A summer stonker with a mighty punch delivers – The Gate To Southwell – July 1-5, 2026.

A STAKE WELL CLAIMED

Many a festival claims to be the best at what it does, whether it be the site, the size, the diversity, the friendliness or the toilets, where the last is a always surprisingly strong selling point. This bijou gem, nestled into the Notts agriculture belt, might just have it all, managing also to curate the climate into the just about comfortable side of summer sunshine. Over four days and nights, five if you took advantage of their new soft Wednesday opening, to get you in the mood, sounds of folk’s broadest church were bouncing between the myriad stages and bars.

IMMEDIATELY AT HOME

This fella arrived Thursday, whilst the soon to be 5k population were negotiating the earlier stages of this SimCity. The night before had seen the plucky convene to scheme and plan the following days, to chat and chew the fat over pints and plates, the odd session breaking out here and there, with boxes squeezing and strings a’tinkling.

The festival site is a compact arrangement, with the city of tents and vans guarding the outskirts. Three main stages, with smaller venues strategically placed around and about, to capture the unrwary, with a central area for traders and craftspeople to ply their wares. Easily negotiable within a step count less than 10k per day. banks of hay bales provide the buffers between areas and diminish any bleeding of sound. With the trusty tent up in 20, courtesy the just good to soft, but dry, soil conditions, I felt immediately at home.

THURSDAY:

ACCLIMATISATION & AMBIENCE

With the daytime centred around acclimatisation and ambience, real activity only sparked off during the mid to late afternoon, with a local artist showcase kicking off around 3.30 and a sort of come all ye collective, curated by the duo, Winter Wilson, to celebrate Dolly P. and Dylan, B., rounding up whatever performers had pitched up early. Entitled “From 5 to 9”, see what they did there! Dipping between the two options, already most desires were capable of being met. So much so that, engrossed by the cross-generation jolly charm of The Limewoods, I missed the official opening act on the main stage, aka the Lake Stage.

BLUE SMARTIES

First up, for me, was Edwina Hayes, who provided an ideal amuse bouche ahead the main course. An intriguing performer, her precise bone china delivery is at almost loggerheads with her hypomanic between song patter, coming across like a Kate Rusby, if after too many blue smarties, bearing in mind she too can chatter a bit. A mix of her own songs and covers, it was a timely reminder of what a dependent draw on the circuit she is. Her version of Nanci Griffith’s Call Me A Drink was all the better for the realisation that it was Hayes who actually penned it. Add in Randy Newman’s Feels Like Home and a touch of Radiohead, with Fake Plastic Trees, it was an exquisite set, much enjoyed.

MAN ON A MISSION

The main course? None other than Richard Thompson, who had had to cancel a year ago, courtesy a tumble and some broken ribs. Tonight he seemed like a man on a mission, so impassioned was his delivery. Seldom have I seen him attack his strings with so much pent-up fury, his vocal delivery similarly savage. With just the one guitar, no techs and precious little tuning moments, he walloped off with a blistering Walking On A Wire, ahead a thunderous Genesis Hall. His voice ripped in, around and all over the intended melody, never losing sight but also adding alls sorts of counter-textures. If Parker or Coltrane sang, this is how they would sound.

Onward through a bass strings heavy Valerie, a delicately complex Beeswing and an ominous Pharaoh he thrashed, interspersing with wry digs around the age of his audience tonight. Later song, Johnny’s Far Away was a highpoint, with the favourites all nipped in between deeper cuts like that. 1952 VBL is a song I have recently wished he would rest, tonight having to swallow any such thought, so much fire drew he into the song.

PROUD HUBBY

Now was the time to greet the current Mrs T., Zara Phillips, with proud hubby asking who had seen her on breakfast telly that very morning, and some had. This was time for a taste of yet unheard songs; the unfamiliarity of Cocaine Walking, Booze Talking being more than made up for by the trademark lyrical vitriol. Pipedreams also saw the couple channel a sorta Everly’s vibe. Some more golden oldies, Withered and Died, Dry My Tears and more, ahead, what else, the hit, Bright Lights and a glorious Wall Of Death as an encore. Tremendous stuff. Whilst Phillips may be no Linda, nor neither Christine Collister, she has an engaging presence and clearly does her husband all sorts of good, her vocal harmonies now less uncertain than a year or three back.

