Sandy Denny songbook. With a band of guitar, keys, bass and drums, she elected to sing only, no guitar or sax tonight, and who can blame her, all concentration apparent as she channeled the late singer with as much fidelity as is possible, without losing her own spark of individuality. All of this, despite the preceding week blessing her with tonsillitis, laryngitis and a chest infection.
Beginning with a song she has before covered, Reynardine immediately set the bar high, a blood chilling rendition full of late night atmosphere. Thereafter it was a mix of Denny writes and traditionals she made famous. She then swiftly managed to do the impossible, as I picked up my jaw, for a delivery of Old Fashioned Waltz, so careful and so beautiful I could completely forget the string ridden original. (The sole song by Denny I cannot usually abide.) Blackwaterside carries no such baggage and was utterly gorgeous, displaying Clarke’s full open-throated range. Similarly, Fotheringay showed the other and more restrained side of her technique.
THE BAND
A word here for the band, who, possibly wisely, elected to avoid duplicating the styles of the musicians who were Denny’s frequent accompanists and band members. That is, apart from drummer, Dave Hamblett, more often a jazzer, who somehow managed to reproduce the famous Mattacks lapsed beat, the is he or isn’t he thwack, always arriving nearly if never late. Clarke’s husband, Alec Bowman-Clarke, took the bass duties, with the piano and electronic keyboards of Matt Robinson adding a jazzier and bluesier hue to the arrangements, Lukas Drinkwater was on on guitars, a muted but subtle foil to Robinson.
Moving forward with Late November and a stunning Noth Star Grassman And The Raven, it felt truly as we were in a time capsule, witnessing the author herself. The poignancy with which she then introduced Solo, was immense, describing a car journey that had her hollering out the song, through the open window, such was the sense of identity she could associate to the lyric.
MAUDLIN MAGNIFICENCE
On a roll of maudlin magnificence, once a mention of 19 verses was made, little doubt was there as to what would follow. Matty Groves was superlative, she remembering the words better than a certain Mr Nicol sometimes might, the only disappointment being when the band failed to rise to her challenge, as she burst into a rapid vocalisation of the closing instrumental coda. Finally The Sea and she was off.
Off? Off? What about the song, that song? Worry not, of course she returned, knowing too that she wouldn’t be able to leave without her essential rendition of Denny signature song, Who Knows Where The Time Goes. But sadly it did went, with only her last plea to close, that the audience support her own works, as it is only that if she can make enough money, from them, that this project will ever see wax. I think that’s a pretty good idea, and you could do a lot worse than start here.
WHICH ONE’s BEAR?
Floating back to the Band On The Wall hub, there was stil the business of the late night club format. Missing the opening act, John Kelly, it was Honey And The Bear who were now onstage. It was possible to swiftly see quite why they have built up such acclaim, as up close the rapport between Lucy and Jon Hart is immense, plying their harmonies and swapping their instruments, the most striking of which a large upright bass. I don’t think we got their own Who Knows Where The Time Goes version, missing it if we did, which would have been apt after the earlier concert, but we got a bevy of their own material. No Toby Shaer tonight, but estimable melodeon botherer, Archie Churchill-Moss, was present, as was the ebullient and effervescent Evan Carson, on his bespoke percussion kit, each, with Shaer, regular sidesmen for the couple.
To close came Oli Matthews and his band, they providing a rare treat of funky hornplay. If you can imagine an EII who, rather than reggae, might choose to strut to a range of other grooves, ranging from the Deep South an N’Awlins, other Caribbean flavours and some African rhythms, well, that would be about right. All instrumental and with most tunes underlaid by beginning with the leader’s melodeon. Bedecked in brightly coloured migraine awareness shirts, the front line of trumpets, ‘bones, and bass all bopped and parped large, as Matthews switched to soprano sax, the drummer having to be a mix of Dr Teeth and an octopus. Just the tonic to bring back life to my tired soles.
