April was a fantastic month of music gigs with a load of good stuff passing through my locale. Nina Nastasia played a low-key intimate show, one that felt as though she is still finding her feet again as a live performer after a lengthy absence but nevertheless a welcome return. As the audience filed out I overheard one person say “well that was a barrel of laughs” but for me, I have no issue with an artist taking us to a dark place, especially if they have been to one themselves in real life; Nina really has and will probably carry the scars forever, an honest performer. Next, I saw the fortieth anniversary tour of Shonen Knife, playing selected nuggets from their whole career, this was a show where the smile superglued my face from start to finish. Twenty-four hours later it was Saturday night thrills with Half Man Half Biscuit, another band in for the long haul as a pleasingly boozy gig saw a massive eight hundred strong crowd singing along to classic refrains such as “who the fucking hell are Slipknot?”

Pokey Lafarge is such a class Americana act, vintage in style with a polished band, an old-time disposition and an endearing charm as he kicked off a UK visit. Much of his audience wear a similar Bugsy Malone type look making this a reciprocal experience although one was clearly from a whole other dimension when she shouted out “you should be on ‘X Factor’!” The blank look on Pokey’s face said it all, he is far too good for that. I went along to see Gaz Coombes who was fine although a large section of this audience left bemused by his ignoring the entire Supergrass catalogue. However, the main reason I went to see that show was the support act Lonelady whose one-woman loop-enhanced, electric guitar crunching performance was especially enjoyable. The following night I caught the primitive rollercoaster that is Bug Club again with a support act of equal if not higher stature in the Mock Tudors. I had not previously caught how much dry humor, both visually and lyrically, is part of their aesthetic. Now I see that they have risen in my estimation, even that spoken section on ‘Bin Day,’ which I originally thought killed the song, made a bit more sense in this light.

For mostly weekday night gigs it has to be noted that all these shows had decent size, often sellout crowds. It occurred to me this is the core audience who, like me, during the evening at home are likely to be listening to Marc Riley and Gideon Coe on BBC 6Music. It has been announced recently that these two shows, slots that for almost the entire 6Music history have been the backbone of weekday evening output on the station, are to be merged into a later time schedule to make way for a younger ‘new music’ show presented by Tom Ravenscroft and Deb Grant. If my social media feeds are anything to go by, this move has been met with massive opposition. I even signed a re-instatement petition that seemed to fly past the initial target of 10,000 signatures but then nothing more was heard and it seems both Marc and Gideon are building up to the end of their shows this month.

I have nothing against their replacements, I do not even know Deb Grant and I have had a quiet respect for the way Tom Ravenscroft has effectively picked up the baton laid down by his dad and run with it without ever appearing to use his family connection to further his career. But Marc Riley has been a serious champion of so many acts that resonate with the live music attending population. Not only that but he has a depth of knowledge from the past sixty years of music that opens the door to genuinely eclectic listening across the genres and eras. Look at all the live acts I have just seen and most will have been given a push by Riley this year, either playing their new releases, announcing the tour dates, inviting them into the studio for a live session and often all three. Same goes for Gideon, the BBC has a mouth-watering archive of live recordings and sessions which, in his hands, are kept relevant and alive with the curation of a connoisseur.

Obviously, we will all adapt, the BBC shunted John Peel about in a shockingly malicious way at times but he always ploughed on honoring his musical mission drive. I am sure Marc and Gideon will do the same and of course, we can all listen to them on iPlayer at a time of our choosing, but this is still a great shame, live broadcasting is important. The two of them are modest men, Riley especially so with his aggressive avoidance of anything approaching aggrandizement. The same thing happened to him and Mark Radcliffe in the past, for a ten-year period the pair were the best thing on Radio One, but you got the sense their humble, ordinary blokes having a go demeanor was flying below the radar of middle management. It must have been, or Radcliffe would never have got away with announcements like “that was Stardust with ‘Music Sounds Better With You’… debatable” or referring to a record as being by Mary J Bilge. Sadly, though then as is now, that kind of grounded music community pleasing presenting does not ring the bells of soulless middle management types, so when they want to justify their pay packet by forcing through change it is always the likes of Marc and Gideon who pay the price. As much as I understand any radio station thinking of the future this still feels like a misstep by 6Music. I am fifty-one and think I can reasonably hope for my music interest to endure for another two or three decades to come. I have heard Radio Two at 7pm and if they think they can shunt me in that direction they are mistaken. The saying “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” never felt more apt, I hope you enjoy my May playlist…

