Venue:
Umberslade Farm, Tanworth in Arden
Date: 05/06/2015
What a delight! 15 years on from when I were a local, here I was driving round the lanes that were the backdrop to an earlier life, taking my kids to the Children’s Farm based here, which is what it is the rest of the year. Arriving 3.30 on the friday, it took little time to build my tent and acclimatise. I had read it described as bijou, and it is: 1 main stage, at the bottom of the field, with a smaller stage in the delightful solar powered Bimble Inn, a marquee at the top. The usual falafel and vegan curry concessions, a massive bar run by local brewers Purity, and a craft events area, you know, make your own charcoal and rustle up a fuzzy felt pagan, that sort of stuff. Very much a “wyrd folk” vibe to it, with one wondering where all these people are the rest of the year. Very friendly, all ages from babes in arms to grey locked oldies. Friday’s music for me was kicked off by the Allah-Las, who seemed a little bemused by the scene in front of them, as if they had been transported back into the 17th century. But their guitars still worked, whipping up a very Light Years Stones style of retrorock. Then, who remembers Day of the Dead, Suspiria and all those 70s horror flicks, with cheesy rock soundtracks played by a group called Goblin? As in, who are Goblin? Well, they were here, utterly enjoyable nonsense, doomy and ornate keyboard heavy italian prog, arpeggios all over the place. Astonishing. From the ridiculous to the sublime? I have deliberately never let a note by the Fall sully my ears, intrigued by all the fuss. I could stand the competent punky metal music, it was Mark E I couldn’t. Looking decidedly unwell, with more microphones than the rest of the band put together, you’d think that one of them might have worked. After 20 minutes of him wandering about the stage, turning amplifiers up willy nilly, leering and gurning at where he thought the audience might be, not that I think he actually knew who or where he was. The crowd loved it so I had to make my excuses. Luckily, with the sun going down, and a bonfire burning behind me, Tinariwen came on the send us to our sleeping bags with the taste of Mr Smiths tongue a mere memory, their hypnotic saharan songs much more intoxicating than on record. A good night.
Unable to find the reputed 5 showers, and with the toilet blocks already redolent of a meat free diet, I took myself off to Solihull leisure centre for the necessary evils. On return the crowd had doubled or trebled, I now parking in a distant turnip field. Spending some time in the Bimble Inn, I caught the rather good Matthew Edwards and the Unfortunates followed by Mark Radcliffes Galleon Blast. I didn’t want to like this supposed vanity project, but I did, a lot, a troupe of elderly reprobates, seemingly press-ganged from a Cropredy bar at closing time, folk-rocking their way through bevy of pirate themed songs, all fiddles, accordions, mandolins and whistles, with the radio2 man proving quite a dab on the drums. Down on the main stage a young band with groovy parents, I guess, given the influences presented, started well and, for me, promptly fizzled out as they tried to maintain a hipness beyond their years. Syd Arthur, ho ho, their name. A glimpse of Mike Heron, the ISB man, proved a pleasant return to the past, shattered unfortunately by his chosen accompanists, Trembling Bells. Supposedly well thought of, I could find no joy in Lavinia Blackwalls shrill keening, nobody else I spoke to either.Much much better was the trio, My Brightest Diamond, centred around Sharon Wordens stunning vocal range and dynamic. The Pretty Things were on next, the immortal core of Phil May and Dick Taylor, 2 younger recruits as their rhythm section, and the extraordinarily Struwwelpeter headed Frank Holland on 2nd guitar and blistering mouth harp. Starting off with Big Boss Man, they played a blinder, acoustic blues segment included, and were the rockiest band of the weekend, and one of the best. How to top that? Actually easy, as it was Wilko Johnson, the stage his home, alongside the wonderful flying fingers of Norman Watt-Roy seamlessly slotting alongside Dylan Howes tremendous drumming. Live is the only way to witness this music, even the TV diluting and destroying the vitality of his performance, all good cheer and bonhomie, reflected back at him from the audience in waves. That was it for me, I was no good for more frolic, taking myself off for an early night.
I’d love to describe Sundays antics, but I had taken such a kicking from an earthy red that sense defined I took myself away home for a snooze, rather than risking a day of debauchery waiting for Julian Cope, not on till evening, I elected to take a chance and hope he might have disappointed me. (No doubt someone will now point out quite what a once in a lifetime he played. Never mind, can’t win em all, and I’ve got work tomorrow…..)
The audience:
Wonderful. With the bill as eclectic as it was, all genres and sub-genres were present, mingling and moving in cheerful harmony. I wish the real world was a bit more like this.
It made me think..
I’d come again.
I was there too, second year for me. I had never seen The Fall before but loved them! Up close Mark Smith was hilarious, mumbling stuff like “I am the lead singer with Franz Ferdinand” and “This is a Bo Diddley beat it’s taken us 8 hours to fuck up for the people of Birmingham”. It’s all an act. The band were very good.
Galleon Blast were great fun. Pretty Things best band of the weekend, and Julian Cope was on very top form. I have seen him 5 or 6 times and this was the second best. Sometimes he can be meandering and under-rehearsed but yesterday he was rehearsed, focused, very funny indeed and had the audience in the palm of his hand. His 12 string guitar had a Nick Drake quotation on the front. His anecdotes had punchlines and he even did several Teardrop Explodes tunes. Robyn Hitchcock was good too, upping the surrealist ante to compete with Copey. Lovely version of River Man. We discovered why he has moved to Australia when he introduced his Aussie “girlfriend” on backing vocals. She was substantially less than half his age. Wilko was very good, and played and sang as well as ever. The weather was fine and a lovely weekend.
Well what can I add? The moles were there on Saturday and though it was sunny we were a trifle underdressed as it was not as windy in S Birmingham as the Warks countryside. Wilko was indeed terrific and special mention to Norman Watt-Roy who clearly enjoyed being there just as much as the main man.
Public Service Broadcasting haven’t been mentioned, and they were also excellent. They brought what I assume is their full AV set-up, with towers of antique-effect screens, a big sputnik and tons of sync’d archive footage. They warmed up slowly, but during Night Mail everything clicked. There was what I can only describe as a classic 90s rave breakdown, as performed by men from Lord Reith’s black and white BBC. From thereon in what the PSB live proposition (and there’s guitars, basses and drums – just not all the time) is. Even a good running gag as the chief PSB-er got the computer software to say a very artificial Good to be here at (insert) Lunar Festival after every song.
Bastard, Artery, now I feel a right lightweight, missing Cope and Hitchcock, tho’ I find the latter a bit twee on occasion. What of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop?
And re Mark E: I was as closeasthis and still couldn’t hear a word he mumbled. I was told later that standing by the mixing desk gave the best sound.
Radiophonic Workshop were tops. Great to see Paddy Kingsland attacking a theramin and even playing lead guitar. You can guess the finale piece I suspect – gave Orbital a run for their money. Public Service Broadcasting were a little underwhelming but my daughter loved them. I saw the Pink Floyd in 1973 and I found PSB a little lacking in tunes (not to mention guitar solos…). Mike Heron and Trembling Bells were very good I thought. The front of the tent (well, canvas tunnel really) gave them a standing ovation but the back half of the crowd talked all the way through.