The Magpie Arc heading their own festival. Where else? Cecil Sharp House, 8/2/26.

CELEBRATED FRONT LOADER

OK, so technically this was “just” the Indoor Festival Of Folk, rather than the headline as above, but, make no bones about it, their show, their baby, this was all down to The Magpie Arc, however celebrated, and they were, the acts preceding. Number four, over successive years, this has quietly become a welcome front loader for the year of folk, at least, with due apologies to Glasgow, and maybe even Blackpool, this far south and in this nation. With it being based at the spiritual home of Anglo hued folk music, seemed quite apt, given the majority of performers present, even allowing for the well-received nods to Celtic culture that those of Scots or Irish stock provided.

Cecil Sharp House offers exactly the atmosphere one might expect, a dour 1920’s build, toward the more stolid end of Arts and Crafts. With the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library to the side of the spacious lobby, it contains a large concert hall on the same floor, with a utilitarian café bar and myriad rehearsal spaces/other rooms downstairs. Against the somewhat severe and spartan surrounds, the café was populated by surprisingly jolly staff and seemed to have a decent selection of food and vittles. But enough of that.

A BROODING QUIET STORM

First up was Ellie Gowers. This Warwickshire artist has made at least one of ATB a firm fan, and she shortly proceeded to show why. Armed with a striking looking guitar and the sweetest of voices, her set was a mix of newer songs and some older favourites. Her subject matter tends to the personal and self-soothing, ideal for bedding in the attendees, many of whom had travelled some distance. Alone, a new song, was, she described, not so much around being lonely, but more the pleasure of being, literally, at one with nature, relishing the solitude given. A brooding quiet storm is what I scribbled, enjoying a similar feeling, even as the room was filling.

Engaging patter between songs touched on a trip to Canada, in particular the area around Tadoussac, in the Quebecois nature reserve, along the banks of the St. Lawrence river. The song that followed was a glorious reverie, in which she slipped very much into Katie Spencer territory, both by virtue of her playing and the place it took her. (Actually aptly so, sharing that her guitar had been fashioned by the very same luthier.) As I was listening, another strong waft was of early Joni. If perhaps always too easy a lodestone to turn to, with female folk singers writing their own material, in this case it seemed apposite.

THE STARS ARE OUT

The youngest person in the mile by a country mile, she made a few sly remarks about the age of the audience and a presumptive knowledge, therefore, of cribbage, ahead outing herself as a fan of the game, endearing herself further. All too quickly her hour was gone, but a peculiarly apt song, toward the end, seemed to mention Magpies, an opportunity she missed to flag up. (Or, for that matter, her membership of band, The Magpies.)

Closing then with a chorus song: “it’s never too early for a chorus song“, it began with a flurry of harmonics in the instrumental intro. OK, that chorus, when it came, around the stars being out tonight, may have been premature for early afternoon, but was surely prescient for both her performance and those to follow. A new album is forthcoming and, you can be sure, she left the stage with many more fans than she started.

WILD AND PAGAN

MC for the day, Folk on Foot’s Matthew Bannister, gave us 10 minutes before the next act. Keenly anticipated after their sterling set at last years’s Manchester Folk Festival, this was to be Lisa Knapp and Gerry Diver, with the arrival of Diver’s big bass drum a potent reminder of that show. If Knapp is famed rightly and widely for her spectrally dynamic vocal range, Diver is the key to a door that takes these old songs somewhere far wilder and pagan.

Over a flicker of chattering banjo, it is with I Must Away Love that the duo start, Knapp keening like a banshee. With autoharp the secondary accompaniment, the gothic aspect is immediately apparent, arching in artfully and darkly. Hawk And Crow follows, each now toting fiddles, Knapp pizzicating to the eerie ebb and flow of Diver’s delicate sawing. Stomp and bass drum add thunder and it is all as wytchy as wildwood.

