I suggest to Michael (he’s the photographer, you’ll get to know him as this continues) that the only way to approach this festival is to arm ourselves to the teeth and run at it with gusto and panache. So we agree to meet at Kings Cross at 6.

 

I’m there as planned at 6, carrying everything you need for a good festival and that’s why the attentions of the police and their dogs are somewhat unwelcome. But, with a friendly pat and a lot of piffle to PC Murray, I somehow got away with it. That is why this is a review about a festival and not a prison diary about the long nights with Bubba in Broadhurst.  Anyway long story short Michael was late and I was fucking angry but we made up.


Before we got to the festival we had to get on the train, which we nearly missed because ... well because we wanted to go and get beer .  So we get on this train and it’s hot, it’s humid and it’s sticky. So with nowhere to sit and an hour and a bit journey in front of us we decide to take it upon ourselves to make a strike against the ruling classes and make a dive for first class. The hot stuffy air is punctuated with a ring pull of an ice cold Red Stripe (a finer sound is hard to come by in situations such as these). As the ticket assistant approaches I hear him talking to a customer and as if a gift from god himself he is a fucking Brummie; now as you may or may not know I am a Brummie. It’s a cross I bear with shame and pride in equal measure and, due to moving from pillar to post and north and south by my father, I have become quite adept slipping in and out of accents so I duly slipped into my deepest darkest Brummie.

 

‘Alright mate’

'Yeah sorry do you have first class tickets?’

‘Mate I’d love to lie to you but I cant, no I don’t it’s just, it’s really busy and like I’m getting off soon,’

‘Unfortunately sir you can’t be here.’


‘Mate please .....’


‘Are you from Birmingham Mate?’


‘Yeah mate, Solihull....’


I could go on dear readers, I really could, but stories about the merits of the ring road and the contrasting fortunes of football clubs is not why we are here.

 

 

 

                      

 

 

Anyway fast forward to the festival and we rocked up full of passion and glory and filth and fury ready to reach for the stars and dance with the devil. We find the campsite and start pitching up. We soon find out that I have forgotten all my pegs and the sleeping bag I promised Mick had somehow slipped my mind. So, not a great start, but with a slice of mothers helper we find a way to get it done and head for the Levellers. Yes, the gypsy punks are here and I’m fucking ready.


We bumble and stumble down front with songs in our hearts and hearts in our mouths. Shit stop what you’re doing.............. I just realised I have not really told you about the festival.  Well its folkey, full of age-ing hippies and their cannabis conceived kids and the music is a bit twiddle-di-dee, twiddle- di-dee for me so I’ll see all you brothers and sisters at the bar............


The bar is wicked.  It’s got like 23 real ales and ciders and when in Rome kids..... when in Rome.  Now the women I dreamed to meet tonight was a blonde haired beauty with a Joni Mitchell vein that goes to your heart but more of her later. No, the women tonight is old Rosie, a cider that the educated amongst you will know to be 7.4 strong and a very unforgiving mistress.  Now that has an effect on a man so Friday is a hazy one but I did go and watch the Levellers, I did chuck cider over my face, I did dance like maniac and I did swear to grow ginger dreadlocks.


Now these folks love a good drunk, they fucking love um. The first man on the moon was pissed on this planet but tonight me and Mick are space cadets of a different kind.......... so we float to the bar standing out like sore thumbs or spare pricks or whatever body part you care for the most, we were it. Paranoia persuades us that we have got this horribly horribly wrong.............. So we set sail.

 

 

 

                                        

 

 

 

We dock port smack in the middle of a satellite town. Leicester, we took wrong turn down a wrong ally where a public house is a private word and the bars run dry. So we walk and we walk and we talk and we talk of festival favourites and dawning hazes and eventually find our way to our tent, weaving through banjo players and karaoke singers , ah well I’ll see more bands tomorrow…..


Saturday starts and we head to town to stock up on everything we forgot and we get back to see a women, a raven headed songstress by the name of Rosie Doonan who sings songs that take you somewhere that is very physical in its intentions and you are left in no doubt this women knows her heart and knows her shit and it’s her head that tells her the difference.  She sings songs about love and songs about Victor, she loves Victor but she has only seen his silhouette. For my money this is a cracking start to a cracking time. 


 After a pit stop in a local hostelry to see some lions tamed we head into the main hall to watch Diana Jones. Now hands up people I did not know her from Eve. But this woman was brilliant, stunning, with style and elegance, her voice cut shivers. With songs about sweet Tennessee she commands respect. By the time she leaves the stage I promise you dear reader the crowd were calling for more. Women that lives long in the memory and forever in the heart.


