That it had rained most of the night meant that conditions underfoot were little short of atrocious on Saturday morning, with the camping area reduced to a sea of liquid mud four or five inches deep, and the rest of the site was in no better state; even the food stalls looked to be slowly sinking. Nevertheless, my festival pint glass charged with a pint of the rich, nutty Cropton Two Pints, we watched Pickering band RED CHEVRONS get things going on the Oxman stage with a solid set of guitar-driven indie that was a helluva lot more exciting than Puressence's set. They were remarkably tight – even more remarkable given that they were playing with a stand-in drummer who'd only had two rehearsals beforehand.
It stands to reason that smaller festivals lean heavily towards local and regional acts, but one thing I have learned in recent years is that 'local' and 'unsigned' are no longer synonymous with amateurish,a point that BLACK PAPER CATS proved, and then some. Their brand of guitar-driven blues rock places a firm emphasis on the rock, and the power trio really gave it some. Dean Wilby may have been in dire need of water, but his gritty vocals really packed some punch to the gutsy, full-blooded sound.
Across to the main stage, HUNGRY GHOSTS – whose most recent single I reviewed not so long ago – demonstrated a keen showmanship as they turned in an entertaining set, bristling with hooks, before we waded back to a packed Firkin tent to see the ubiquitous GT TURBO – today performing under the name of his band, BOSS CAIN, perform a small selection from his immense repertoire. His distinctive grizzled baritone and world-weary yet magnificently crafted dark blues tunes are as reliable in quality as ever, but we have to miss the last number as we make our way back to the mains stage for WE COULD BE ASTRONAUTS, who proved to be a real highlight of last year's festival.
They're altogether more slick this year, and their vintage rock riffing is supremely tight. But in parting ways with their original wild child bassist (he's been replaced by former Seahorses man Stuart Fletcher, who while an extremely adept musician just doesn't have the same presence), and exchanging the purple flares and paisley print shirts for a red and back shirt and tie uniform, I can't help but feel that something of the spirit of the band's been lost since that incendiary start twelve months ago. They're midway through 'Fucked Up, Corroded, Broke Down Exploded' when we arrive, substituting the expletive with 'messed' for the afternoon family audience. It's a far cry from the bassist baring his buttocks before collapsing into his amp, and while they still rock like muthas on the killer 'The Catastrophist', it's just not nearly as rock 'n' roll as it was.
The running times have fallen rather off-kilter by the time they complete their set, with further heavy rain and some bands cancelling contributing to the disruption. There's a bit of a gap between bands on the main stage but I need a break so rather than trudge back across to the Oxman or Firkin stages, I sample the Yorkshire Navigator and Dave session ales from the Great Heck bar by the Duke stage. It does mean that I have to forfeit both The Buccaneers and Club Smith, and instead spend some time watching Eureka Machines – a band I've been meaning to check out for ages – soundcheck with some comedy covers and jotting down some notes on the day so far. As I do so, a Hungry Ghost – front man James Browne to be precise – strutted past, still sporting his tight grey striped strides, shades atop of head and grey patent shoes caked in mud. Yup, the terrain's a great leveller (but they're not on till tomorrow).
The sun comes out and the rain continues to fall, and the ground begins to steam: the scene resembles something like a reconstruction of the bubbling swamps of prehistory, and I'd only have been a little bit surprised if a Stegosaurus had lumbered past.
When EUREKA MACHINES finally do hit the stage, they do so running – literally – and burn their way through a high-octane set of energetic hook-laden power-pop brimming with driving guitars and star jumps aplenty. I can't help but wondering what life must be like for their front man Chris Catalyst, whose sideline is playing guitar for The Sisters of Mercy. That said, even while lurking in the Sisters' smog of smoke, it's abundantly clear that he's a flamboyant performer, and they go all out for the entertainment and get the audience going with their festival-friendly uptempo numbers including 'These Are the people Who Live in My House' and 'The Beginning of the End of the World', and wrapping up their set with a ripping – and brilliantly incongruous – rendition of 'Wonderful World'.
They're followed by HOPE & SOCIAL, another band who I'd probably not bother myself buying their albums but have a lot of time for as a live act. They don't disappoint, and they're consummate performers, the between-song banter and sense of enjoyment that radiates from the stage every bit as important as the music. The warm reception they receive from the swelling crowd is absolutely deserved.
