August Bank Holiday weekend, 22-25/8/25, at the West Midlands Showground. Take a deep breath and a long slug of coffeee, it’s an epic!

Woo and, indeed, hoo, but did the heavens align for this tremendous and uplifting three days of sun in Shropshire? Absolutely, yes, yes and yes, this being perhaps the most joyous iteration of the sturdy elder statesman of tented events yet, dedicated, as it is, to the broad and accepting family of folk music. Shrewsbury, you nailed it, and the evident pleasure of the 7000 souls, streaming out at 6pm on bank holiday Monday, once the Levellers had gifted the field with their sumptuous finale, well, that gave all the evidence you’d ever need. I’m still smiling, if exhausted, so give me a mo’ to collect my thoughts.

FRIDAY:

FROGS, CLOGS, SCOTS AND….

More Scots. actually, as Shrewsbury had paired up with Showcase Scotland Expo, and there was a decidely Caledonian heft of artists from North of the border on hand, manna, of course, to my bagpipe helmed vision of heaven. Something that was always a big feature of the resting, and trying to recuperate, Cambridge Folk Festival, Shrewsbury have unshamedly grasped that the opportunity offered, polishing still further their laurels, as they vie with Sidmouth for the crown of UK folk festivals.

Friday is always a slower burn, a more leisurely start to the weekend, with time aplenty to erect your tent and peruse the acreage. Much the same design as in recent years, an outdoor main stage at the top of the area allotted, set a little apart from the more concentrated market place that accomodates food and crafts, and the always bustling Dance tent. Further back, or is it front, is the all important meeting place of the Salopian Berwick Bar, with the further stages a little set off thataway. Both marquees, the Sabrina and the Pengwern, universally known as Penguin, stages are a little more compact, positioned sufficiently far apart to minimise sound bleed. And believe me, that is needed, as, these days, folk music can be very very loud indeed.

A duty first, given Frog On A Bike, a ceilidh band from Cambridge with drumming roots in Bolton, were wetting the head of the Dance tent. Although I am not a native, Bolton is ATB’s spiritual home and from where it began. FoaB include the drummer from the world famous in the West Pennine Moors, the Bolton Iron Maiden, and, introductions duly made, they played as epitomical a set of 21st century ceilidh band music as you might wish for, as the full floor for formation dances swiftly proved. As you’d expect, the rhythm section were as solid as Circassian Circles and Cumberland Square Eights demand, and delivered with just the wallop and ratatatat required.

A PINT AND SOME PERTHSHIRE CHARM

Moongazing Hare continue to provide the exemplary, and extremely competitively priced licenced victuals for the event, with even just listening the the above guaranteeing a thirst to slake. Bravo to them for keeping festival pints to around the fiver mark. The Village Stage had started by then, a small outside arena in the middle of, unsurprisingly, the marketplace, the venue also for many the Morris displays. But I was on my way to the big field and to the Severn stage, to witness Dougie MacLean, the bard of Dunkeld, christen that setting.

Few unaccompanied singer-guitarist can make a large arena their own, but MacLean is one. The affable Scot has such warmth and charisma that the size of the field shrinks right away, and he may as well be playing in a tiny hotel bar folk club, or even your front room. From his 51 years a troubadour, he has a wealth of songs and stories to fall back upon, giving us some of his best of both. One such song is Talking With My Father, in which he sees himself becoming his father, the poignancy of the song deliciously at odds with tales of derring do about erupting volcanos in Iceland.

Switching to banjo, a skill aquired in lockdown that, as he recounted, removed his option to pour scorn on the instrument and it’s practitioners, not that he resisted, with a few of the familiar jibes that heavy the load of those who pluck the old five-string. And he plays it very well.

CAST WELL

Rocket To The Moon had the audience swelling up in song, so, doing the only sensible thing he can, he stops and lets them fill the air. It’s quite a moment, and the time to unblock any tear duct left unbroken in. Caledonia, of course, then gets a ceremonial unfurling. Surely it is time for the nation to ditch the execrable Flower Of Scotland and recognise this is Scotland’s true unofficial anthem. A few more songs and he was off, but the die of the whole weekend had been cast, and cast well.

FROM HAITI TO TIREE

Sticking in this part of the festival, it was Moonlight Benjamin up next. Me neither, but, described as a Haitian Patti Smith, she needed to be seen and heard. First impressions were of WTF, as the tiny figure of Benjamin yelped and ululated, eyes rolling like a slot machine, all the while prowling the stage. All incantations and invocations, chicken blood was the only item missing. But, gradually, as her heavy rock quartet set up a swirling beat behind her, so the spell took shape and hold of the agog attendees.

