Manchester again plays host to an impressive line up of Folk Music from the UK and beyond.

NUGGETS APLENTY

So much fun was had last year the it was always a given that ATB would be back (again), with, this year, much better weather to boot. Sadly, a slightly depleted team had to compete with a slightly expanded programme, meaning that clash finder ate up many the best laid plans. That said, some reinforcements guaranteed coverage of some of the bigger ticket events, as will become clear, leaving this cub reporter to dig deeper into the programme for nuggets, and nuggets aplenty there were.

SPOILT FOR CHOICE

Originally set up as an adjunct to the English Folk Expo, a tremendous showcase for, largely, promoters and organisers to snap up new talent, David Agnew, whose baby it is, soon realised there was mileage to be made from coinciding a urban folk festival to run alongside. Initially set in nearby Bury, now the Manchester setting has become a vibrant playground to show off the best of what Manchester has done with this once rundown quarter. With a plethora of venues to participate and share the stages, there is likewise no shortage of independent businesses, across all branches of hospitality, retail and general quirkiness, so as to satisfy any appetite for vintage clothing, sourdough, single bean coffees and cloudy craft ales. Like the festival programme, spoilt for choice.

THURSDAY

QUEEN OF THE CASTLE

Arriving at Piccadilly, yes, Mancs has one too, site of the larger train station of the metropolis, it was only a short walk to the Band On The Wall. This celebrated local landmark venue acts as the hub for both the Expo and the Festival, and is where many acts perform during the day, as well as hosting the late night club component. Wristband duly on, first up was a trip to a remembered favourite from last year, The Castle Hotel. This decidedly few frills boozer has a long history of live music and a leaky roof, thankfully, courtesy the clemency of the weather gods, no need to test tonight. I love it, and the back music room, cosy at best, was rammed already.

Rachael McShane and the Cartographers were the perfect way to open my proceedings. With an album that had been a favourite of last year, the trio display exactly why and how folk music remains a living tradition, blending the music of the ages, with a delivery in tune with more current conventions. Whilst the tunes may be based in the aspic of the ages, the mix of voice and instrumentation is as fresh as the ale on tap in the room next door. McShane has one of the voices, I feel, even if yet for that view to become uniform, a pure blast of freshness that calls to mind a mix of Rusby and a lighter Cara Dillon, the former evoked also via her accent and repartee.

ELEGANT & APPEALING DICTION

With melodeon master, Julian Sutton, on hand, and Ian Stephenson, providing supple acoustic guitar, the two Cartographers are the essential bedrock for McShane to sing and play her fiddles over. Fiddles, as in normal and viola, each with their distinctly different soundprint. Kicking off with The Banks Of Sweet Dundee, the set was chock with material from that recent album, with other songs drawn on for a greater palette of choice. McShane’s elegant diction is always foremost, this one of her most appealing aspects, and, as the set continued, anyone earlier unaware came swiftly under her spell. With a couple of instrumental sets as well, tunes, by notables such as Alastair Anderson, joined those by Sutton and McShane herself: what dire events lie buried in Bingo In Bognor, one wonders? But her voice is the main enhancing factor, often ancient ballads, involving most of the usual subjects, death, drinking and horses.

A Dick Gaughan song required some slight viola retuning, this being her splendid rendition of the ebullient Scotsman’s Workers Song. With only an hour available for the trio, it became clear the room was not going to allow such rationing, it a delight that, even this early in the day, time could be made to accommodate the unexpected, at least by the singer herself, encore. What a thoroughly engaging start, and in my favourite Manchester pub, too.

FEELIN’ THE JIG

With the timetable design fraught with frustrating overlaps, an earlier decision had to be carried out, to jump ship from Sheelanagig mid-performance. It was justified, beforehand, by having seen the band before, at some distant Shrewsbury. Which was, of course, before both the current line-up and the most recent reason, both of which reasons had me ruing the inability to see the whole set. Back then the band were still a little bit too party central, a chaotic scramble of Balkan rhythms and bouncing about. Now they apply (a touch) more gravitas to their brush, and have learnt the wisdom that slower is sometimes faster. Or something. Be that as it may, the half-set I caught was packed pell-mell with songs and tunes of all speeds and styles, often within the same song, that fully caught the still early-evening mood of a crowd with hair, or not, to let down.