DAY 3 : WET, WET, WET
To be fair, not all day it wasn’t, but, when the clouds opened, opened they did, a swift lesson in the myth and metereology of Manchester. Indeed the day began with a sojourn in the square in front of St. Peters and the Saddleworth morris dancers, to plan out the day.
ARMADILLO WORLD HQ
Revisiting the Canadian partnership came first, as local boy Robbie Cavanagh paired up with Lawrence Maxwell, possibly his Prince Edward Island equivalent. Put together by the English Folk Expo, Cavanagh had spent time in that part of Canada, with Maxwell, writing songs together.
Today, the honours were reversed. But first they each played a short set separately. Cavanagh led, together with his usual band, for that agreeably unfiltered and unrefined brand of roots, best described as truckstop rock, no nonsense meat and potatoes country rock, with the emphasis on the latter. With his master guitarist, Thomas Dibb, bending notes with abandon, Cavanagh hollered through some authentic succotash sass, and the Band on the Wall became the Armadillo World HQ, at least for the duration.
Maxwell then took over, representing more orthodox “hat act” territory, if sans stetson, crossed with the vocal style of Waylon Jennings, before the two traded verses for songs fresh off the collab. More Maverick than Folk, it was nonetheless a thoroughly entertaining yee-haw of a diversion.
No Brouhaha
Something completely different up next, with another trip to St. Peters, this time the grand central hall. Nominally for the massive One World Orchestra, I confess I took more to Tunisian trio, Broua, who opened proceedings. Normally a bigger unit, circumstances, and possibly costs, meant we had only the core three-piece. But what a trio: a guitarist, a vocalist doubling on fiddle and rounded up by a flute and clarinet player.
A wonderful concoction, they cooked a simmering broth of light samba rhythms with Hot Club de Paris textures, together with a hint of qawwali in the vocals. Stunning and mesmerising in turn, it was an undoubted highlight of the weekend, spoiled only by their having no merch available.
ALL NATIONS UNDER ONE GROOVE
One World tried to follow that, their unwieldy mix of all nations under one groove a little too clinical and worthy, for all the enthusiasm of the front line vocal encouragements. Rap mixed with vocal elements from Zimbabwe, Ghana and the Middle East, accompanied by talking drums, samba piano, both indian and gypsy strings, oud, flamenco guitar, melodeon and a rhythm section, all making the Afro-Celts seem all but one-dimensional. But Sunday teatime, in a brightly lit and all seating venue, was maybe not the best way to appreciate them.
WHICH ONE’s HECTOR?
Brightly lit became replaced by the shabby chic, or just plain shabby of Manchester’s fabled Castle Hotel, a tiny pub of many labyrinthine rooms. A popular and heaving old school bar, it hides a bijou venue in a back room, with a leaky ceiling and no stage. This was where Hector Gannet were due. Not as in which one’s Hector, this is a 5 piece band, fronted by Aaron Duff, a singer-songwriter from North Shields. Tonight, however, they were one man down, their bassist stricken by some lurgi. This meant for a stripped back show, at times near a solo set from Duff, and an altogether different flavour for Duff’s well constructed material.
The opportunity was also thus gifted for a fair amount of new to be aired. With a strong voice, hints present of both Alan Hull and David Gray, together with a touch of Paul Brady, it is an attractive instrument, and his guitar play, on a hollow bodied epiphone, was sensitive and seductive. In the songs when second guitar, also hollow-bodied, joined in with him, along with electric piano, a wider screen mentality unfolded within his yearning songs Boat In The Bottle was a central blockbuster, a quiet burn of a song that had the capacity crowd hushed in reverence. OK, that capacity may only have been about 40, but it felt like more, few leaving other than impressed. Highly recommended.
GOTHIC GRIMOIR, SKITTERY AND SHIMMERING
An act definitely not to miss was of Lisa Knapp & Gerry Diver, whose recent release is still hot off the press. St Matthews was where they were playing, with a fair old crowd squeezing into the lobby ahead of doors, so as to escape the heavens. And what an enticing (and odd) couple they are, a distinct ambience of Toyah and Fripp in her zany bubbliness and his more eccentric mad inventor persona.