That’s how to start a festival, needing nothing more than a stare into the void/flames at Mark’s Place, aka the Campfire Sessions tent. Ready for bed? I should say so.

FRIDAY:

BALMY CLEMENCY

Jings, for all the warmth of the day, that was a cold and, apparently, windy night! Awake early, and with nary a queue for the showers, it was time to more fully explore. Kirtlington Lake, or lakes, which encroach the bottom edge of the site, looked gorgeously inviting in the morning sun. No swimming, mind, probably down to the large number of geeses proudly making the water their own. A balmy clemency say my notes.

POSSIBLY NOT HIS GIVEN NAME

The nearby Boathouse Bar was my portal of entry to the schedule, with the, possibly not his given name, Paul Carbuncle. In the vein of spiky agit-prop acoustic punks like Jess Silk and Matt Johnson, this mohawk coiffed troubadour had 30 minutes to set out his stall of political, less political and only slightly political songs. He displayed a knack for witty wordplay, to which he added his own efficiently adept guitar play. A stand-out was his song of horror, inspired by the Notts. County Council budget for flags, followed by a Bragg-y bang through Pretty In Pink.

ACUTE & UNCANNY

I only just caught a snippet of Thomas Bradley, a tremendously open throated singer of widescreen songs, casting a much bigger shadow than the actual just he, his guitar and a fiddler. But it was Hannah Sanders and Ben Savage that I had made my way to the Folk stage for. The first of two shows, this was the pair of them alone. With Savage promising a very different set from the fun band they would be fronting tomorrow, it was indeed.

With the two grouped around one of those magnificent old Radio City type microphones, the harmony interaction between Sanders’ soar and Savage’s smokier undercurrent was as acute as ever. Sanders stuck to guitar, whilst her partner switched between the same and dobro, an instrument for which he has an uncanny touch, rendering their material, already a mix of trad.arr from both here and Appalachia, sited somewhere midway between the two, if probably drier. Having seen them more recently, with band, any preference between the two formats was clearly going to be a tough call.

DISTINCTIVE & DECISIVE

A name new to me, American visitors, The Hot Seats had a programme bio that made them sound essential. They hail from not strictly bluegrass territory, But, boo, their plane had failed to arrive in time, meaning a swift re-jigging, to meet, sorry, Watersmeet. This female duo contain Anna Hughes, also the newest member in Salt House, which was my rationale for viewing. Playing, variously, tenor guitar, electric and semi-acoustic guitars, harmonium and fiddle, as well as each having distinctive and decisive voices, the two of them gave a beguiling performance that made the altered schedule become a bonus.

A ROUND RIPE VOICE

More new to me, Grainne Hunt took the stage in a bright red jumpsuit, a broad smile and a guitar. With a round ripe voice like a red apple, she gave a powerhouse of a set. Loads of melody in twinkling tunes that had me in mind of a sweeter voiced Dar Williams, having a similar gift for conversationally descriptive lyrics. One, inspired by her being in Minneapolis as the city burned, stuck fast. A quick scoot over to capture the David Hughes recommended Chris Cleverly did not then disappoint, his technique on six-string as duly impressive as forewarned.

MASTERCLASS

As the day progressed, an unexpected fillip with the late arrival of The Hot Seats back at the Lake stage. and what joy, as this quartet of, initially, guitar, fiddle, banjo and stand-up bass, gave a masterclass of all things old timey through bluegrass. Crowding around an even more vintage mike than Sanders and Savage, they gave a greatly nuanced authenticity to the styles.

With efficient two and three part harmonies, most of the heavy vocal lifting came from Josh Bearman on guitar, lead vocals and laconic between song banter. Citing “traditional American music, some original music and older than traditional American music”, Child 18, Sir Lionel, got a neat trasatlanticism as a tale around a wild hog in the woods.

Halfway through, the bassist took to a drum kit, simultaneously donning a washboard, with the fiddle man moving to bass. And if that wasn’t enough, as, for the encore, richly deserved, Bearman took to the banjo, clawhammer versus the bluegrass of the original stakeholder, he and the fiddle player now each touting guitars. A splendid set, and worth the delay, even if not all in the vicinity had been told of the late arrival.