On a previous monthly playlist post this year I wrote about my mild disappointment in a TV documentary claiming to be about a ‘great lost Nina Simone album’ which was really just a thin excuse to place Emile Sande with some of Nina’s old musicians and play a jazz gig enhanced by the Simone spirit. The actual album in question was of questionable provenance to say the least although, if you view the film for what it actually was, it was perfectly watchable. On the other end of the scale however, over the past few weeks I watched a music documentary that gave me everything I look for in this style of program. A new feature on the life of Ottilie Patterson sent me diving back into the archives to check out a lot more of the music she made in the fifties and sixties and on top of that, it brought the woman behind the voice vividly to life as lucid personal details added depth to her story.

Ottilie Patterson was a Northern Irish singer who, as a prominent vocalist in the Chris Barber Jazz Band from 1954 onwards, became a leading light within the British Jazz and Blues scenes of the period. Her kudos was down to a voice that stamped conviction and raw power (not something the Trad Jazz scene was often credited with) on the material she brought to the bands repertoire. The part Ottilie played in this is often overlooked; she had married Chris Barber in 1959 and an image as the textbook fifties housewife probably explains how people assumed the connoisseurs material revived by the group was done so solely at the behest of Barber. But Patterson was a genuine aficionado of those music roots and her knowledge, as well as her talent, assured she could hold her own with the many visiting Blues veterans who toured with the Barber band during this time.

Like it or not though, people are judged on appearance so that prim and proper fifties look dated very quickly as the swinging sixties progressed with Mod, Beat, Hippy and Psychedelic fashions crash landing year after year. Maybe that is why the name of Ottilie Patterson is still not mentioned in the same breath as an Amy Winehouse or a Janis Joplin? If there was one thing this documentary did reveal it was that her life brought as much hurt, mental health damage and depression as that experienced by other more heavily documented tortured artists. But Ottilie was born of a different era and a fast fading set of values. She was apparently deferential to her husband in ways that would be scorned today. For Ottilie, it may have been the unfulfilled hopes of a marriage for life (she was divorced from Chris Barber in 1983) and motherhood that broke her soul. It is noted by friends in the film that, even as she disappeared to live out her final two decades in relative solitude and obscurity in Scotland, she maintained the surname Barber, never to marry again.

An emotional core of the documentary comes from a lo-fidelity tape recorded interview Ottilie gave to a journalist in 1990 during which she opens up on devastating personal details of an abortion she had to go through in January 1956, then continues to offer glimpses on how the fall out from those events shadowed her for the rest of her life. It does not seek to deliberately paint Chris Barber in a bad light, criticism of him is mainly limited to an anecdote on how he could sometimes irritate Ottilie by fussing around her too much, it merely reflects how the struggles of their marriage and joint careers impacted Patterson’s world. As early as 1963 she was already beginning to step back from her Barber Band appearances due to stresses the lifestyle brought about, although she would be involved with the set up for another twenty years off and on before finally calling it a day.

Most fascinating of all, Ottilie made a solo album in 1969 released on the Marmalade label and featuring a few compositions of her own. Some of these are especially revealing as hidden in those grooves are hints to the inner turmoil’s her life and vigorously held beliefs led her to endure. It also demonstrates a voice that could enrich any style of material, what a shame she did not choose to develop this side of her art further. ‘3000 Years Of Ottilie’ is impossible to place in any category, it is a unique hybrid of folk, blues and show tune flamboyance. It is also very hard to find nowadays, you can go on Discogs and it is there but you are not going to get it for anything less that £250. Surely this one needs a re-issue? The documentary is well worth seeking out, it is called ‘My Name Is Ottilie’ and features an American musician living in Northern Ireland called Dana Masters whose investigative work does appear motivated by a genuine love of the subject. To tickle your interest further, I have headed up and closed this months playlist with the sound of Ottilie Patterson…