I have to say that just added to my enjoyment of their set. Including many of the tracks from Hinterland, it was just the two of them, with Knapp on fiddle, autoharp and vocals, and Diver, squinting and sometimes scowling at his laptop, simultaneously programming loops and backing, whilst too playing fiddle. He also had access to his banjo and the ancient bass drum used, by Pete Flood, on the album, fitted with a footpedal.
LARK OR LINNET
Knapp can sing like a lark or a linnet, and did, cheerfully introducing most the songs. Diver has a way of making all his own playing seem to arise from a wax cylinder, scratchy and dipping in and out of clarity. For, especially, his instrumental interludes, this gave a glorious sepia filter to the soundscape. But he is also the studio boffin, so his manipulations of sound were sometimes confusingly comples, where confusing is good. The opportunity was taken to reproduce a couple of selections from his intriguing Speech Project project of 2012. This allies snippets of spoken word, often looped and repeated, into the patterns of Irish jigs and reels, he having appreciated that the cadence of Irish English speech is just as musical as the tunes played.
To balance the tapes with live play, simultaneously, looked far from easy, especially when his foot was needed also to add percussion, but he managed. Knapp’s Shipping Song, from 2013, was another tour de force, as Diver struck autoharp with a padded stick, strumming with the index finger and thumb of his other hand, as Knapp sang. Remarkable. Undoubtedly the piece de resistance was the gothic grimoir of Long Lankum, effortlessly swapping its role as central to the record to being central to the show, but the material all shone to some degree, the encore of Blacksmith a closing highlight, all skittery and shimmering.
Done and Dusted
All but done in by this stage, the late night club proved too taxing to see in it’s entirety, but a superb version of Tainted Love, rendered by by reputable bluegrass/Americana trio, Jaywalkers was stonkingly good. I therefore missed most of the Spice Girls meet LGBTQ rhetoric of RE:VULVA, last seen at Sidmouth, which was a shame as I enjoy their lively and largely instrumental folktronic fusion, and Sam Kelly and his trio. My excuse, as with any other of the shows missed, is that I know a man who didn’t, whose photos grace this review and whose additional notes are added…
MENTIONED IN DISPATCHES
And so, at the expense of seeing full performances, the alternative was dodging in and out of venues, criss-crossing the Northern Quarter and making friends for life with the Band On The Wall doormen. Two of whom seemed to be in friendly competition as to who could check my kit bag the most – “I’ll bet you it’s a camera in there.” I swore one ran away one time when he saw who was coming…
Meanwhile, sampling the alternative fayre on offer resulted in several of noteworthy mentions, with apologies to any of the performers we managed to miss, not many to be fair, in ticking the boxes.
BIG HITTERS
Cara Dillon and Sean Cooney’s Peter’s Field added to the wristband holders dilemma. Cara and band and Sam are another undeniably quality outfit. Her recent literary outings have opened new doors and when Sam sits at the rather splendid grand piano, the music goes into the realms of the sublime.
Employing spoken word and varying the simple yet effective guitar/fiddle instrumentation, Peter’s Field may not have the production clout of the Johnny Longstaff show, but the effectiveness comes in the stripped back production. Sean Cooney’s blossoming from a young’un into a storyteller of repute, backed by the double whammy of Sam Carter and Eliza Carthy has seemingly set his future course. The few performances of his tale of the the events of Peterloo will unfold in due course on the album release on the actual anniversary date. So far, the handful of performances of the piece have been mere aperitifs. Helps too when one of the band can do a warm up….
The general air of, I guess ‘atmosphere’, in the Victoria Wood room at St Peter’s meant negotiating a way to a seat was best done by sonar, with the challenge of taking any photos by the light of 4 deep orange LEDs was sadly lost. So apologies to anyone who, by comparison, appears quite grimy and grainy. It is what it is, and didn’t detract from the performances in there. Sanders & Savage (and the H&B band) were, as noted, stupendous. Miranda Sykes and Jim Causley, both together and apart a class act. The former a dedicated interpreter and student of the traditional, the latter proving just more than the person who backs Knightley and Beer as some may stereotype her.