Flute, fiddle, guitar, double bass and drums are their weapons primed for use, and use them they did, with accuracy and attention to detail. Nearly newest member, Alex Garden, seems to be the flint in the new fire, with their electric guitar seeming to conduct the players around about them. Most the solos come from Aaron Catlow’s fiddle and Luke Phillips’ flute, but it is the controlled and combined unison mayhem that really characterises the band. Much of the new album, St. Congar’s Walking Stick, was played before I left, the remainder probably after.

The title track was tremendous, with some fabulous metal riffage from Garden, before bluesy fiddle, in the style of Sugarcane Harris, burst down those doors, themselves then having to open and let in some trilly, Tull-y flute. With a lot of bowed bass featuring, from Jon Short, if the cocktail sounds ungainly, you’d be progtastically wrong. With bass that balanced you need a good drummer, and newest member, brand new, Kate Rusby’s preferred sticksman, Josh Clark, is that, his thunder and clatter perfect for the pristine pandemonium.

PRIME PURVEYORS OF COUNTRY-ROCK

Querying my choice, it was with slightly leaden steps I made my way to the Night & Day Café, a venue not in use last year. But, arriving after support act, Supalung, had already left, it was clear that there was no small amount of electricity in the air, to which the added anticipation was palpable. I was here for Brown Horse, those prime purveyors of Norwich country-rock. They prefer the phrase slacker country, and I can see why, as their on stage ambience cuts across the apparent contrast effortlessly. Two records in two years, each mightily approved by ATB, their work ethic is boundless, with another on the way, due to drop in less than four weeks time. What joy!

As the five piece lurched onto stage, it was immediately apparent this is a truly class act. Sorry, Sheelanagig, but my doubts evaporated near instantaneously, as the righteous combination of guitars, keys, bass and drums thundered out, with the confidence, no hyperbole, of The Band crossed with Crazy Horse. Yes, that “the” Band, largely courtesy the swirls and scatters provided by keyboard king, Rowan Braham, who was channeling both Garth Hudson and Richard Manuel.

Frontman, Patrick Turner, is attractively louche, but is gradually restraining and retraining his vocal into something a little less alarming than it has sometime appeared. Yes, he can still strangle out a yelping gulp when needed, but there is now a wider range and diversity to his tonality, all adding to the vocal strength he has at his control. Twisters, a new song, opened the salvo, cracking straight into the groove they have self-defined. Slimmed down, now, to a four-piece, with drums, tonight, from Ben Rodwell, his play made for a sturdy engine room alongside Emma Tovell’s bass. Braham on keyboards and Turner on vocals and rhythm guitar, the final essential integer came from the fluid and spiky electric guitar of Nyle Holhan, capable of piledriver chordage and, seconds later, rippling runs of lead.

THE FULL GARTH

The audience granting immediate favour, downtown Mancs felt now more a roadhouse in Texas, the only surprise being how few were wearing the spurs this band have earned. Another new song followed, to similar acclaim; it takes some nerve to play some new from the go, but they have been honing these songs on the tour immediately preceding this gig, only resorting to playing some old for third song, Dog Rose, followed by Corduroy Couch, also from All The Same Weaknesses.

Really hitting their stride, Braham was now strapping on an enormous accordion, missing only the massive beard to fully become the full Garth. Tovell, meanwhile, had switched to pedal steel, with Holhan playing both bass parts and lead simultaneously, on the one guitar, aided by Turner’s choppy slashes. It is astonishing the progress Tovell has made, on this stupendously complicated instrument she is now adept upon. From occasional lap steel to the full pedal bothering rig, using both knees and toes, it is remarkable.

With oldie, Stealing Horses, track one, side one on the debut, Reservoir, up next, it was clear this band have made excellent use of the school of the road, the song sounding way more polished than it’s two years of existence belie. Similar vintage Reservoir and the psychedelic grunge of Radio Bolinas, a highlight of the second disc, proved none of this a fluke, the reception giving clear pleasure to the group on stage. To witness Holman’s liquid notes float up and through the choppy dense rhythmic chug made for a splendid din. A further new song and two old, largely back in the steel/accordion mode, to close and many, many new friends had been made in Manchester. Of course they got an encore.

POLYRHYTHMIC PODORHYTHMIE

With the thrill of that show resounding between my ears, the brisk walk back to Band On The Wall HQ was made short work of, wondering how that show could be met or equalled. But any little faith was soon restored, and some, for the Quebecois flavoured fusions of Club Debris. On record this foursome are sound and solid, live they are both of those, squared to superlative. Three of the four members may be sitting, but all four sets of feet were dancing, on stage, and most of those below. In fact, to complement to the polyrhythmic podorhythmie, Club Debris were added to tonight by a fifth member, who tapped and hoofed gloriously to the left of them. Think Bez, but with talent, steps and tradition.

