end of THE road festival

But with no knowledge of our meteorological good fortune, the omens were good from the start. As we arrived, brightly coloured macaws flew between trees and peacocks wandered amongst the punters. I kid you not. Baby rabbits ran for cover, terrified by the influx of people into their little idyll. I expected to see Joanna Newsom trading harp licks with Heidi. With dinner duly in the bag, I picked up the music with Jim White. I’ve never been a fan. A bit too mannered somehow. But he’s dropped the band, lost the southern gothic pretentions, and alone on stage his countryish folk suddenly came to life. He seemed genuinely thrilled to be there and good feeling rippled through the crowd. Robyn Hitchcock and John Paul Jones raised folk levels to digestion-troubling heights. As Hitchcock sang well-meaning but drippy songs about, well, bunny rabbits probably, John Paul Jones added sinewy basslines, lovely touches of mandolin and slide dobro (the last of which the soundman seemed determined not to let us hear). Aside from the thrill of seeing an ex-Zepplin, he added depth and soul to the songs. Midlake mid-paced us to death with their 70s AM pop. Polished doesn’t begin to describe the sonic perfection of their performance, but since when was perfection fun? At their worst when sounding like Radiohead. At their best when raising the spirit of Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. They were followed by the first real highlight, indie lords Yo La Tengo. Minor guitar troubles prompted a hilarious artistic stomp off stage, to shrugs by the guitar tech and a slightly sheepish return. But with that out of the way, a little creative world of their own emerged. They covered a bizarre range of styles - from extended raga-like guitar workouts, to Latin-tinged pop - but somehow it all fitted. Workmanlike, only the guitarist showed any excitement, but it was all there in the performance. With the bands out of the way, the serious buiness of having a rockin’ good night got underway. The after-band entertainment is the mark of a good festival, rather like desserts in a restaurant. And this was no microwaved brownie. One tent unleashed some very obscure and very good 60s gems. As that wrapped up, another smaller tent kept on till 3am playing everything from groovy country to Michael Jackson. With predicable gusto, I danced to them all. I experienced the hour of 6 due to the near-arctic conditions and the need to put on every last scrap of clothing. Saturday was kicked off by earnest Scandinavians Loney, Dear and their pleasing country strumming. And here’s the rub. A man can only manage so much earnest strumming before feeling ever so slightly murderous. And taking the festival as a whole, there was a lot of earnest strumming. I’m from Barcelona’s overbearing cheerfulness, half Polyphonic Spree half Flaming Lips with very little original in between, did little to alleviate the MOR torpor. 9Bach came to our rescue with the wonderful tales of tragic deaths in 19th century Wales. All sung in Welsh. Joan As Policewoman charmed the crowd with her louch New York ways and elegant torch songs, owing a debt or two to Joni Mitchell. She would have suited a small stage and late night slot better but she filled the space well. Devastations proved the second gem of the festival. The Australian three piece sounded like something stirred up from the bottom of the sea. A hard, icy 80s edge with some unholy howling noises courtesy of some skilful pedal work by the guitarist. Brakes deserve to be far more famous than they are. They are undeniably indie rock and loved by beery blokes everywhere, but these are no plodding Gallagher brothers or whimperingly dull Muse. Jesus, no. A feisty spirited punk edge is tempered by beautiful thoughtful songs about growing up in small towns and good-time country stomp-alongs. ‘I can’t stand to stand beside you’ stands out as furious guitar classic worthy of Television. The closest we’d had to a party yet. Go and see them. They deserve it. The Bees were a real disappointment. They looked bored. The crowd looked bored. Only the guitarist showed any enthusiasm, but it was so fake it was painful to watch. There was none of that psychy sunshine pop I was hoping for. I left sharpish. I heard that the end of the set really brightened up with the catchy as crack ‘Chicken Payback’ but I wasn’t there to vouch for it. And then I missed both headliners - bad correspondent - but the hot spiced cider was glorious. A thrilled and thrilling Port O’Brien played a late night slot and the night was brought home by the party rock of the Doctors of Love. Tongue in cheek, fist in the air. Bloody great. Sunday was kicked off by the heard-it-all-before Telegrams. It took all my self control not to storm the stage and give the singer’s jeans, practically round his knees, a tiny tug. Presumably they’ve invented a version of tit tape for skinny garage punk boys. Dawn Landes treated us with her delicate country tunes, with enough twist and turns to surprise. At her best she called to mind the master of the beautiful chord change Gene Clark. Over on the main stage The Young Republic bowed at the feet of Dylan and gave us some well crafted tunes. The violinist shone and wouldn’t have been out of place playing on Desire. Herman Dune’s naïve, homespun song-stories didn’t quite translate to the big stage, sounding like a humourless version of Silver Jews. South London’s finest Archie Bronson Outfit came to our rescue. Savage guitars and head-blow drumming shocked us back into life. While the guitars chopped with feeling and groove, it was the drummer who really delivered, pulverising his stripped down kit, face distorted into an ‘Igor drum for master’ grimace. Seasick Steve followed and was blessed as the perfect act in the perfect slot in the perfect place. The smiles were irresistible as his groovy blues and earthy hard-won wisdom were shared with the crowd. Howe Gelb, a regular at the End of the Road, was perfect with his easy charm and porch-party country feel, turning the end of festival Sunday blues into something altogether warmer and fuzzier. And finally, in a little tent, a very hungover James Yorkston, accompanied by accordion player and clarinettist, brought it home in the most laid back style possible as the crowd laughed, drank, sang along and slept. The highs were very high. Brakes, Devastations and Archie Bronson Outfit deserve another mention. But there was something about it that was too straight down the line for gushing praise. I’m kicking the puppy here (and I feel the guilt) but festivals are about crazy goings on, serious sonic weirdness that you’d never normally stumble on, but there was too little that really raised the eyebrows. But the atmosphere was joyous and as friendly as can be. And, as it gets bigger, which it inevitably will, there’s a homespun spirit which I hope won’t be lost.