BRASSY WOODWINDERY

Never having seen Keston Cobbler’s Club, I very much liked the cut of their described jib, being always a sucker for brass. In their case, alongside the orthodoxy of guitar, accordion and drums, they carry trumpet and tuba. I was sort of expecting them to play trad.arr. with that different vibe, or to be an even hornier version of The Barely Works. Actually they were neither, playing mainly their own and somewhat quirky originals, which, with any other instrumentation might more be considered indie or pop. Sadly, a date elsewhere meant I had to make my excuses, but certainly something to warrant a spotty, or other stream of choice, on return.

The date? Well, that would be The Hunch, the doughty team of, mostly, veterans, who ply a nimble route through well-known favourites, folk, trad and otherwise, through a filter of accordion, mouth organ, bodhran, flute, whistle and, joy of joy’s, the uillean pipes of Mick Doonan. Around now a few years and with a couple of albums under their belt, they were a band I was egging to see.

And they were grand. With covers that ranged from Elvis to The Beatles and Santana to the Brinsleys, a good time was guaranteed for all. Their slowed down Help was very bit as remarkable as I recall from disc, and a Geordie take on Se A Cabo was certainly different. I don’t like their version of Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars one bit, but that was the only one I didn’t care for, feeling otherwise enormously entertained.

GALLANT ALTERNATIVES

Still only the first full on day, my choices were now limited by my case of McDidymophobia, an intense and morbid fear of Scottish twins, which meant I couldn’t go within 500 miles of headliners this night, The Proclaimers. So sorry if you checked in for that and that alone. Instead, I picked me up a potpourri of gallant alternatives, waving their short straws for that coincidental timing.

This included an admiring ear for Alistair Anderson’s Northumbrian Ceilidh, and no, the answer is, not with these knees. Proudly old school, without the bells and whistles of more contemporary dance bands, this was the business, with piano, concertina, flute and, um, whistles of tradition, and all the better for it, too. I’m told The Hoplites, who I could also hear, between dance tunes, a ska and reggae band from Nottingham, put on a belter, but, by then, it was the area of a final pint and the campfire. Whilst there, I heard a superb singer tear into some old acoustic blues, wandering whether anyone had ever told her what a voice she had. More of that story anon.

SATURDAY:

CHEWY

A much warmer night, thanks for asking, meant for an almost lie-in, meaning my time for ablutions would have been limited, were it not for a still short, if longer than yesterday, queue at the showers. Forgoing the black pudding bap of yesters, it was perhaps the best almond croissant, from the GTSF Deli, I have ever devoured, that sustained me through these first waking hours. That and a chewy flat white.

FRESH FOXES

Fresh on 11 a.m., and each looking impossibly bright and breezy for the early spot. were the Chloe and Amy show of True Foxes. When last seen, in November, they were definitely, if nervously, ones to watch, so what a difference has the intervening months wrought. With now an album released and under their belt, the two cousins gave as good a show as anyone else the entire weekend, brimming with the confidence spilling from knowing the strength and calibre of their material. Chloe’s acoustic bass confirmed it no trick last time, it once more difficult not to hone in alone to that tone and those fingers.

But courtesy the lead vocals of Amy, there was little chance of losing either sight or sound of that either. Songs of the strength of Mama, Why Don’t They Like Me and Just A Woman stood out, even if the sentiments of the latter became a little ironic, given the alleged subject matter of their celebrated cover, played near the beginning, Kate Bush’s Running Up That Hill, confirmatory citation possibly needed.

CUATRO VS. BOUZOUKI

With only time for the opening of her set, I was greatly taken by the polish of Holly Holden, who sang a set of mostly latino and latino-influenced songs, accompanying herself on cuatro, with burly electric bass from her very South American looking sidekick. Another one for consolidating at home. Running ahead of myself, and being late always anathema to me, Hebble were playing in the bar, as I bought myself a stiffener from the excellent and easy on the pocket prices at the Barleycorn bar. Cello, bodhran and bouzouki is an unusual combination, but gelling surprisingly well. But I was really due elsewhere.