I used to read the weekly music newspapers cover to cover in the late eighties and through the nineties so Mark E Smith was always a character I was aware of long before I paid any attention to his band The Fall. Similarly, long before I really caught on to listening to John Peel on the radio I was aware that he absolutely loved The Fall and believed Mark E Smith to be a criminally under celebrated figure in UK music. Happily as the nineties progressed I grew to absolutely love John Peel on the radio, setting my tape deck to record his show for next day listening should I be out in the evening, leaving strict instructions to whoever might be home exactly when they had to turn the tape over. It is a source of immense frustration to me today that I would re-use the tapes once I had listened rather than saving the programs and building up an archive of shows.

The same can be said, but with a far lesser degree of unwavering devotion, of The Fall. I liked a lot of their stuff and they remain one of those bands who continue to throw up delightful discoveries all these years later. Still, recent BBC4 re-runs of 1994 editions of Top Of The Pops have reminded me that probably my first actual purchase of a record featuring Mark E Smith was the Inspiral Carpets single version of their brilliant ‘I Want You’, on which they invited Mark to add some of his distinctive vocals to. This may also have been the first time Mark had actually appeared on the show and possibly the only time he ever did. I certainly recall watching it 29 years ago and absolutely loving this version (the version that appeared on the bands ‘Devil Hopping’ album a few weeks earlier was just them on their own) and I suspect I was gaping open mouthed at the performance.

Back then Top Of The Pops was still largely acts miming their latest hit single, although it had evolved enough for many performers to actually be singing on live microphones, albeit to a backing track of the rest of the record. The first thing you notice about Mark is that he is holding a scrap of paper presumably as a lyric prompt, which when you consider how off-the-cuff his contribution to the track sounds is actually quite funny. Secondly it is instantly apparent what an unsettling presence he is to the rest of the band, especially singer Tom Hingley who keeps looking over his shoulder at Mark stood there, lurking near the back teasing the front man that he might sabotage the whole charade at any minute. Consequently, Hingley revs his Madchester moves to the max to compensate for the lack of onstage camaraderie with his temporary co-star.

And the remarkable thing is that three decades have not softened the divisive impact of seeing Mark E Smith in such a controlled mainstream setting. There is still that temptation in viewers to dismiss him as some drunk bloke who has stumbled out of the pub across the road, stolen a microphone and wandered to the stage. But if you meet the performance on a musical footing there really is something quite brilliant going on there. The bare bones of the Inspirals song is a declaration of lustful romantic intent, a bold statement of readiness for the white knuckle ride ahead and how this blissful union, based on the singers desire will be “right now and forever”. It is sung and played on that track with utter conviction. Add to that the Mark E Smith element and this onion is immediately shedding multiple extra layers. It suggests this protagonist has a history in relationships that is rather destructive and his inner dialogue knows it is waiting to be unleashed. That passive aggressive “I think you should remember which side you are on” not to mention the insults disguised as banter, especially prominent in this TV performance, “you say you’ve lost two stone in weight so why do you look so fat?” For all his erratic behavior and rough edges, there is no doubt that there was something indelibly fascinating and wonderful happening within the singular work of Mark E Smith. His involvement in this 1994 Inspiral Carpets song turns it into an out-and-out psych rock classic.

January is a bit of a silly month for starting diets or trying to stay dry it turns out. I was going quite well with my alcohol free month but then Arsenal beat Manchester United and I was happy and in the mood to celebrate and… well I had done eighteen days dry, so to hell with it crack open a beer. January is actually far better suited to bunkering down away from the cold weather, eating too much comfort food and watching more TV than usual. Hence the cover image for this month’s playlist. Actor James Norton has been entertaining me all month with his deep, convincing portrayal of the psycho killer Tommy Lee Royce in the BBC’s ‘Happy Valley’ police drama series. I had generally avoided this kind of hyped series in the past thanks to an inbuilt and, it turns out, unjustified snobbery against such terrestrial offerings. My television viewing, limited as it is, was molded over the last two decades by classics such as The Sopranos, The Wire and Mad Men. These were all series with superb, slowly unfolding, deep storylines and fully developed, three dimensional characters that served to make TV viewing as rewarding as a fine cinematic experience. One change those series instigated was the style of episodic drama which, up to that point, always stuck to the formular of self-contained stories tied up in a single edition. Now, with HBO’s The Wire in particular, an episode was more like a chapter in a book, an installment in a larger story development unfolding at a realistic pace.