From last year’s Hinterland, like many of the songs featured, Train Song has Knapp evocatively reciting the view from her carriage, looped keyboards adding the necessary textures. As the pace becomes more frenetic, with near tribal chanting entering the fray, I could see the odd eyebrow raising about the room, but it was absolutely splendid. Diver, for all the world looking like a bank manager on a reluctant dress down Friday, was throwing his all into the extravagant soundscape, his mouth open wide in the passion. A near acapella song next, saw Diver decamp to a piano at the side of the stage, gilding Knapp’s lily with barely discernible background elegance.

THE FULL MACBETH

Not just his wife’s show, Diver gave a taste of his own idiosyncratic solo catalogue. His Speech Project, of 2012, is one such, demonstrating that the human voice, in speech, can be just as musical as when in song. The basement profundo of Luke Kelly’s talking voice, on a looping tape, soon prove that point. An instrumental version of Shipping Forecast, on record a similar idea to Train Song, was able to demonstrate the delicacy of two fiddle playing together, in contrast to an earlier blast of trad Irish jiggery-pokery, Diver contriving to capture the sound and fury of a hooley.

A brief discussion between the pair, suggesting more time available to them than anticipated, meant the full grand guignol of their “Hammer House of Horror” rendition of Long Lankin could be included. This version encapsulated the full Macbeth, MacDuff and more, a tremendous din, with Knapp screeching gloriously over Diver’s medicine chest of sound effects, musical and metaphorical.

Finally, to close, and, as said Knapp, “as disco as we get“, a full fat gallumph through, I think, the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, replete with an excitable historical preface. Led by drone and guided by delay pedal and stomp, this was more Dante’s inferno than any disco variety, as Knapp channeled the spectre of Diamanda Galas into her wailed participation. What an astonishing way to appreciate it was still only mid-afternoon. 20 minutes was needed after that one!

EPITOME OF URBANE

Probably appropriately, rather than more music, as in who could possibly follow that, it was the now traditional talking slot that followed. In previous years, Matthew Bannister has interviewed luminaries such as Joe Boyd and Ashley Hutchings. Perhaps in keeping with a trend unfolding, it was again with a Fairporty tangent he continued, it today being Simon Nicol‘s turn in the hot seat.

Those familiar with Nicol, from his onstage demeanour, will know he is the essence of witty and urbane understatement. Swiftly delivering exactly that, along with a genuine modesty, we got a potted history of the early years, as the band came slowly together, in the upstairs room of Nicol’s family home. His joy and wonderment around how it all fell together remains intact, still delighting in the fact, bar an abortive spell as a cinema projectionist, that this has been the only job he has ever had.

A TOUCHING ELEGY

Perhaps a little too long was spent dissecting the fateful motorway crash and the fallout, literally, of that tragic event; Nicol was clearly uncomfortable reliving the episode, it a relief as Bannister moved on, allowing Nicol to recall the then evanescence of the band for Liege And Lief. The descriptions of, variously, Swarb and Sandy, were affectionate and told clearly with love. There was also a touching elegy to Gerry Conway.

There is way more than 60 minutes to the tale of Nicol and Fairport Convention, and so, it was probably unsurprising that the conversation got little past 1979, other than a brief resume of the introduction of Allcock and Sanders when the band regrouped. Likewise, Cropredy got the barest of mentions, but, irrespective, this was a largely entertaining and instructive way to pass the time, for an avidly attentive audience, including Maddy Prior, to check no snubs directed at her own band. (Which, of course, there weren’t.) The leaving point: the Fairport audience are merely “band members yet to join“. Lovely!

Proving how civilised is the folk tradition, the day now broke for tea. Or, rather, to allow those needing to, to leave the building and forage for food. Many elected to stay put, downstairs, but it seems an ideal time to check out the locale, with those two hours to spare. To be fair, despite sharing the same postcode, the glitz and glare of Camden seemed a world away, this being an area of large houses and the outskirts of Regent’s Park. But, hidden by scaffolding, I found the Edinboro’ Castle, an appropriately scotch egg and some halloumi fries. Job done.