BLISTERING BLAZING BLUES

Due elsewhere! Prophetic words, as, walking past the back of the Lake stage marquee, there came such a rich and generous voice that I really had to investigate. It sounded like the biggest and best electric blues in the world. Tucking my head in, to no small astonishment, there were but two people on stage. And each with acoustic guitars, if heavily amplified. No bass, no keys, no drums, but imagination filled in all of that. This was Campbell and Johnston, a couple who were present as part of the visiting team from Canada’s East Coast Music Association.

The voice was Christine Campbell, a cross between Bonnie Raitt and Sheryl Crow, perfect for big hearted blues wailing. A dab hand also on guitar, this was a skill she had in common with Blake Johnston, and the joys of jamming and duelling were alive and well, as they traded licks. Not the only singer, Johnston showed himself no slouch either, with a smoky roar not much far removed from, no hyperbole intended or given, Joe Cocker. With a setlist culled from the classic blues-rock standards of last century, and new songs in that style, they were possibly the discovery of the festival, making many, many friends.

PEERLESS PINNACLE

Unable to remember who I should have been seeing, my decorum took a while to re-establish. Luckily this was in time for the utterly fabulous Winter Yards Band, with Steve Knightley. I have said it before, and I will say it again, but this is, IMHO, the pinnacle of Knightley’s career, topping both Show Of Hands and the short-lived Dream In Colours. Of course, part of this is down to the songwriting, Knightley having a peerless ability to conjure up landscapes with his verbiage. But, with the infusion of David Delarre’s simmering guitar, Evan Carson’s controlled yet choreiform percussion and the majestic booming bass curveballs of John Parker’s big old bass, and it is more than majestic.

Choosing a cover to start might seem odd, but Knightley has form with The Boys Of Summer, and this technicolour version was perfect for this sun dappled evening. What Could Possibly Go Wrong is a newer song that gets new verses added every time, and tonight’s iteration, referencing Epstein and the anachronism previously known as Prince, was a cracker. Another corker is It’s A Folk Song, that delineates all the things you can only do in folk songs, at least in these woke days. I especially love the line about what to do with Lord Barnard’s wife after church!

GLEAMING LIKE A DIAMOND

Time for True Foxes to return, in time for the stunning Transactions, the high water mark from the Winter Yards album, sans band, and now even more sensational with. Surely a live album has to be on the cards; man can’t live by YouTube videos alone! On the songs kept pouring out, with even the Galway Farmer gleaming like a diamond. Gleaming? Only inasmuch as, on occasion, like RT’s VBL, it has felt too ubiquitous and obligatory.

Tonight it was gifted with way more vim than I have heard in a fair few executions, by whatever version of Knightley. Buoyed by the glorious new life blown into the exhausted filly, it was Reynardine to finish the set ahead, what else, a triumphant Cousin Jack, resplendent with the added voices of a marquee full of happy punters.

TORNADO TO HURRICANE

What could possibly follow that, or go wrong, as my hand wants to type? Blackbeard’s Tea Party is the answer and nothing but nothing to go wrong, either. Not a band I have ever witnessed, the fact that this was only the third performance of new singer, Amy Kakoura, after longstanding lynchpin, Stuart Giddens stepped away. Being never party to his contribution, I had none of the concerns some about me were offering. Concerns, I should add, totally unwarranted, with that fact later confirmed to me by those same possible naysayers.

The band as a concept are impossibly difficult to categorise, although they had a go, from the stage, as being folk/rock/glam/metal/punk/pirate shanty purveyors. Or something equally bombastic. Which is exactly what they were, with shattering power chords aplenty, matched with proggy electric fiddle, and rounded off by drums akin to Dr Teeth and the Electric Mayhem. Add in natty choreographed dance steps and, now, the penetrating Grace Slick-alike vocal prowess of their new singer, and the combination is a 4D spectacle of enormous merit.

From time to time, the guitarist, Benjamin Trott, switched to mandolin, adding yet more timbre to the tornado, and, with drummer, Dave Boston adding his ragged shout to the vocals, that tornado became a hurricane. Kakoura was sensational as a frontline rock chick of charisma and verve, with the requisite tonsils to deliver, all under the confident guidance of founder member, Laura Boston-Barber and her bow. Crowd singalong, Tomorrow We’ll Be Sober, seems etched in my brain and the band now have, at least, one new fan.