Club Debris are Will Allen on box and fiddle, Maisie Greenwood on fiddle, Duncan Menzies on a third fiddle and mandolin, rounded out by Will Chamberlain on electric piano, as much for rhythm as for scatterguns of tinkling embellishment. The sound is rich and smoky, as their feet clatter joyously beneath them. And, with any flagging from my protesting skeleton dismissed, the quartet plus one gave such a reviving cocktail of rousing dance music that the room was soon spinning, and the floor bouncing.

Unsurprisingly, the band had brought their fan club with them, a fair scattering of the great and the good from the world of folk getting down and dirty with the happy punters. As Allen and Menzies swapped instruments, sometimes it was box-led churners, with, elsewhere, triple barrelled fiddle extravaganzas to while the way. I couldn’t tell you exactly what tunes they played, but give me a chance to acquaint with the subsequent very necessary purchase of their album, and I’ll get back to you.

Time for a tactical adieu! Despite having been unable to clone myself and see the likes of Katie Spencer, Bella Hardy, Angeline Morrison, Blair Dunlop, David Ford or Seth Lakeman, apologies to all, but it still felt a day done good.

FRIDAY

My room for the jolly didn’t have a window, which was very confusing apropos time, it never light enough to discern night or day. So it came as a pleasant surprise that is was gone nine a.m. before any surfacing would take place. Ideal for a saunter round the corner to The Fig + Sparrow, a favourite from last year, and their brunchy delights, Suitably caffeine and ‘cadoed, it was time for an explore, with Affleck’s fabled Palace getting the full peruse before the crowds found it. The challenge to purchase any unsuitable tie-die seen off, it was time for business.

EERIE EDWARDIANS

First up it was Melbourne sisters, Ivy and Mabel Windred-Wornes, aka Charm Of Finches, and their living tribute to The Picnic At Hanging Rock. This was in the grandeur of the upstairs hall at Hallé St. Peter’s. In the two years since I last saw them, at Sidmouth, boy, have they come on, with any of their then slightly reticent performance ditched in favour of knowing crowd handling, as they flashed their sibling telepathy between them. Ivy on, mainly keys, and emotive arm weaving, Mabel on guitar, each sing separately, but it is when their blood harmony kicks in that the magic accelerates. Even for the songs around the road and dating, an eerie Edwardian mysticism hangs in their sound and image, rendering anything of the 21st century to sepia and mist.

With Ivy switching occasionally to violin, it decidedly that rather than fiddle, so the eerie charms induced became enhanced all the further. A mix of songs from across their expanding catalogue, the majority came from figurehead release, Marlinchen In The Snow. Don’t get me wrong, but isn’t Melbourne largely sunny? How can the two sisters be so adept with the tropes of ice and frost? But that they are, and it is a veritable wintry wonderland that they channel into their muse.

Even the stories of “mainly fictional” boyfriends, “sus” or otherwise, fail to crack any vestige of modernity. Now resident in Glasgow, to reduce the yearly trans-global transits taken so regularly before, somehow that Northen city seems to smack of exactly what they represent, it not even surprising that they describe it delightful. With new material in the pipeline, it can’t come soon enough.

So much to do and so much to see, there was more of a lull than I anticipated as the day spun on. In part down to the hazards of clash. With an hour of lower-key edutainment coming from artist and historian, Lucy J. Wright and her Tradition Is Good For You presentation, this filled well the gap between available shows.

CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK (OF?)

Over now to Hallé St. Michael’s. I had never seen Nick Harper before, let alone his Dad, but nothing but praise had come from those I asked. Tonight was his 58 Fordwych Road Show, based upon his childhood, at Flat 5a of that address, and the cavalcade of greats who shared time and space, visiting and singing with his father, Roy. This was an unashamed opportunity to parade his virtuoso thunderstorm playing on guitar, across a greatest hits of the coffee house culture of 1960’s London.

An entertaining raconteur, his comfortable style conjured up a warm portrait of life as a youngster, taking for granted a life of song and the collection of “herbs” kept by his father. The very same box, used for that collection, sat on a table, next to the lava lamp at his side. There wan’t room, he said, for the sofa to be brought as a further memento. A backdrop contained the faces of the famous, dropping by to pay respects and compare similar collections with his pa.