FOLKY ENOUGH?
Cocktail glass in hand, and confessing later, that she was worried that she may not be folky enough, Detta Kenzie emerged from sitting fully clothed in a river (as per her promo photos, although it could have easily been reproduced in the Cutting Room Square deluge) to a Tobias Ben Jacob accompanied set with aplomb. The guitar added to the folky element to her soulful vocals. Given the dimness of the room, a late night cabaret vibe oozed. The same could be said for Red Sky July. the trio with Ally McErlane’s twangy Fender notes cutting through the murk and the harmonies of Shelly Poole and Hayley Glennie-Smith enough to almost melt the darkness. Music to drift and dream to.
After seeing Bernard Butler play in the Butler, Blake & Grant trio at Cambridge in 2024, he’s opened himself to a new audience, seen in a new light. he might have sported a thumb bandage after attempts to become more finger style folky, but he has enough in the locker, and can talk his folk side up, to justify his place on the bill. Lily Lyons on support, aiming to garner the sort of attention grabbing notoriety that has seen Katherine Priddy rocket up the rankings. Built of the same fragile vocal, delicate acoustic picking format where folk and singer songwriter collide.
ON A ROLL
A musician who gets the call from both Richard Thompson and Jools Holland, the flavour of the month, the musician on a roll, Katherine Priddy filled St Peter’s. Backed as she often is by George Boomsma, like the delicate yet melancholy support of Memorial, she tested the breath holding qualities of the assembled. Her well rehearsed scene setting banter/song intros are worthy of Kate Rusby, but without the Yorkshire accent and ‘where the heck is this story going’ vibe. With her The Pendulum Swing album now bedded in, the intrigue lies in where lies her next move.
Brief visits to the back room of the Castle Hotel and the Copper bar at BOTW saw us encounter a hive of activity and the wider breadth of the folk offerings. Manchester via Kenya from Macharia, Iranian folk from a slimmed down Hamsaz and and the closer to home acoustic set from Nani Porenta. The latter more associated with offering a broad pallette, the acoustic option more of a palate cleanser between the more exotic offerings either side. Add the vibrancy of the Guacamata Latin Band and Xaawo Kiin singing over recorded loops and suddenly the international flavours of folk music burst free.
GONNA RIP IT UP
Skirted around a bar top full of Guinness, Luke Jackson was ripping up the back room. With the real possibility of complaints from the front bar looming, he turned/toned down the likes of Eliza Holt with the tender delicacy of Tiny Windows. However, the electric bluesy soul of of a trio who seemed determined to out do each other while remaining in the tightest of grooves was thrilling. Maybe not folk but a real pallette cleanser. And in complete contrast t the airy and dreamy atmosphere set by Yoshika Colwell. Not enough time, but one marked for future investigation… Likewise, the brief encounter with the experimental soundscapes of Fran and Flora….
Brown Wimpenny and Ferocious Dog were similarly ripping it up at Band On The Wall. The massed ranks of the Wimpenny’s slowly building riffs and mix of all things that branch from the Folk tree and the Dog’s more direct smash and grab style. The contrast of the passion and fire of the old dogs who can still learn new tricks and the young pretenders who want to create their own visions of folk music. A perfect combo.
Holly Clarke (later seen with Re:Vulva) went from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds with a Germanic hunting song and nod to Martin Carthy. Some start, before the Tom Moore/Nick Hart duo delivered a rustic string laden set; no nonsense and a contrast to the broader musical picture from Manchester’s Caoilfhionn Rose. A musician whose reputation in the locale is starting to gain traction.
DOWN WITH THE KIDZ
And while the name of Nick Cope may be a mystery to some, the toddlers who packed the Stoller with their parents knew every word. He’s on kids TV apparently and clearly has an army of fans. Mental note to get more in touch with the kidz. Especially the song about the hat with the bobble that wobbles on the top….
Manchester Folk Festival: Official Website
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