Now, I've long maintained that the real action at festivals isn't around the headliners, or even the main stages, but that the excitement lies in discovering new bands playing off to the sides, the unknown quantities who prove to be real revelations. And so it was as we stumbled into the Firkin tent, as much to escape the weather as anything else, just as Newcastle band THE WATCHERS were getting going. Why a band who've already supported The Vaccines, The Charlatans, S.C.U.M. , The Phantom Band, And You Will Know Us by The Trail of Dead are playing the fourth stage in the middle of the afternoon is as much of a mystery as the fact I'd never heard of them, but these guys blew me away. Not only did they blast out a remarkably powerful and emotive set – too rock to be post-rock but with immense sustained crescendos, too sensitive to be rock but nowhere near emo, their hybrid of psychedelia and expansive, searing, wall-of noise guitars – but it was clear that they were pouring heart and soul into their performance. For me, the band of the weekend by a very long way.
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Still, immediately after The Watchers, we watched DAVE SMITH BLUES play simple, traditional acoustic blues and he too was bloody good, if nowhere near as revelatory. I'm a sucker for basic blues played well, and he's got it absolutely nailed, and he went down an absolute storm, the packed tent demanding an encore before finally letting him abandon his hay bail seat.
Remaining undercover, we stuck around for THE DAYDREAM CLUB, who were far to smug and altogether too bland for my tastes. If the duo's guitarist looked vaguely familiar, it was because I'd seen him drumming with Defend Moscow a couple of years before. However, while Defend Moscow had some catchy numbers to their credit, The Daydream Club are altogether less memorable, and I found their self-satisfied and indulgent reminiscences between songs most unappealing – unlike the Marston Moor Brewery's Merriemaker, a 4.5% pale-ish ale which was delicious.
Weary of their drabness and having already decided against attempting to get to the Duke Stage for The Charlatans – not least of all because the narrow strip of land adjoining the main stage area to the rest of the site had flooded, and was now under six inches of water on top of the liquid mud, which had acquired a consistency resembling glue, we wandered over to the Little Top and caught the last fifteen minutes of the Arts Barge 'BARGESTRA!'. This local ensemble's brass-based tunes were good fun, but by this time were growing tired and decided that we hadn't the energy to watch John Otway.
As I struggled along through the marshland, my boots being sucked off my feet by the swamp, THE CHARLATANS struck up, some time behind schedule, no doubt partly on account of CHRIS HELME's set overrunning, after being joined by special guests SHED SEVEN for a couple of numbers. There had been a buzz surrounding this all day, but to my mind, there are few bands less special than the lumpen Shed Seven, and the prospect of half of the band, including Monkeyboy Rik Witter joining the former Seahorses front man on stage was incentive to remain in the beer tent: after all, there was Daleside Monkey Wrench, at a punchy 5.4% ABV to be had, despite the fact that by this time the number of ales on offer was rapidly diminishing.
Growing tired, we elected to skip John Otway and the late-night chill-out session and head back to base. We heard the first few songs of The Charlatans' set from a distance, including my personal favourite, 'Then.' Back in 1990, I heard 'Then' played on John Peel and loved it. I rushed out and bought the 7”. I loved that shuffling drum and the insistent bassline and the (semi)subtly arrogant lyrics. But nothing they produced subsequently really did it for me, and it was nothing to do with their leap from NME / MM indie chart toppers to top 40 big hitters. As we trudged and slid back to the camp site, they kicked out 'Weirdo' and 'The Only One I Know' back to back, followed later by 'North Country Boy'. They might have been going down a storm, but to my ear they sounded horribly dated, their set one big, ugly nostalgia trip.
Waking on Sunday after anther night punctuated by heavy rain, it took me twenty minutes so slip, slide and sluice my way to the toilets, which were by now getting rather full, with the floors caked with mud. It was beginning to feel like the red weed in 'The War of the Worlds': the mud was taking over, and so we elected to quit while we were ahead. After all, a festival is supposed to be fun, not an endurance test, and having enjoyed ourselves to this point, didn't wish to mar the experience.
With the beer running dry and the mud running ever deeper, it was time to strike camp and get the bus out, and while that regrettably meant missing The Men They Couldn't Hang, Middleman, Cardboard Radio and Falling Spikes, I wasn't going to be too distraught about not being present for The Levellers. They're a band I've never really liked, although if I'm honest, it's their fans I find more objectionable... On balance, it was a most enjoyable weekend, and although the weather made for some tough times, the atmosphere and the bands more than compensated.
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