With Davy Graham the first ghost evoked, Harper described the awe all then felt around this slightly older figure, ahead replicating, and some, the fiery range of Graham’s play. The audience, agog as to see whether this upstart was up to the fierce raging raga that then billowed forth, following a fevered and impassioned She Moved Through The Fair, became quickly informed that, o yes, he was.

NEXT SPECTRE…

Angie, of course, got an airing, that essential of its age, being the bridge between Graham and the next invited spectre, Bert Jansch. I hadn’t before appreciated that, of all people, it was Bob Monkhouse who, effectively commissioned the tune. Harper then played Blackwaterside, describing it through the then partnership of Jansch and Anne Briggs. Perhaps a singer of spirit rather than technique, Harper showed himself no slouch around melding his vocal idiosyncrasies with the more expected delivery, his fingers a blur across the strings. John Renborn next summoned, the medieval intricacy of his slant and style was also accurately and skilfully evoked.

Paul Simon didn’t have his picture up on stage: “a lovely fella, his lawyers…… less so“. This was the opportunity more to shine a light on Martin Carthy, sadly not a visitor, with the original Carthy version of Scarborough Fair. being then aired. A veritably inhabited Blues Run The Game then blessed the memory of the troubled Jackson C. Frank, before Daddy Harper himself, his son playing a marvellous version of Forever, an early song written about and to Harper Junior’s mother. Harper’s amazing skill with harmonics had mouths open and jaws dropped in astonishment.

A swift aside around John Martyn and as to whether or not he had actually visited, it seeming maybe once, thus allowing a May You Never, before, finally to the only woman with a pride of place on the banner, Sandy Denny. Clearly what else could it be but Denny’s ageless paean to the passage of time, and, with most of the room singing along, where, indeed, did all that time go. Pure nostalgia of course, catnip to rose-tinted spectacle wearers, but, with all the songs played so well and so lovingly, each imprinted with the character of the then boy in the room, seated at his father’s feet, it was lovely show.

DRONE AND DRANG

With a colleague covering Fairport Convention and Jenn Butterworth, I was spared the trek over to New Century Hall, delegated instead back to St. Peters, this time the fabulous converted church space of the downstairs hall. This was for Shovel Dance Collective. On record, I had quite enjoyed their drone and drang, keen to see how they might pan out live. All started well, with a gloriously ragged and stentorian acapella, off mike, from Mataio Austin Dean, Nick Grant and, I think, Daniel Evans, which raised the bar high. But, as the rest of the band then trooped on, in a semi-circle across the stage, I began to struggle.

The reliance on drone was almost stifling, with low bass harmonica, trombone and bass clarinet the predominant soundscapes. Two players down, with no explanation why, the distinctive figure of Jacken Elswyth was certainly not present, with very few introductions as to who was.

To be fair, the capacity crowd did not remotely share my view, greeting each epic with delight and prolonged applause. Challenging and uncompromising, which undoubtedly they were, can mean so much to different ears. I did like the singing, or much of it. When Joshua Barfoot got to play his otherwise underused drum kit, it showed his abilities, then even more apparent, as he switched to hammered dulcimer. Fiddle player, Oliver Hamilton showed himself to have some innate hooley in his complex sawing, if then noodling off into free jazz experimentalism. So, good in parts but file under not for me.

Having also missed The Young Un’s, supported by Maz O’Connor, luckily attended also by another, I was feeling glum, needing my spirits raised. Would Frankie Archer be up to that? Silly question. I had noted that Amy Thatcher and Francesca Knowles were playing the following day, aware that the duo had recently collaborated with Archer, crossing my fingers that this might be on tonight’s cards. So, to see a drum kit and a bank of electronica on the stage, aside from Archer’s lap-top and fiddle table, fingers were firmly crossed.

A WOMAN POSSESSED

Hope delivered, on the crack of 11, on trooped the three, two immediately recognisable. Less so Archer herself, in flowing white rags and a translucent death mask. Gone the simpler stage wear of the past, tonight we were to get the full visual assault she has long set her heart upon, choreographed dance to carry each song from beyond the mere auditory. Freed, a little, from her own electronica, Archer paraded the stage like a woman possessed, fiddle sometimes in hand, sometimes not. The wash of sound was far fuller, Thatcher and Knowles adding dense layers of atmospheric to the experience.