SEARINGLY SWAMPY

More ECMA Canadians to follow, Aboiteau, from New Brunswick, a French speaking area. With fiddle, guitar, bass and drums, the sound would be standard swampy cajun, were it not for the searing hot guitar pyrotechnics emanating also from within the line-up, giving a far heftier rock to the rootsy rhythms. With a bit of podorhythmie thrown in too, for good measure, that feets a’tapping on a board, so characteristic of the Eastern sea board, and this was music fit for champions, or champignons, as it is in the original French. More proof that big in Canada should mean bigger over here.

TOO SHORT

At any other festival, this might have been enough for any one day, but I could hear Campbell and Johnston again, requiring immediate attention, a further set crowned by their meticulous version of With A Little Help From My Friend. Marvellous. (Clue: not the Beatles’ version!) Still only teatime, too, or early supper, depending on geography. Gremlins with soundchecks for the evening left Kris Drever and Cahalen Morrison with a severely foreshortened set, barely, it seemed, half an hour, which for two established solo acts, in their own rights, was way too short.

Add in the fact that Drever’s latest album, Doing This For Love, is possibly his best, with time for but one selection therefrom. Morrison plays banjo, and has a rustier and more dustblown voice than Drever, meant that the harmony vocals were a delicious chalk and cheese, his songs more the wide prairies than Drever’s Shetlander forlorn.

A STERLING ARRAY

Time now for a returning Hannah Sanders and Ben Savage, this time with band, keyboards, double bass and drums. (Is it me, or is there a real renaissance of the stand -up, something I fully endorse, finding it hard to remember the callow youth who felt short changed whenever Danny Thompson appeared alongside his namesake.) A sterling array of, mostly, different songs comprised this second set. Sanders also got to bring out her dulcimer, for a couple of songs. An undoubted showstopper was an ethereal Quiet Joys Of Brotherhood, her voice soaring like a lark, as Matt Crumb’s moody keyboard solo floated somewhere similar, high in the sky.

HYPNOTICALLY PROGGY

More new to me was the extraordinary vision of Ríoghnach Connolly. Taking court, centre stage, on her throne, she was a hypnotic presence, cackling and growling like a demented bean sídhe between songs, ahead of striking vocals, where her tones are that of a slightly harsher Mary Coughlan, with a hint of Dolores O’Riordan. Musically, rather than folk of any texture, the sound of the band is essentially the lighter side of prog, never more so when Connolly embellishes any tune with her Trespass era Peter Gabriel flute. Trombone adds brassier textures, but the keyboard provide most of the musical thrust. On a hot summer’s night, it was perfect!

RADDLED SLASH & GURN

It’s still not over, for chrissakes, the day just keeping on giving. But it is winding down, or, more likely up, as it was the job of Stornoway hooligans, Peat & Diesel, to close the day. And what a way they chose, with a bumper set of their party bangers, the songs that convince you Gaelic might be well within your grasp, despite the sad reality that is contrary to that view, at least in the morning.

With Innes Scott in a battered straw hat, perhaps a ploy to keep eyes avers from the premonition that is Boydie on guitar and raddled vocalese, it was all systems go from the very start, with the hòro-gheallaidh on from the first slash of guitar and the song of that name. The infectious interplay between AC-DC powerchords and ceilidh squeezebox is wonderful, without forgetting the absolute powerhouse of Uilly Macleod on drums.

Al the “hits” came forth. Lovely Stornoway countered effectively with Dirty Old Town and there was even time to play a couple of new, with, thankfully, little sign of any new direction. What was new was a dramatic solo accordion piece from Scott, with, initially, a regimental drum pattern, and, bathroom break possibly completed, Boydie returning to the stage for some fiery guitar calisthenic. This Is My Island, a personal favourite, closed the set, but there was no way they could exit until a proper finale of Western Isles, the audience word perfect. On a good night, this band is unbeatable, and this was a good night.

I considered a reprise of Blackbeard’s Tea Party and their late night ceilidh, but there wasn’t any candle left, and the cake needed no further adornment. Time to hit the sack. Wottaday!!!