Number 17 on the real ale and cider list is called Mad Goose and so two pints of that barman and the job is a good un. We consult the map and we head to the Oyster band ceilidh. A ceilidh itself is a hands down foot stomping heart stopping event. A piled up glow stick waving club kid cannot compare to a kilt wearing cider drinking calico caller. The booze is starting to do its job and as we stand at the sides I look into Mick’s eyes and realise that it’s time to jump in. We join at the wrong time ... it’s a slow sleazy number that mere mortals would shy away but we charge into the light and conduct a peerless pirouette into the night. We really have landed in a Magners TV advert, Mick sets off to try and capture it in  slow mow sepia tones. More drinks follow (they love a good drunk) and the ceilidh is in full flow. All ages dance and all ages sing; a beautiful perfect circle is created and one cant but help get caught up in it all.

 

 

                                          

 

 

Then we turn to the lord reverend Billy Bragg, the Bard of Barking himself. He takes to the stage at 9:30 and before we know it he is preaching his particular version of Gospel. That’s the thing about Bragg gigs, they invariable turn in to rallies and you find yourself agreeing with everything he says, punching the air and believing that the machine in his hand really can kill the enemy.  He rips through his hits singing songs about lost loves, lost England’s and new found views. He takes the opportunity to slam recent election of the BNP’s politicians/ fascist arseholes. He asks us the questions that we should be asking; not the blanket condemnation of these dullards but why people thought that was they were the only option to vote for. Otis Gibbs is a triumph from earlier in the day ( I unfortunately missed it because I got involved in a rather aggressive game of football with a bunch of ten year olds) and the two have been touring the world over the last few months and duet on a woody Guthrie cover that is a highlight for all in attendance. By the time ‘New England’ comes round everyone is singing along complete with new found cockney accents. It’s a triumphant headline set from a national institution. God bless Billy Bragg.


Saturday night is upon us and we head for a date with ale 28, ‘wobble bob’, and with new found friends and promises of tequila we head into the tents. It’s at the tent that I discover Lucy Day. She performed earlier on the weekend but I missed her and a crying shame that was. Fast friends are made,  guitars are called upon and Lucy sings a song that isn’t on her CD which is called… I don’t know what is called, it is breathtaking but you will have to take my word for it. That is a word of a man who has drank his own body weight in cider of the previous 48 hours but you can trust me on this she has a beautiful voice and is worth listening to. The Sunday morning dawns and after fighting daybreak as valiant as any good soldiers could we accept defeat and head to bed.


Sunday is the final day of the festival and it starts with hangovers and a set in the main hall from Ella Edmondson, a growing star of the folk circuit and it’s clear to see why from this accomplished performance. Maybe it’s the vice like grip the tequila is having on my mind, slowly dragging me into a world governed by bitterness, loneliness and regret but I just can’t get into Ella Edmondson (joke removed for fear of legal action).  Yeah she is good at what she does and she seems like a really nice girl and one that is genuinely touched by the reception she receives, but for me it’s just a bit too bland.


Ella is followed up on the Big top stage on the other side of the festival by her father Adrian Edmondson with his band the Bad Shepherds. The crowd for them is one of the biggest of the weekend and it just about delivers. Obviously the between song banter is good because he is a comedian by trade so that always helps. The set is comprised of punk songs in folk arrangements and the whole thing hinges on if you like; him, because essentially you’re seeing a bloke live out his dream because of his fame. But if you like him it works and I didn’t, but I do now ,so it did. They kick off with The Clash and finish with The Pistols and leave the stage. The crowd demand more and are duly rewarded with a hastily arranged encore of ‘Hurry up Harry’ by Sham 69.


Now when I was doing my research on this festival a band called the Oyster band kept on popping up, turns out that it’s their bloody gig. Their presence is pretty evident when you look at the line up  and notice that they play no less than three times this year. Over the past three festivals they have totted up more appearances than you would care to mention and I don’t blame them for a bit of self indulgence.


With the big, final blow-out looming with the Oyster band on the main stage, I head to the Big Top to see Jersey Budd,  a local lad that gives it everything and believes in the myth and legend of rock n roll. Given that the festival fathers are trotting out folk clichés its a pretty sparse crowd out front. To emphasise the point we have young children skidding across the floor and workers folding up the chairs. But to Jersey Budd this just means that everyone in front of him really wants to be there and that means he gives it everything and more. With a mid set solo acoustic section he really does match up to any singer songwriter that I have seen over the past couple of days and when the band come back on, passion and spirit comes with them because nothing sooths the soul like the sound of sweet rock and roll.   


So it’s time to leave Big Session and if I haven’t given you a great insight to the festival I’m sorry but that’s what happened to me when I went and I’m sure if you go something completely different will happen to you. It’s a great festival for what it is and I recommend it to anyone. It wins you over with its sheer heart and charm. The people that go Big Session bring their families so there is an undeniable family vibe that flows throughout the festival. The cider and real ales definitely help but the main thing that I came away with was that it attracts an appreciative and educated crowd. They love their music, love their beers and to find a problem in that, well it takes a better man than me.................   

         

 

 

    

 

 

 

Posted In Festivals, Jul 01 2009. Words - Chris