With dusk coming down, it became a decent din, song building on song, as Benjamin and the dual guitars traded for attention. Heavy metal voodoo, anyone, and if was stretching even the current wide accomodations of folk, no-one told the audience of jiving elders, with even the ranks of seated on their feet. (Not a dig at the demographic, honest, as it is no secret that the average Shrewsbury punter will be familiar with their pension, if with a healthy overspill to encompass the decades both below and, for that matter, above. And dogs, more dogs you could ever shake, or throw, a stick at.)

Not my imagination, but had the tiny folk club of MacLean’s field suddent transformed, it now becoming a boundless stretch from here to infinity? It certainly seemed so, the crowd quietly swelling throughout the performance by the, apparently, certified (certifiable?) Voodoo priestess. Whilst many may have been drawn, like moths, to her flame, many upon many more were here for, top of Friday’s bill, Skerryvore.

The show, timed on the day of their anniversary acknowledging release, Live At Floors Castle, had this reviewer a few suppositions to cement. The field was absolutely rammed, right up to what is never called the moshpit. But tonight it may well have been, and the roar, as the band trooped on, was likely enough to have the Welsh, 10 miles away, in fear of invasion. Then the sound as they began, jings and double jings, it was freaking enormous.

DISPENSING WITH THE DAINTY

If, on record, even a live record, the atmosphere is clearly audible, live it is positively palpable, as huge a sound as can be. Remember sensaround? This is sensimmersion! If fervour were a sound, this would be the noise made, as the twin bagpipes, fiddle, guitar, keyboards accordion slotted in and together, underpinned by the earthshakes of bass and drums. Skerryvore are indeed a rock band, capital R, but it is when the traditional instruments sally forth that the biggest cheers come. The set did not differ much from the album, other than to dispense with anything pandering more to the daintier end of their spectrum. Or was it just that the impetus was such as to be transformative?

Alec Dalglish is an effective and masterful frontman, but, boy, when on electric, which was often, his guitar was bleeding thistles. Martin Gillespie is a tremendous pipe and whistle player by himself but, add in the secret weapon of Scott Wood, and their duet play, whether in unison or counterpoint, it becomes simply awesome. Fiddler, Craig Espie, it’s true, gets occasionally lost in the maelstrom, but the band know this, often starting a tune with just two or three of them on stage, allowing for, in his case, some splendid sawing opportunities.

ROCKSTAR MANES

One such came as he and Jodie Bremanson traded licks. Yes, licks, there is no other word, as Bremanson tore jazz-funk tropes out his bass guitar. Martin Gillespie’s accordion and Alan Scobie’s keys don’t get so much exposure, outside, especially for the latter, other than some of those dramatic chordal intros the band excel at. Which leaves only the heft and burl of drummer. Fraser West, left unmentioned. Let’s just say Scotland breed tremendous drummers, perhaps in part courtesy pipe band tutelage, allowing that tightness of precision to merge well with the swaggering roll of a highland reel. As he and Bremanson shook their rockstar manes of credential, nothing looked or could feel finer.

Playing for 90 minutes, not a second was wasted, but, leaving the best to last, it was with personal favourites, The Sea That Sings, that they closed and Take My Hand that they came back with. Yes, I was singing along in abandon and I don’t care who you tell!!!

SATURDAY:

LIVESTREAM FLAVOUR OF THE QUAVER

One of the Shrewsbury teams many claims to being thoroughly decent coves, is their habit of livestreaming the festival throughout, gratis to anyone so interested, and coming from all three the main stages. Indeed, most the sets remain up and in posterity at their youtube channel. These include those from yesteryear, allowing alarming glimpses of this reporter, from 10 years ago, long before he was At The Barrier, being then merely at the barrier. Why do I mention? Well, a crisis Chez Og meant I had to hightail it home, after Skerryvore, remaining there until mid afternoon on the following. So what’s a boy to do? Tune in, which I did for my first anyway planned act to catch, Naomi Bedford & the Ramshackle Band.

Bedford has an unmistakeable voice, with fumes of vintage 70’s Dolly wafting in from afar. The band are anything but ramshackle, providing a reliable lurch to her songs, self-penned and borrowed, fusing cotton checked shirts country with the folk songs of old England. Banjo, bass and 12 string are provided, against her voice, and the voice, mandolin and guitar of Paul Simmonds. He from The Men They Couldn’t Hang, and her musical partner. Add in the pocket dynamo of Donna Edmead, on additional and backing vocals and they provide aural perfection on an old tin plate.