SUNDAY:

TOO DAMN GOOD

“It better be a shorter day,” said my knees on awakening, late, at 8. “I’ll do my best,” said I. agreeing in principle if hoping otherwise. Although there was a scattering yesterday, today seemed the obligatory day for the tribes of Morris to congregate, as side after side displayed ridiculous feats of athletic endurance under a still unforgiving sky.

Sunday morning is also a good time for jazz, and despite little actual plans to pay that much attention to the Barrel House Vipers, in the Barleycorn bar, that was until they prove they were just too damn good. With the singer, Rachel Lawrence, revealing herself to be that voice, from the campfire tent, 2 nights ago, I was glued to her every note. Mainly old time trad, Dixieland, N’Awlins style, heavy on the clarinet, the repertoire of old and brand new was as timeless as the sound they effortlessly recreated. Memories of George Melly and his Feetwarmers were evoked, although clearly the voice was closer to Bessie Smith than old goodtime George, despite his best efforts, could ever quite reach. With the second sighting of a washboard, they could do, and did, now wrong.

NO DISGRACE

My schedule now shot, I hadn’t intended necessarily to catch Counter’s Creek, glad that I then did. A quartet of fiddle, guitar, woodwind and harmonium, the singer had a voice not that far unadjacent to that of Jon Anderson, which, with a first song that contained traces of Yours Is No Disgrace, was heavenly. The singer also competent on whistle and flute, meant that a dual whistle approach could be taken to their self-penned instrumentals, which all seemed to be driven from places and place names, if all somewhat disparate and far flung. So we got Ullapool, Westward Ho! and Snape all mentioned in the first few salvos. Enjoyable.

MISTRESS OF THE LOOP

More woodwind next, for Eliza Marshall, the Ranagri flautist being graced a solo slot ahead a later show, which I annoyingly failed to connect, with the band. This was true solo as, being an accomplished mistress of the loop, meant she could sing, play flute and marimbas, all at the “same” time. Largely meditative instrumentals, these brought together her love of spirituality and nature, with musical influence drawn as much from Africa as the Celtic fringes. Her bass flute is a wonderful Heath Robinson contraption and it always cheers as she cantilevers it into place, iyt producing sounds not unlike a more tuneful didgeridoo.

WHITE ROSE TO WHITE FEATHER

Today turning into a day of seizing part performances, again I only caught part of a splendidly acerbic exposition from Bryony Griffith and Alice Jones, worth as much for the deprecatory repartee between them as for their super singing and playing. Fiddle, guitar and harmonium the main textures to balance their voices, anyone daring to place Halifax above Huddersfield, or vice versa, was having to watch their ps and qs. They really are a great pairing and it is always that you come away with a wealth of newly learnt information, as well as having their songs sing along in your head thereafter. My wife is from Yorkshire and I always learn something new to impress her about her home county.

So much music, so little time, so with the egg timer slowly running out of sands, I remembered Rachel Lawrence had made an earlier plea that folk catch her other band, Around About Dusk. So, when the time decreed, there I went, glad that I so did. For they were terrific, a more Mittel Europ/Weimar Republic variation of Jazz, awash with echoes of Brecht and Weill. Now playing also accordion, Lawrence was joined by sundry other Vipers and some not, clarinet and trumpet the other main distinctive features. If George Melly was the earlier template, here it was more a lazy Norah Jones vibe, on a grand tour. Without a blag of other albums appearing much in this review, their eponymous album, from April this year, is well worth a go.

STURDY FOLK-ROCK WITH POWERPOP NOUS

I had planned on seeing Caraway, an interesting sounding mash-up of brass and trip-hoppy fumes, think late period John Martyn, which was definitely the sound I caught from Polly Meyrick’s sax. Sadly it was the last number, meaning more home work for a later date. Seeing also that clarinet is one of her instruments, this has me sensing another instrument is on the way back. No such tardiness for Common Culture, reviewed so recently, and who were able to confirm their recorded work is no fluke, with their sturdy folk-rock full of power pop nous and rousing choruses. An hour of very well spent time, that left single, It’s Gonna Work Out well lodged in my ear. The tunes seem more instant live, with the bass and fiddle flying, as the blokes in the band keep the rhythm going on guitar and drums.