MARTYNESQUE?

I have always been a tad wary of Chris Wood, for reasons I cannot quite explain; I had always told myself it was his voice. And so it was with some pleasure I was able to discover there is absolutely nothing wrong with it at all. Indeed it is an extremely pleasant voice, and more than an adequate foil to his guitar play and largely self-penned songs. His earthy way with words quickly displayed his distance from the middle class modulations of Nicol and Bannister before him, the first few f-bombs of the day, possibly the only f-bombs of the day, duly done and dusted. I hadn’t quite realised quite how Kent he was!

Starting with the traditional Young Randall, once he started to sing, all extraneous sound extinguished, so as to not lose a whisper of his hushed dynamic. Moving largely then to his own material, they too tended toward the introspective and insular, if then peppered with idioms entirely of this day and age, drawing wit out of his astute observations.

CRAP PRESENTS?

One graceful song, described as a song about receiving crap presents, became a loving testimony to his son, not that the preamble would have you realise that. Am I alone to see a similarity with the stage style of the late John Martyn, jocular and robust introductions ahead of delicate gossamer delivery?

Martin Carthy is a man in many thoughts at present, given his recent reluctant withdrawal from live work, and Wood, who has spent many years in his company, was no different, taking on a couple of Carthy staples, Cold Hail Rainy Night first, making no apology for the difference in both singing and guitar styles.

Just as I was about to say I was preferring his take on trad, he threw out one of his own songs, Give Up And Go, which was a beauty, playing on the words with joy, rather than any ridicule. The Wren, not that one, was then a moving tale of a move to the country, with a plaintive melody and acerbic lyrics, that had me thinking of the songwriting style of Martin Simpson. His guitar play was now tinged with a slight latino vibe, of no small appeal. Finally Billy Boy, another Carthy staple, and you can consider me turned.

TRULY SPECIAL

For many present it was clear the next act was their main rationale for being here, it thus a coup that Peter Knight and Maddy Prior had been co-erced into once more playing together. 13 years, said Bannister, since their last shared stage, discounting their joint interview, here in this very room, at the Indoor Day of Folk in 2024, and perhaps one of the catalysts for today. Huge applause, and I mean huge applause, greeted them. Kicking right off with Lark In The Morning, it was clear this was special. True, Ms. Prior may now pitch down an octave, but somehow this made it all the more affecting, raising shivers aplenty up spines.

Rather than sticking hard and fast to the songs of trad. arr., the pair elected to draw material forth from all stages of their careers, shared and separate. A smattering of anecdotage had each sighing and smiling wistfully, as they reminisced about the various stages of the venerable Span.

FREE FORM ASSOCIATIONS

Surprising song choices included one from the Terry Pratchett/Steeleye project, enabling Knight to remind all present that he too has more than a bit of voice. But it is fiddle that is even more impressive. Long since severing the ties that bind him too closely to underlying melodies, his free form associations and extemporisations were little short of extraordinary, using every possible note within the repertoire of his instrument, liberating many never deemed possible. Truly a virtuoso.

ALMOST IMPOSSIBLY MOVING

(I Am An) Oak Tree was one of Prior’s high water marks, drawing every iota of feeling from the words. Knight, meanwhile, was plucking his strings like a miniature stand-up bass, ahead then some conventional pizzicato and, in the same song, majestic bowing and scything. Some sacred heart was included, Blessed Crime, with Prior invoking the sound of a chapel in rapture, and then the beautiful From A Lullaby Kiss, Knight’s own song, full of classical baroquism, Vivaldi on acid, or maybe the mushrooms mentioned earlier.

Ewan MacColl’s Sheep Crook And Black Dog was almost impossibly moving, as Prior hit a wondrously rich contralto, never available in her prime. Betsy Bell would have been the finish, but like Knapp and Diver, they too had undercut, allowing a final send off, returning again to their earliest days together. This was Bedlam Boys, yet in as far from the expected iteration as might be, with Prior electing to give it full Arts Lab, yowling and growling her way through the well worn lyrics, like a, um, boy possessed, descending even, I am sure, into tongues at one stage. It was certainly different and unexpected, but still gifted them with a standing ovations all round.