Many of the songs came from last year’s Strange News Has Come To Town, with one highlight being Optimist, which, even at a time like that, barely beyond midday, had the audiece singing. Another one was Clouds Of Colwyn Bay, an old song of Bedford’s, brought back, perhaps, given the few miles to the Welsh border.

Midset she left the stage, with her and Simmonds’ son coming on to sing a couple of songs, which he performed well, with a decent enough voice and familial picking skills to be there by right, rather than through any mawkish nepo-baby bollocks. His parents returned, to his “thanks, Mum“, and the Ramshackles then rattled on through the Simmonds/Odgers Brixton Hill and a beautifully harmonied Lay Down Your Weary Tune. A thoroughly engaging way to spend an hour, and one that could certainly join the litany of feelgoods, listed, along side “Dolly’s big guitar” in Simmonds’ song, 20 Ways. Which he sang.

HELLO, HELLO

A blast back down the M54 and I was back, and into the blazing sun. Sadly this delay meant I lost the ability to encounter the Demon Barbers show, Damien Barber’s rollicking roustabout mash of morris with modern, hip-hop with shepherd’s heys, involving both clogs and breakbeat. In the Dance tent, so no vids, either, up on the youtube. More the pity, as concertina king and melodeon maven, Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne, is currently squeezing and squeezed into the ranks of this collective. Another time, I guess.

DRWM A BAS?

However, I did catch the return of 9Bach, nine long years after last album, Anian. Presumed a spent force, or, at least dormant, a new single, Llaw 101 Mix, suddenly dropped earlier this year, showing the band to have not only new life, but several new directions. Much of this stems from erstwhile Chase & Status sticksman, Andy Gangadeen, now a full member, the drummer and musical director, no less, for the Welsh maverick folkies.

Folkies? Well, if they really ever were, now this is a much more vivid exposure of rural life in “y fro gymraeg”, with an electronic psychedelia, incorporating drum’n’bass. Starting with a slow unfurling of 5 Palestinian flags, and a minute of silence, clearly Shrewsbury are of sterner stuff than those who had switched off the Mary Wallopers, down in Portsmouth. Much more dignified, no need for chanting, just the swell of applause as their gesture ended.

With Lisa Jên Brown, vocals, and Martin Hoyland, on choppy guitar, still at the forefront, Mirain Roberts and Dan Swain also remain, she on largely electronic keyboards and sampling; no harp now, and his bass is now far more integral within the overall sound. The difference is the figure of Gangadeen, in fancy red framed shades, behind a massive drum kit and a side-shelf of computers.

THOSE DRUMS, THAT BASS

The sound is very much built around swooping vocals, bubbling synth programming, dub bass and those drums, pummelled to within an inch of their life. Sometimes with two sticks in his right hand, any idea that drum’n’bass was a soulless machine driven express clatter was soon to be disabused. The songs were seldom introduced and, if not new, rearranged into reinvention. Most the between song patter was about the dogs: Brown was many of those from the stage who were in admiration for the dog friendly environment of the festival, with hounds aplenty, of all shapes and sizes. She also apologised, to all those dogs, for the sub-sonic booming of Swain’s bass.

The one song I did catch was about the Black Lake of Eryri, or Llyn Dulun, and that was a stupendously atmospheric evocation of the geography and the atmosphere. Not that, in the song, I could any understand the words. Some harp like textures tinkled, like the afon Dulyn that trickles out, as it began, with gizmotron enhanced guitar bellowing out the otherwise silence, so quiet it deafens. Welcome back, lets have the rest of the album and soon!

DONALD, WHERE’S YER GRANNY

I’d been wanting to catch the Laurettes for a while, another all girl unit from Scotland’s central belt, like Heisk, they are showing they can give the boys a good run for their money. Based upon Lauren O’Donaghue and Lynette Beaton, who had performed earlier in the day as a duo, they were now in full band format, with their voices, fiddle/keyboards and guitar augmented by electric guitar, electric upright bass and drums. Self-described as a powerful Indie Folk fusion band with a Celtic Rock twist, that covers most bases, but fails to mention what fun they also are. With a catch phrase of “heave ho, let’s go“, they might see themselves as techno-vikings, shield maidens for Scottish anthems, doused in a self-deprecating dystrophy of studied looseness: Peat and Diesel mixed with a manic version of the Bangles.