Consequently, whenever something like Happy Valley came around, I would not assume it to be of a similarly high standard, especially if it features an actress I associate with Coronation Street. But a little knowledge is a dangerous thing and I have found this month that UK TV drama matches in quality those aforementioned US pioneers. Happy Valley is easily worthy of comparison, the whole cast are utterly convincing and James Norton’s performance as the lead villain especially should see his profile rise considerably, a future Bond perhaps if the internet comment rumours I just read are to be believed? I also watched a new documentary about the late comedian Tony Hancock and two colorized classic episodes to follow. It delighted me how funny I found them, I have always been a fan of Hancock but occasionally over the past decade, probably because I only chanced upon internet clips of his sad declining years, I had wondered if his comedy had dated too much. Returning to the lad himself at his peak it is a different story, proper belly laughs confirming he really was a pioneering comic master, I shall be returning to more of his vintage stuff over the coming weeks.

Other viewing I have indulged in has been closer to my regular music documentary diet. There was a strange one on Sky about a great lost Nina Simone album. Firstly, do not go to this for an abundance of Nina footage, it is not to be found. Secondly, be mindful that documentary makers can weave a film out of the thinnest of threads. There was no great lost Nina Simone album, but there were a couple of song writers in the late sixties who, for one brief moment, might have had some of their songs recorded by Nina. They only met the singer once for a short, terse introduction and it is unknown whether the artist ever really gave the songs any attention, or even liked them. Still, a contract was signed with Nina’s people so the claim in the title did have a speckle of legitimacy. The music industry must be littered with the debris of aspiring song writers whose compositions might have once been considered for recording by a big-name artist. Nevertheless, the film makers gather together some of Nina’s old band members to back Emile Sande with the intention of interpreting the music just as Nina would have. The scene where Emile receives the original sheet music manuscripts and pours over them in hushed reverence like she has uncovered some previously unknown literary work by Dickens is excruciatingly cringe, but the actual work of knocking the songs into shape and playing them live at a Ronnie Scotts date is executed with class. Emile could easily take her career in a jazz direction but the suspicion remains, maybe Nina Simone neglected to record these songs because they were not that great?

There was also a four parter about Phil Spector in which it quickly became apparent they had no rights to use any of his classic recordings. Yes, there was plenty of wall-of-sound-alike snippets, an interview with Teddy Bear Annette Kleinbard (now Carol Connors) who sang parts of ‘To Know Him Is To Love Him’, various live clips including cool Ike & Tina Turner footage but no actual audio with a Phil Spector production credit on. Normally in music documentaries this is a massive omission that removes credibility and loses my interest but with Spector the story is just as much that of a convicted murderer as it is a music history. And given what follows, maybe the producers did not want to pay his estate an extortionate amount of money? I do not know, but if that is the case then fair enough. The story of his trial and conviction in tandem with the tragic story of his victim Lana Clarkson is horrific and hard to accept, especially as the impression emerges that this was a pathetic case of extreme ‘little man’ syndrome aside the possibility that Lana may have incurred his wrath by merely mocking his age, height or wig. Whatever instigated waving a gun in her face, it does seem like Spector had been an accident waiting to happen for decades, the recalled instances of him pointing guns at people are too numerous to ignore. In light of all this, it is a wonder that those indelible early sixties records have not been cancelled. What can be certain is this, from here on in they are far more likely to be referred to as Ronettes, Crystals, Darlene Love, Righteous Brothers or Ike & Tina Turner classics rather than belonging to Phil Spector, which is a kind of overdue artistic justice in a way.