STARTING IN TOP GEAR

From acoustic duo to five piece electric band is always going to be a jump, but the quartet of The Magpie Arc, together with guesting axe-for-hire, Sam Carter, weren’t going to let that stop them starting in top gear. Kicking off with track 1, side 1, from Glamour In The Grey, Nancy Kerr delivered a blistering All I Planted. With all blazing on every cylinder beside her. Was this the same Kerr, the sweet voiced angel of the Melrose Quartet, and learned cultural historian? Not on your life, full on rock chick, Janis Joplin tonight, if with some Anne Briggs on the side.

With Alex Hunter’s high slung bass, captured equivalently high in the mix, and Tom A. Wright’s drums tubthumpingly righteous, this might not have been to Cecil Sharp’s ear, and some of the more timid souls chose now to make their exit, the electrical storm of Findley Napier and Carter’s guitars a searing squall to see them out. It were fab!

SHOT OF ADRENALINE

Auchindoun saw Napier take to the mic, the Gaughan in his timbre ever more apparent and never so fierce. Carter peeled off the first of many spiky solos, going more for the industrial noise of post-punk than anything much of the received folk-rock canon. Diving back to near where the band began, Sweet Charms was followed by Rebecca Young, a second from last years’s Gil Brenton. As well as enjoying the freedoms of these new tricks, vocally, Kerr was also giving the music a good old shove along, on her fiddle.

All of this a well-received shot of adrenaline to the system and the soul, barely a thought was given to the now departed Martin Simpson, seen originally as the prime focus of the band. Am I allowed to say they make for a far more cohesive outfit without him? Whilst his singing held the ear and his playing was always inventive, there seemed ever a mismatch between his Americana jangle and the fuller throttle enamoured by Napier, Hunter and Wright. Indeed, the recent record showed the band doesn’t even need that 5th member, but, when all is said and done, Carter injects a hefty live component that would be missed without him.

AN OVERDRIVE OF EXHILARATION

Napier told us of his running habit, and his penchant for listening to Grateful Dead concerts as he does so, if that then tending to escalate the length of each trek. It was during one such travail that he first heard them tackle a song he recognised, their Peggy-O a dead ringer for Pretty Peggy, from the tradition, he then insisting it on the band. What Garcia and co might make of their version, I don’t know, but I think it a gold plated corker.

Time rushing by in the overdrive of exhilaration, The Cutty Wren then injected a touch more pastoralism into the set. But this was no finger in the ear folk club floor spot jobby, this Wren had much bigger balls. Pastel shades of psychedelia infused the 60’s revivalism of Don’t Leave The Door Open, with Carter spinning out a liquid lava lamp of fusing notes.

LOUDER AND MORE EMPHATIC

With little need of between song blether, the riffs became louder and more emphatic, the urgency of beating the curfew taking precedence. It was therefore time for Canon and the metal maelstrom of Wassail to be near conjoined, each sufficient to rattle the bones of Sabine Baring-Gould into a St. Vitus Dance of some consequence.

Was there an encore? I can’t recall but they certainly played out on a similar high, exiting with the big end of year single, The Mantle. Shorn of some of the hattier, as in all around my, elements, this was a momentous and fitting finale. Maddy wasn’t around to reprise the additional vocal, nor Ian Anderson the flute, but it needed, frankly, neither. (To be fair, the miracle of tape meant the Tull-meister was seemingly present, but largely inaudibly, beside the furore of fiddle and wrangling of axes.)

BETTER AND BETTER

What a show and what a band! With next year’s dates already in the book, the IFOF has legs for another year and I can only see The Magpie Arc getting better and better.

The Magpie Arc: Website

At The Barrier: Facebook / Instagram / X