As I approached the marquee, it became clear they were knocking seven bells out of Donald, Where’s Yer Troosers, one of two familiars sprinkled within their own songs. With the other being You Cannae Shove Yer Granny Aff A Bus, you might catch the drift of where they are coming from, with this non-lover of jolly japester comedic folk loving it, giving just as much laldy as they and the extremely receptive crowd. A ceilidh in the mosh then evolved ahead the more lilting near set closer of Homebird, one of their own and about the West Highland Way. Grand stuff, great girls. (Sorry, women…..)

A BALMY EYE IN THE STORM

By now my ageing bones and aching knees were knackered, and needed some down time. Even with only a part set to latch on to, Hannah Rarity was just the ticket to take the (shortbread) biscuit. Knowing she can sing, I had resolved to make a principle of making sure I was there, not least having missed fellow Scots chanteuse of distinction, Kim Carnie (of Mànran), the night before, down to an unforgiveable clash with Skerryvore.

The Sabrina has a rule of disallowing standing at the front, which meant I could get a good view and sit on something comfortable. With guitar accompaniment, as on the record, from Innes White, also her producer, the sound was filled out by the inestimable Anna Massie on mandolin, second guitar and fiddle, along with her Blazin’ Fiddles cohort, Kristan Harvey, also on fiddle.

Stripped back from the often widescreen presentation of the album, the sound was all the more nuanced as a result, more than just the grass underfoot muffling any dropped pins. A magnificent lull in the eye of the surrounding stormier fare, A peak moment came with the Glasgow calypso of Bower Bird and the transcendentally soothing sway of My Friend and the hypnotic balm of Gerry O’Beirne’s Shades of Gloria. In truth I could have sat in front the test card for the same hour, so in need of rest were my feet, but so much happier that this had been my base.

HOLY MOLY

I knew little about this newly revived band, Holy Moly & The Crackers, supposedly reforming for one night only, and that at Shrewsbury’s request. This was the closest yet to virgin territory for my ears, give or take a few preparatory youtube videos, which got enough nod of Og to get me there. Another big band, all possible genres seemed catered for, with fiddle, accordion, guitar, drums and a bass, with, at first, two further percussionists.

Front woman, Ruth Patterson (aka Ruth Lyon in solo guise), conducts all imperiously from the front of the stage, seated, as she sings and plays fiddle. (No mere affectation, she is a wheelchair user, not that that became apparent, until her scooter whisked her off (and back on) stage). She can do both well, her voice a sultry diva-esque siren, not far removed from the late Kirsty MacColl, in both tone and clarity. Co-leader, Conrad Bird, is a bouncy contrast, bobbing all over the stage, toting guitar and then trumpet, singing as well, so much so that Patterson’s greater zen is a positive boon to rest the eyes.

ADDED PARP

The songs are a fusion of any of the grainier silos of world derived musics you might choose, with elements of folk, country, polkas, gypsy jazz and the beserker end of mazurkas. With the percussionists in full syncopation, it can all get a bit Latino too, and, as one switched to a massive bass trombone, they become the biggest nominally acoustic salsa band in the world, especially when Bird too adds his parp. It was a glorious riot. I know none of the song names and I couldn’t even write down any prompts, such the hurly burly about and within me. I seem to have jotted down If I Die Tomorrow, as a slower song, a duet, used as the encore when the crowd demanded more, ahead the full band then breaking into another stage smashing smithereen, so as to finally register the finishing tape. One night only? Don’t you believe it! They’re back and this late adopter is now on their bus.

FROM METAL TO THE FORGE

That should have been Saturday night, but, don’cha know, nobody told the Dance tent: the behemoth that is GloryStrokes were still applying their progtastic pomprock sheen to the cat that is ceilidh, a beast that has been re-skinned so many times as to be unrecognisable. Apart, that is, from the willows stripped and baskets twirled. Identifying as metalcore, this band is crammed full of faces from elsewhere, embracing their dark side, including half the Melrose Quartet. Spiralling into the abyss, I could only manage a taste of their bat’s blood, discovering that Blazin’ Fiddles were still on fire in the Pengwern.