The January playlist has fallen into a routine of selecting wholly from favourite tracks of the previous year that had not, up to this point, made it onto a Fruit Tree Records monthly set. As such, the January collection is always the only one of the years to feature music from just one year. My general rule when putting together these 75 tracks every month is to share sounds that have stimulated the senses, that have caused a stir of excitement or even a flush of nostalgia as something unheard for a few years re-emerges, but mainly the idea has always been to reflect the sounds and discs that featured in my life over the past four weeks. Because I do not just listen to new releases, I am also a constant crate digger and collector of records going back as far as music can be found in a physical format so that gives me a good hundred years to explore in, the lists almost always dive back and forth between the eras. Also, as my tastes cannot be limited to just one or two genres, I will always sail across multiple styles and movements although in recent years a thread has settled; it runs something like pop sounds through garage and psychedelia incorporating soul, r&b, country, folk, blues then ending with more extensive explorations in jazz, classical or progressive rock. That is the structure but for me, once the playlist is compiled, I like to put it on shuffle when I listen and get a wonderful surprise with every tune.

Over the years they have become an essential resource for me as well, because with so much music flying about and no bottomless pit of funds to find physical product (part of the reason for the album of the year lists is they help narrow down the most listened to releases that really merit ownership as a physical product and that superior vinyl sound) the playlists help chronicle and mark down all my discoveries. So, whilst putting this together it occurs, just as it seems to every year, that despite all the real-life shit tumbling our way, at least this has been a wonderful year for music again. If it were lean then finding seventy-five pieces of music from the year that I had not used in any other previous monthly playlist would be a challenge, but again it is as easy as making a cup of tea, the only dilemma being what not to include. Credit for whoever did the Sgt Pepper inspired sleeve art is absent because I found it on the internet uncredited, but it was such a striking image of those departed these past twelve months I had to use it. They may not all have been names especially connected to Fruit Tree Records, but it just feels very sobering as there are so many faces on there who just do not register as even being that old to me, let alone having now passed. So, it is with time hey? Who knows where that goes… happy new year

I sort of gave up on Elton John in second half of the eighties. His music had been around the house during childhood, I had a few of those early albums as well as, by the time I was record buying age, ‘Too Low For Zero’ and ‘Breaking Hearts’ around the time they were released. After that, things went very downhill it seemed, the second half of that decade especially was a lean time and my interest did not pick up at all throughout the nineties. By then I just associated him with middle-of-the-road soundtracks, behind-the-scenes documentaries which rather soured his image with hard-to-relate-to temper tantrums and of course, he represented irrefutable evidence that no amount of money in the world could fix hereditary hair loss.

Now this is not to say that I have suddenly reversed by opinion because I’m older and music that had once seemed bland nowadays resonates. No, far from it, I still cannot stand ‘Circle Of Life.’ The current re-runs of 1993 ‘Top Of The Pops’ have recently featured a syrupy Christmas song with Kiki Dee that I have no recollection of at all. However, in 2001 I did get back on board the Elton John train, the EJ express locomotive that seemingly ran full time was stopping at my station once more. That happened with the ‘Songs From The West Coast’ record, a set on which Elton definitively re-connected with the thing he does best; exemplary piano led singer-songwriter pop with a strong melodious grain. At the time I seem to recall he credited Ryan Adams as the catalyst for plugging himself back in, but wherever the impetus came from a re-engagement was beyond doubt. And the remarkable thing is that, as the 21^st century has unfolded, he has worked hard to retain this groove. For the past twenty years, admittedly at a slower pace than before, Elton John has been making great albums again.