BANJO BLISS

Yes, a bit more Campbell/Johnston squeezed themselves in before The Fugitives, another recently reviewed band. Nominally Canadian, today it was Stafford’s own Dan Walsh who was deputising for their poorly banjo man, left behind at home, and who will be appearing with them for the rest of the tour. Essentially hoedown music from the hills, with sawdust on the floor, their difference is that, alongside the guitar, fiddle and banjo, one or other of them is also playing an electric bass. Infectiously danceable is what my notes say, which, given the album seemed more essentially cerebral, shows the importance of how and where music is absorbed.

Walsh is, of course, the banjoist’s banjoist and a formidable talent. Plus, you can forget rock guitar solo grimacing, he does better gurn than any of them! Towards the end, a balalaika appeared from nowhere and added unexpected extras to the overall din.

NZ CELTERY

“Are we there yet, Dad?” Nearly, nearly, in fact. Prompted by recommendation, Rennie Pearson, a young New Zealander, had to cross the radar, his final showing, in the Barleycorn Bar, which coincided with a necessary sit down. Informed by his Irish roots, he channeled brilliantly his forbears, playing guitar, flute and whistle. Vocally of the sort of keening tenor that Paul Brady uses so well, it was a hefty pointer towards his being a future star in that arena. Cool dude, too, if younger than anyone else present by several country miles.

FULL, FINE SYMPHONIC FUNK

Sunday night is always curfewed to a greater extent than the days that precede. Plus, we learnt, apparently some fellas were going be kicking a bag about, at the other side of the world, although I can’t see why that was anyone’s concern. Least of all the closing act, Elephant Sessions, who thought an English audience might have some fascination for whatever it was. With a change of bassist since last seen, now they consist Calum MacQuarrie, also in Cala, on bass, alongside regulars, Euan Smillie, fiddle, Alasdair Taylor, mandolin, and Greg Barry, drums and samples.

The sound, however, remains just as deliciously full and symphonic, where the ph is pronounced funky. Very. With the packed marquee bouncing like a big ‘un, the band seemed scarcely able to credit this was a Sunday night at a staid folk festival in deepest rural England. With MacQuarrie’s bass mixed high and clear, Barry provided a thundering volley of beats and backbeats, for Smillie and Taylor to duel and unison play in turn. It was truly magnificent and uplifting to this old Celtic heart.

Towards the end, all but Barry and Smillie left the stage, with the lights down to be only capable of catching Smillie in silhouette, a lone fiddler on the turret being the effect sought and delivered. A similar atmosphere to the night before, when Peat & Diesel aimed for a similar intent, here it seemed even more ceremonial, savage and beautiful, all at once. Following that, Taylor switched to an electric guitar; with the band having occasionally featured a fifth member, on guitar, I confess to wondering about this aspect, delighted that Taylor saw fit to show off his splendour on this instrument as well, giving also a totally different side to his character than with his chiming trademark mando.

That was broadly it, although MC, Alistair Russell, the onetime Battlefield Band man, was beaming broadly, and managed to coax a couple more out of them, to placate the still hungry crowd.

NEVER TOO LATE FOR A MOSH

That should have been it, but, of course, it never is at a festival, and, unbeknownst to me, Man The Lifeboats were about to open their set and close the Frontier stage. Again, the band a gap in my encyclopaedic, that was soon put to rights. I love the way Celtic punk has become, like Pub-rock in the 1970s. a sort of catch all for musical talents that may have missed out on earlier buses, for whatever reason. This cabal of not quite youngsters gave a stonking set of raucous barnstormers, with as close to a mosh pit that Southwell has ever seen. Banjo and accordion man, Aaron Horlock kept up a constancy of virtuoso play for Rich Quarterman to strum and howl over, with a solid basement rumble filtering forth from the bass and drums of, respectively, Sam Barker and David Vaughan. Tremendous.

MONDAY:

A PRIVILEGE

Home, sweet chariot. I can honestly state the Gate To Southwell Festival has been amongst the best of any recent festival experiences, and would certainly recommend it highly to anyone seeking pastures new to attend. Thank you, team GTSF, for the privilege!

GTSF: Website

At The Barrier: Facebook / X / Instagram