Anyone who thought to write off the band, after Bruce MacGregor retired to his pub, could not be more wrong. Even with “only” three fiddles in the front line, the onslaught is still elemental. If anything, it has upped the game of, especially, Rua Macmillan, who now scythes for his life, jigging away like his life depended upon it, chasing his tail down a never ending road. Kristan Harvey and Jenna Reid add their more elegant urgency to his pandemonium, with the thrashed acoustic and pounding keys of Anna Massie and Angus Lyon keeping the gear box as far out of neutral as you can get. An astonishing finale set of reels felt like it went on for ever.

SUNDAY:

Still only Sunday? Yet still Shrewsbury calls for more, no notions of the day of rest nurtured here. Actually quite a leisurely start, with a wander into town to watch the wild swimmers in the Severn. A glorious sunny morning, the town was packed, with all the many eateries playing count the wristband. Mentioned why? Because a plug for the veggie breakfast at C Suns is sorely needed, a plate to awaken all the senses of this, usually, carnivore.

PULPIT, PEWS OR STANDING ROOM

Festivities commenced with The Norfolk Broads, commended to me from their set yesterday. Clashfinder warned me the risk, as they were coinciding, near as ninepence, with Bryony Griffith & Alice Jones, who I really didn’t want to miss. So it was only the opening three or four songs I caught. Depleted to a trio by covid, nonetheless their acapella dynamic was peculiarly and exceptionally goosey, as in bumps, as they found harmonies and descants in all the right places and many more. Ineffable is a very Sunday word, but it fitted the opening salvo they fired.

The contrast between they and the never more Yorkshire Griffith and Jones could not have been more pronounced. (But, before that, just who was that lavishly bearded man, providing banjo for the JD & Folk Appalachian dance team?) Back to where we were, the equally glorious G&J; if the Broads were the pulpit, this duo were decidedly the pews, and possibly the cheap seats at that. Wonderfully droll, their outdoor set matched wry observation with the exquisite music they each produced.

Jones does most the singing, whilst playing a tenor guitar, whilst Griffith soars abour her on consummate fiddle. To add further downhome gravitas, Jones switched occasionally to harmonium, adding the effect of a village church in Heckmondwike or somesuch. Some body percussion, then, on otherwise ill-advised plastic trousers, smacked more of standing room at the Bradford Alhambra.

Edward, a song about fratricide, stood out, as much for the explanation around, it being a tale of Yorkshire folk, with no truck for messing around and blaming the spilt blood on swans or horses, as other broadsheet ballads might. “What’s that blood?” “I’ve killed brother“. Wonderful stuff.

A FLOOR FULL OF DROPPED JAWS AND WET CHEEKS

The clock ticking relentlessly, Showcase Scotland were now calling urgently, for Malin Lewis and their handmade smallpipes. Halocline had been an ATB year end favourite of 2024, so keenly anticipated, the piper playing with Sally Simpson’s fiddle to aid, and the mighty Jenn Butterworth’s guitar to abet. Starting with twin fiddles, guitar and stomp, the meter was in the red from the off. As Lewis and Simpson weaved sinuous melodies out their instruments, so the guitar and amplified left foot of Butterworth provided all and any rhythm required.

Lewis displayed a healthily dry wit in their introductions, as, sticking to fiddle, the mood was transported to that of a fest noz, with broad Breton fumes snucking into the set. Only then did the small pipes appear, a rich and buttery sound. The tune was written to celebrate the night of their 18th birthday party, or, rather, the morning after. Possibly my tune of the festival, the sounds emerging seemed impossible, a result, it seems, not only the bespoke double range pipes, but some judicious looping and pedalling ongoing in real time.

Hiraeth from the album, and signature tune, Trans: did you not spot the pronouns, were paired delectably and if heaven felt in reach, soon it was with us in the room. For this is when Lewis bent down and picked up the highland warpipes. The acerbic peaty timbre of this, God’s instrument of choice, filled the tent and probably the sky, and my tear ducts opened. Woah, play these more often, Malin. Of course there was an encore, in fact there were two, the stewards turning a blind eye to the onstage exhortation to, Sabrina or not, get up and dance. Beat that!

MAIN STAGE MACMASTERY

Challenge duly accepted, and if the idea of a intricate Irish fiddleplay might not be sufficient for the main stage arena, you’d be wrong. Mind you, if you thought Natalie MacMaster & Donnell Leahy to be a duo, you’d be wrong also. MacMaster really is one the grande dames of Celtic fiddle, despite being only 53, flying the flag for Canada as a bona fide Celtic nation, at least apropos Cape Breton and Nova Scotia. Leahy is her husband and also a fiddler. A first trip across the pond in 25 years, they had brought a smoking hot electric band with them, to say nothing of a couple of their kids.