Archer has now even fused further the integral timelessness of her presentation, timeless as in transcending anything much linear. Most, if not al her songs, derive from the tradition, as in age-old ballads, if given a feminist wash and brush-up, excising much the toxic masculinity prevalent across so much in folk song. Her loops and multi-tracking, together with the synth heavy arrangements, now so much more expansive, with beats mechanical to join the manufactured, are decidedly modern and bordering on futurist, yet dragged back, now, with echoes of Genesis era Peter Gabriel and, especially, Kate Bush, to inform the performance. Kate Bush, that is, were she from the North East and adept on fiddle.

TRAD. DISARRAYED

Most of the songs were from yet to be released new album, Dance Of Death, which drops next month. The titles, Death And The Maiden, The Unquiet Grave, if less the title track, may all sound familiar, but the lyrical tweaks display a strong sense of trad. less arranged, more disarrayed. Oxford Town, an early single, gets also a reprise on the album, perhaps to celebrate the new partnership’s powers of persuasive delivery. Exhausting, exhilarating and absorbing, this new chapter is going to play a blinder, and, on the strength of this show, will leave a lasting legacy.

SATURDAY

Where, today, for breakfast, with the choice as boundless as ever, the option to sit outside on the pavement keenly taken. Oldham Street remains a destination of taste, and Nibble NQ was just the job, for a tastily messy (messily tasty?) bagel combo, needing a replenished napkin supply to even attempt any cleanse of my post prandial whiskers, hummused up to buggery. Tip top!

BEARDY BANTER

It being sunny and it being Saturday, so Cutting Room Square was the place to be, morris sides already congregating from midday onward. Is there a single event in the UK folk calendar that doesn’t attract Robbie K. Jones, the impressively bearded Track Dog? Here he was, crowd central, able to admit to some possible studio time being booked for his musical partnership with Alice Jones, as well as info on the forthcoming Track Dogs platter, due next month, or thereabouts. Likewise, it was good to see Simon Care, released from Banter duties for the day, and partaking in the morris, melodeoning for Domesday Morris, one of the featured sides.

BOW MASTER

But my call here was indoors, for fiddle maestro, Ryan Young, upstairs at the adjoining Hallé St. Peters. This unassuming Scotsman, from Maryhill, near Dingwall, is the latest in the never ending flow of consummate bow masters from North of the border. Fascinated as much by the similarities as the differences, as tunes swap sides of the Irish Sea, he steers a careful passage between the two, blurring the familiar into his own personal take on tunes well-known. So much so as to surprise you into later realisation, as he carefully avoids being described as “a belter”, relying too much on old staples. Clever, that!

Today we were doubly blessed, as his accompanist, on guitar, was no less than Louis Campbell, himself a rising star in the firmament. Instrumental fiddle music, each selection consisted of up to six or seven separate pieces, fused together, often rising up through the gears, from slow and plaintive airs and laments, to pell-mell dashing white sargeants of jiggery-pokery.

Campbell is a that most valued of sideman, knowing his place is secondary. That is, until you clock quite what he is up to, his playing never as straightforward as a mere metronome. Indeed, his tone and sound often more mimicked a piano, as she struck broad note combinations, to hang in the mid air that Young was dancing in. Together they were heavenly, and the length and volume of the applause following each medley came clearly as surprise, however welcome, to both players.

It is this sort of unexpected showcase that so exemplifies the worth of this festival. Were I Duncan Chisholm, I would be looking nervously over my shoulder at this young man, as a potential usurper to his crown of precise and emotional Celtic melody. He too has a new album due, with ATB staking claim to a prompt review.

A CLASSY COMBINATION

Talking of showcases and/or unexpected pairings, another keenly anticipated show was for Joshua Burnside and Rachel Sermanni, appearing here as a duo. Each acclaimed artists in their own right, Burnside has, possibly, the higher current recognition, with his blend of Northern Irish acoustic rural charm with muted electronica, but here, shed of the latter, he was a good foil for the Scottish singer-songwriter’s silkier smooth gloss of a voice. Downstairs again, at St Peter’s, the high ceilings and stained glass gave a classy grounding to their set, each starting on acoustic guitars.

Taking songs in turn, they had prepared a set together, designed to show the best of each other, every bit as much to show off their own individual sparkle. Thus, as the first song, by Sermanni, ended, Burnside broke into a reel on his guitar, with Sermanni swapping to mandolin for an inspired joint rendition. Burnside’s croon earthier than his companions, his songs tended towards Irish mystical, at least to me, Sermanni being the straighter of the two styles featured, her voice being her main calling card.