Inevitably, there is truly little evidence of this in a 2022 live setlist. I watched the live broadcast of his final concert at the Los Angeles Dodger Stadium this month, a last play at a venue which helped elevate his stardom in the US when starring there in 1975. You can fully understand of course why artists like Elton and Paul McCartney give their audiences nothing but the classics. That is what they paid for I guess and certainly Elton can fill a two-hour set merely dipping a toe into the vast selection of hits he could pick from. I was impressed by this show in a way you would not expect from such a vintage ensemble. His band, featuring mainly members who have been by his side for decades, were utterly amazing and Elton played shit-hot piano throughout. That was notable, this guy works hard for your entertainment. In fact, the only flat moment, for me as a TV viewer, was the rendition he did with Dua Lipa of the recent PNAU song cut-up mix ‘Cold Heart.’ They sang it together at stage front to what I assume was a backing track emphatically highlighting the wallop the band bring to proceedings, simply by removing them for one song.

It has been his Achilles heel over the years, that never-ending fascination with pop music and the charts. Elton is probably one of the few people left who could actually tell you without looking what the current number one single is. That desire to stay relevant has, perhaps, resulted in some collaborations and associations which pull him away from the thing that makes him so great in the first place. You listen to him talk and it is obvious Elton John is a super-knowledgeable music aficionado with a record collectors drive that us similarly addicted vinyl junkies can easily relate to. John Peel once said on air in the early 2000’s that he felt Elton was someone he could have been great friends with, but his level of fame removed that potential. That Dodger Stadium show did spotlight his star quality with all it’s inherent sense of theatre and taste for the extreme. After the final ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ he was elevated by cherry picker, waving farewell to the crowd before disappearing into darkness as the video screens played film of him wandering off down the yellow brick road to the next, domesticated if his onstage announcements are anything to go by, phase of his life. Are we producing music stars like Elton nowadays? It is hard to think of one simultaneously so extravagant, grand, ridiculous and yet musically so enduringly brilliant and talented. If this is the end, he will leave a space that is ridiculously hard to fill.

I wrote for my October playlist about seeing the Wave Pictures and how they were one of my highlights of the End Of The Road festival. Well, it has been the same this month as they were my favourite gig of October too, catching them on their most recent tour in what seems to be a natural habitat for this three-piece, a pub with a gig room that holds no more than two hundred people. It is that time of year too when I start to compile a shortlist of my records of the year and it is clear their ‘When The Purple Emperor Spreads His Wings’ double album is going to feature in my top titles. They have put out many superb albums over a twenty-year career and this is one of their best yet, it shows no trace of tiredness or auto-pilot traits that befall other bands entering a third decade together.

It is easy to speculate that the reason for this is the Wave Pictures have never really broken through in any major way, beyond being able to sustain their level of playing pub-circuit size venues and counting on a small pocket of loyal followers to show up and buy the records (or unique pottery mugs too on this occasion). They exude a humble effervescence and total lack of bitterness despite the fact that they are one of the greatest examples of how the balance of power in the music, not to mention the divvying out of spoils to those most deserving based on talent, is totally messed up. Long gone are the days when putting out a great song would give you a decent shot at chart appreciation among a top forty selection that honestly reflects the variety in tastes of the nation. Now it seems the only thing that gets you that kind of recognition is marketing; if you choose, as the Wave Pictures do, to let your music do the talking for you, safe in the knowledge that you have both the songs and the performing capacity to back it up, then it would appear you are stuffed.

This is a travesty because essentially what the Wave Pictures do is write spiky, irreverent, dry and observational guitar-pop vignettes on modern life and relationships, very much in the same vein as The Kinks or the Housemartins. Many of the songs on their latest album have killer hooks and insistent riffs worthy of any mainstream with kudos. Just check out the opening track on this month’s playlist and that brilliant sing-along “I don’t trust you anymore” chorus for firm proof of this. There was a moment during the gig I saw this month when their singer Dave Tattersall let a chink of irony at the unjust state of things briefly flicker through the cracks. When announcing an early Wave Pictures number, he jokingly referred to it as narrowly missing becoming a “hit.” He continued, “oh well, at least Ed Sheeran made it through.” That moment alone offered a glimpse into the hidden frustration this band must surely feel occasionally, as well as the parallel universe where all is as it should be, and The Wave Pictures are the household names and Sheeran works the pub circuit. But I guess in this real world we music lovers are the winners, because we get to see one of the UK’s greatest bands in easily accessible venues with affordable ticket prices and brilliant vinyl merchandise to take home and enjoy, pandemics aside, once a year every year.