If Lewis had dropped jaws, these guys had you then hoof and stamp on them, with their otherworldly fusion of flying fiddles and latino rhythms. This was dance music and it knew no borders. With a guitarist and bassist looking to be extras from Los Lobos, MacMaster and Leahy took turns to solo, their style exquisitely different. MacMaster has that fractured tone that breaks as it scrapes, whilst Leahy offers a richer and more glutinous broth. Somehow McMaster is simultaneously adding podorythmie, those Quebecois foot rhythms that defy any normal idea of stamina.

A STAR IS BORN

Throughout this extravaganza, the show was being slowly stolen. Even the most casual observer could sense something remarkable was happening on the keyboard, as Mary Frances Leahy, daughter of the husband and wife duo, blew a storm with a fierce blend of cascading ceilidh and bravado bossa nova. And then moved to fiddle. And step dancing. She is 19 years old, goddammit, we were watching a star be born!

With her brother Michael then drafted in on guitar and accordion, it was daunting to appreciate there are five further siblings to come up through the ranks. This set was the blindsiding unexpected surprise of this festival, a Hiberno-Cuban sound system like no other. Why did we not know?

BONKERS BARMYGEDDON

A fortnight ago, at Cropredy, I had looked down my nose at the shenanigans of El Pony Pisador, at least until I got caught up in their infectious party gambol. So, having then missed their start, this time I was ready and raring. Initially a serious crew of Catalan shantymen, that grounding was not lost on me, as, beneath every jackanape lay sterling 5 part harmonies and exemplary musicianship. Guitar, mandolin, fiddle, banjo and the biggest bag of whistles known to man were used to the full, with a solid foundation of electric stand up bass and drums.

Opening with some excruciatingly awful off-tune whistle to introduce them to the stage, from the start they were bobbing up and down, running around and larking, all the while producing some eminently serviceable hardcore instrumental jigs and reels. And then singing. Deftly handling daft time signatures, the audience was theirs in an instant. Possibly, as I had been a fortnight ago, confusing to novitiates, I noticed a very bemused John Jones watching from the wings, in posssible disbelief.

On with all their usual tricks and tomfoolery, so the world’s biggest conga was invited, trailing through the crowd and making for a magnificent sight on the drone pictures transitted to the stageside screens. Songs about menhirs mixed with old favourites, Tuvan throat singing with the most widescreen Poor Old Man in memory. Seven very tired Catalonians were the result, and several thousand satisfied punters.

THE GOODBYE OF GOODBYES

If John Jones felt any worry, witnessing the mayhem ahead of him, it will have been short lived. At the end of their two year long goodbye, Oysterband had the show of their life to put on and disappointment was not a consideration. Frissons of delight had fluttered as it was spotted that this was to be the Chopper iteration. With all due respect to Adrian Oxaal, bravely celling these past two decades, it is Ray ‘Chopper’ Cooper who is the man you want to see behind a cello.

All looking match fit, it was straight off, and no ado, into Native Son, awash with the string concerto start, and thence to Northern Lights. The audience were word perfect, and if the Ponys had drawn a crowd, the Oysters had doubled it. Another old and familiar face was also on stage now, that of Lee Partis, last seen here, at this very festival, some nine years back. Delegated here to tambourine, occasional snare and backing vocals, because, if the band have had little success in the longevity of their drummers, current man, Sean Randle, is a phenomenal anchor at the back.

LOVE TORN APART

It was a few songs in before Ian Telfer, fiddler supreme, launched into one of his dour anecdotes, causing, tonight, even Jones to be surprised by what the lugubrious Aberdonian had to say. But, in a day of surprises, nothing could have caught the crowd more on the hop than by the special guest next brought on. Having bade her Oysterband farewells some time back, here was June Tabor. Looking and, for a millisecond, sounding frail, she threw off the years with exemplary run throughs of Mississippi Summer and the To Be A Pilgrim-alike of Fountains Flowing. No Love Will Tear Us Apart? Of course, there was, silly, as emotional a version as can be on a normal night, tonight positively apocryphal. A brief unaccompanied line from Fare The Well Bonnie Lad(s) and she was gone.

Alan Prosser, on guitar and nodding head, got repeated encouragements from his singer, as well as pleas, to the audience, not to encourage him, as his mood was decidedly playful tonight. Meanwhile Al Scott, the unsung second metronome of the band, swapped between bass and mandolin, never putting a foot or a finger wrong. The emotion was clearly, like the river, running through Jones. He often appeared truly moved by the reception, slipping off his rose-tinteds for a sly wipe away at his eyes, even occasionally stumbling his words, as the reality of this last UK show seeped in.