Each had some good craic to compare, with, at one stage, the unwieldy concept of head banging to what turned out to be a prime slice of choral gospel: “What can I do, Lord“, becoming ingrained with the audience’s hive mind. Burnside’s brogue carries almost the same on song as in speech, a lyrical conversational conduit, and his songs suit this stripped back format.

Instrumentally, as well as guitar, Burnside had his fiddle with him, as well as pilfering Sermanni’s mandolin, to add tonal variants to the overall texture. Knowing little of Sermanni before, and not that much more of Burnside, each had me saluting them by the end of their seventy-five minutes. Another good and well-chosen pairing.

SATURDAY SHOWDOWN

Somehow it was evening already, the dusk well down and the day dimmed. I hadn’t made it, once again, to shows elsewhere: John Bramwell, Fanny Lumsden, Joan Shelley nor The Magic Numbers, any of whom would normally get my vote. But there was no way I was going to miss the homecoming of one of Manchester’s finest, the one and only Mike McGoldrick, here tonight in the trio of McGoldrick, McCusker & Doyle. (And yes, I checked the order of names for that!)

Sticking in the same grand hall as the earlier act, the room had been emptied and required a separate portal of entry, this time, where a queue began to form almost instantly. My hopes of a swift snifter disappointed, the time was well spent with some of the other hardies of the UK folk fest experience, swapping stories of bygone years, with their willies exerting far broader a wave than my own. Marvellous anecdotes, chaps!

MASTERS OF THEIR ARTS

A front row seat thus granted, the trio were straight into and on it, masters of their arts, right from the first barrage of notes emanating from McGoldrick’s uillean pipes. John McCusker has an almost savage fiddle style, nothing akin to Ryan Young’s more mellifluous sweeps, and throws himself into every lurch of his arm. John Doyle, on guitar, has just the perfect timing needed to channel the twin musical outpourings of his colleagues, keeping an always melodic flurry of chord changes, always at the front of the attack. Initially toting a natty light green semi-acoustic instrument, his lightly amplified sounds were terrific, whether dense strums or structured picking.

I imagine the pipes are what most relish the most in such performances, but McGoldrick is a canny performer, knowing he must ration his use of this instrument, making damned sure his mastery also of flute and whistle gets not lost behind. So, flute ahoy, as all three instruments coalescing into almost orchestral unison, the congregation, remember where we are, in the palm of their collective hands. Much was made of it being Manchester, with warm onstage banter around this being the homecoming gig for this Mancunian king of Celtic woodwind.

NO PADDYWHACKERY

Songs interspersed the instrumental passages, Doyle was eager to show off what a classy set of pipes he has himself, if, in his case, in-built. The last time I saw the trio that had been the weak link of their show, as, however strong the voice, the song material tended toward the paddywhackery of cliche. This is no longer the case, with greater care taken to avoid any such formularisation, that aspect heightened by the use of the amplified guitar. Sure, the audience still got to sing along, but it felt less needy. (Talking of guitars, Doyle had access tools a lovely pair of acoustics, six and twelve string respectively, producing a rich wide sound from the latter.)

Keeping the changes, there were several instances of McCusker switching to low whistle, often when McGoldrick was plying the same, making for entrancing duets over Doyle’s rhythmic supervision. But fiddle is McCusker’s main bread and butter, he showing quite why and how he remains in such high regard, for his punishing approach to the instrument. Can it really be thirty five years since he, as a wee boy, had the temerity to be Brian McNeill’s replacement in the Battlefield Band?

TRIUMPHANT LAP OF HONOUR

Did someone say paddywhackery? Whilst sticking to my espousal of such easy pickings, my thoughts became ready for the eating, as a rousing Fall Down Billy drew the set to a close, the audience in full throat to the band’s throttle. (And me? Yup, guilty as charged.) All of us old enough and knowing enough, McCusker now told us what to do after the trio played their last tune, so as to guarantee another, and so, well-instructed, we watched them huddle briefly off the side of the stage, before clapping them back to regroup for a triumphant lap of honour. Magnificent.

Early doors for me after that. After three days I was all in, and David Eagle’s Pick & Mix Folk Disco would have to wait another day. See ya’, Mancs, and thanks!!

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