The Wave Pictures kick off the playlist, which this month takes an early detour into some Beatle Juice before sailing across the usual excursions across the sounds of Psych, Garage, Americana, Folk, Blues, Prog and Jazz… enjoy!

My big musical event in September was going to the End Of The Road festival, my first time there despite for years seeing the line-up and feeling that this was the festival most in alignment with my tastes. So, I went there with the intention of just bathing in four days of music and happily got exactly what I was looking for; I shall be returning. The musical highlights were indeed plentiful including one of my favourite bands, The Wave Pictures, playing an unscheduled, pile-driving Saturday afternoon slot as a late line-up replacement for Emma-Jean Thackray (who I was also looking forward to, hopefully catch her soon). Other high spots included Hurray For The Riff Raff, Kevin Morby, The Pixies and Ural Thomas & The Pain whilst among my most welcome musical discoveries were The Heavy Heavy and Bug Club. Still, as great as the whole experience was, there are one or two memories of a different type that will also endure in my memory and yes, there was the odd disappointment here and there.

Maybe I am naive, but I had not accounted for what a middle-class festival this is. Nothing wrong with that obviously, but I do wish that the music I regard as the better of today’s offerings was not merely the preserve of a certain type in society, it should be there for everyone. Kevin Morby and The Wave Pictures can rock the ordinary working classes just as well as this lot you know? What did I see that brought me to the conclusion of a middle-class clientele? Well, the sense that many in this crowd are holding down jobs in middle management was hard to shake, that they are dressed for a weekend of professional relaxation. Even those that looked a little rougher around the edges were not quite what they seemed; I brushed shoulders with a pair of combat booted, rakish libertine punks who in any other setting you’d cross the road to avoid for fear of them putting a knife to your throat and mugging you, only to catch the sound of their Prince Harry intoned voices discussing the merits of a stall selling artisan coffee.

During an afternoon slot by the singer-songwriter Anais Mitchell, she began to introduce a song from her brilliant folk-opera musical ‘Hadestown’ when a woman excitedly jumped from her seat and pulled the theatre programme out of her bag, waving it in the air and screeching “I know, I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it!” I mean, who brings a theatre programme to a festival anyway? Look this is not a complaint, just an observation, most of the crowd were very friendly and likeable. During the Thursday night headline slot from Khruangbin the mainly instrumental band did struggle to hold the attention of many in the area I stood in. One chilled observer summarized, “they’re playing the kind of music that would have been on in the background at one of those seventies dinner parties where everyone had sex with everyone else’s partner.” This was kind of well observed and accurate I thought

Among the other acts who did not quite meet my expectations was Kurt Vile, who I did think was going to be to my liking thanks to the past inclusion of one or two of his songs in my playlists. But I don’t know, the mid-paced slacker grunge groove he solely occupies just bored me really, it was like Neil Young & Crazy Horse without any great songs and lacking in energy. The Sunday night headliner was disappointing too but for a wholly different reason. Bright Eyes main man Conor Oberst was halfway through his first elongated between song announcement when a crowd member turned to their friend and asked, “is he drunk”? Well, he was not merely drunk, he was totally shit faced. I have not seen someone so inebriated on stage since I saw John Martyn in the 1990s. Conor rambled on like that drunk person in the corner of a pub that everyone warns you to avoid making eye contact with. He slurred words, struggled to pronounce things like “privilege,” fell over a cable, fluffed intros, was cut from his monologues by sound crew cutting in with intro tapes and essentially held all our attentions because there was a sense that he might not make it to the end. To be fair, the band did carry it well and Oberst himself did manage to sing well enough, but then later the thought occurred “is he actually alright or is this a sign of some deeper problem?” Some post festival searching has shown that this worrying behavior has actually been evident for a while now, the guy clearly needs an intervention. I hope it happens, there are far too many of the better talents in the music world taken from us too soon (see my September playlist entry for tragic evidence of that).

Anyway, End Of The Road, I look forward to returning in 2023.