KEEP THE CREATURES SAFE FROM HARM

What else did they play? Jings, what didn’t they, but When I’m Up and Diamonds On The Water were popular less seldom heards, with the new words version of the never more timely (or appropriate) All That Way For This also going down well. Wherever I Go had a triumphant audience interaction which meant it was getting close to Granite Years time, the field becoming a gigantic hooley, and exit stage left. When they came back, sod any curfew, it was with We Could Leave Right Now, but they didn’t, there only being one possible song they could finish with, a never ending Put Out The Lights. The memory of this song, their Meet On The Ledge, if you will, has me now, three days later, still weeping. A forty five year hole in his life to live with now, said John Jones, with us poor creatures all thinking the same.

MONDAY:

Still with me? It’s been a long haul, but we’re nearly there, only a morning and afternoon to go, with, meteorologically, another scorcher on the way. After the Oysters celebratory farewell of the night before, it is fair to say drink was taken, the Berwick Bar singing and supping until, until whenever. So maybe some muffled volume might suit the day best, at least to start with.

UNEXPECTED BONUS

Which was exactly what the Gods offered, via an unadvertised and unexpected 10.30 return slot from Natalie MacMaster & Donnell Leahy, this time unplugged and with just Michael and Mary Frances on hand. This was the acoustic side of the dynasty, but never say mellow, as, even sans electric, the energy is enormous. With each showcasing in turn, all odds were initially off as to who would carry today’s crown, but it was again that Mary Frances who stole hearts and honours, especially when she and her brother, on fiddle and guitar respectively, brought the flavours of Hot Club de Paris to the Shropshire countryside, by way of detours to Wexford and Havana. (P.S. It;s Mary Frances Leahy, should you need her album, First Light, which you decidedly do.)

MORE THAN SWAY

Morganway we like at ATB, their Cropredy set of two years back, and this year’s album both keepers in the memory bank. One woman down, in that Nicole Terry had sent in a note, she and her fiddle/violin (delete as applicable) were replaced, for the day, by Duncan Menzies. Otherwise present and correct, they were on cracking form. As befitting a blazing bank holiday, their Sounds of the South shtick was dialled up into overload, the band never more Skynrd today, if with added Charlie Daniels. I think I cast comparisons to Stevie Nicks and to our own Elles Bailey in the review, well, that is long behind her, as SJ Mortimer has now morphed into a blues (folk) rock sultress in entirely her own sassy image.

Kieran Morgan was toting a natty flying V guitar, from which he drew energetic solo after solo, swapping occasionally to bass, as his twin, Callum, took to the guitar for ease of his own vocal lead parts. Menzies was weaving all over the shop, you never believing he a locum, missing neither a trick or an opportunity to wow with his technique. Drummer Ed Bullinger and the swirling keys of Matt Brocklehurst ensure there are no gaps in their precision constructions.

Playing most of the album, highlights were Halfway Tonight, predictably upping its studio game, and the overwhelm of Kill The Silence, ahead closing with I Feel The Rain, once more transcending the recorded version. And I can’t not mention their new single, a cover of Chappell Roan’s Pink Pony Club, which was poptastic, even if I had to ask what the song was. Heard LP’s version of Beyoncé’s Halo? Like that, but better!

A SENEGAL SWAMPY STEW

With my head not in a space for Martha Wainwright, even with added Michèle Stodart, apparently, in her band, I opted instead for Touki. OK, I was later told a blinder was pulled, but I found the same with this new trio, featuring Shrewsbury’s favourite Wolof griot, Amadou Diagne, who has appeared here a number of times, in various formats. (There seemed an altogether relative shortage of African cultures represented at Shrewsbury this year, unusually, his the only kora I saw or heard all weekend.) Today he was joined by Corey Sezneck on guitar, banjo and dreamy descriptions, and the astounding accordion of Michael Ward Bergeman. Who knew his massive piano accordion could produce such wondrous and authentic textures, akin to a Central African brass section in full pelt?

All new to me, their songs covered all territories and genres, including the little known Ethio-Appalachian, where Mulako Astatne’s Ethiopian jazz meets bluegrass. Diagne shared his time on stage between kora and his gourd enhanced mini- drum kit, volleying out pan-African percussion with, um, panache. A complete switch from the Northern European bias elsewhere, this was a delight, with Fula Cowboy, a song, peaking their transcontinental fusions, blending whiffs of Peter Rowan’s Native American influences with Weather Report’s Birdland, but with funkier birds and talking drums.

KELLY AND THE VALLEY

All a bit of a rush now, winding down to the close, so snatches only of Heron Valley‘s country and West End, as in Glasgow, with bagpipes for some Gallowgate roots. I could have done with more, but hey! Similarly I caught only the final 3 songs of Sam Kelly & Jamie Francis, an inspired pairing evident from even that brief exposure. Kelly we know from Kate Rusby’s band and his own Lost Boys, as well as his recent solo album, but here just he and his guitar, with Jamie Francis and his banjo, to maintain indecorum. (Is that a word?) A lovely Lagan Love from Kelly, preceded a solo banjo piece from Francis, before they convened for a superb Greenland Whale Fisheries, to close.

SIEGE MENTALITY

Siege mentality now the order of the day, the possibility of being allowed home was piling on the excitement and anticipation of closing act, The Levellers. Grizzled old troupers that they now are, and bastions of the Celtic Folk-Punk movement they damn near invented, singer Mark Chadwick can’t resist digs at being at a folk festival and the seated hordes, beyond and behind the standing throng at the front. Good naturedly, mind, he knows not to bite the hand that feeds him, with many attendees here being fans of the band for some thirty years. Faces way older than even mine were as familiar and word perfect with the songs as those of any overtly younger or edgier disposition.

Having seen them a few times over the years, neat and unadulterated, as well as in the expanded acoustic Collective variant, I can honestly say I have never seen ’em play better. Firing off with The Riverflow and Fifteen Years, this was to be a set leaning heavily on Levelling The Land, their definitive statement of, gulp, 1991. The bass of Jeremy Cunningham was mixed high and bouncy, as was he, with Jon Sevink, on the fiddle, an equivalent jack in the box at his side of the stage. Any earlier uncertainties about Dan Donnelly as being “real” enough to replace Simon Friend are now long gone, as Donnelly, in his bold green Subvert boilersuit blends in now so perfectly. His guitar, mandolin and vocals are now entirely integral to the overall sound.

ANTHEMS AND LIGHT

Chadwick himself remains just as boyishly sharp and snarky as ever, even as he visually morphs gradually into Ricky Gervaise’s twin agitprop brother. His singing was spot on and he clearly relishes the hand fate has dealt him. Fate, hard work and no small talent. As they gave One Way an early anthemic ride, you’d think they may have peaked too soon, but far, far from it, as the songs kept coming. Four Boys Lost from their latest album, Peace, was able to sit happily alongside more vintage fare like Carry Me and World Freak Show. Oddly, if I recall correctly, nothing from Zeitgeist, it perhaps an album too dark for such a bright uplifting day.

Warned in advance to keep an eye on Charlie Heather’s drumming, thanks Jess and Caroline, suggesting he is the living pulse of the band, keeping all in check, they are indeed correct, his conducting of the beat a masterclass of control. Try it, but it’s difficult, given the clashing calls for attention from all over the stage

A BEAUTIFUL DAY

Closing with Come On and a magnificently drawn out Liberty Song, Chadwick tried to fool us that it was done, and that we could all go home. But Shrewsbury were having none of that, and back they bobbed, bounced and bopped for Far From Home, with Donnelly’s “So Faaar“s absolutely blazing, before, because it was, Beautiful Day put the Levellers and the festival to bed.

BEST YET

This was maybe my fourth or fifth Shrewsbury and certainly my best. Yet. All credit to the team who put this on and together, year upon year, and especially to Sandra Surtees, whose baby it remains. The affection with which it, and she, is held by artists is evident, with even first timers commenting on the friendliness and efficiency. Plus, in patrons, John Jones and Steve Knightley, you have two of the most respected figures in the business, each in evidence throughout. Knightley didn’t even have a set to play, but he was much out and about, and happy to converse, as he kept an eye on the many available options on store, over this long weekend. Indeed, there were many off-duty musos present, enjoying down time with their families at this most convivial of events. That has to say something, surely?

The line-up had but one fault for me, in that that I couldn’t see everyone I wanted to, having to forgo Project Smok, Jim Moray and many more, including a broken promise to the loopy madness of Scott Doonican and his Barsteward Sons of Val Doonican. I guess that’s all to look forward to, in next year’s festival season…….

Here’s what you missed, in just under a minute.

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