It’s a lovely idea; a folk festival with none of the hassle of having to camp, get muddy or walk eight miles from the nearest bus. And in the grounds of a stately home (Hatfield House) to boot.

Unfortunately for Folk By The Oak, all these factors transpire to make it not [...]]]> Review by Hazel Davis

It’s a lovely idea; a folk festival with none of the hassle of having to camp, get muddy or walk eight miles from the nearest bus. And in the grounds of a stately home (Hatfield House) to boot.

Unfortunately for Folk By The Oak, all these factors transpire to make it not really a folk festival at all, more a Proms In The Park with a different beat.

For this year’s third annual Folk By The Oak, the sun was shining, the lineup was cracking (Jackie Oates, Mawkin:Causley, Bellowhead, Martin Simpson Quartet) and the activities manifold, if bewildering (archery, knock-the-tin-cans-off-the-shelf, hot stone massage). But none of it quite came together in a Proper Folk way.

The green camping chairs were out, of course, which added to the Proms In The Park feel. Megson opened the show with a few weak jokes and a complete failure to whip the crowd (I say “crowd”…) into a frenzy. Things picked up a bit by the time Jackie Oates came on, with her clear bell-like voice just as sweet live as recorded, Emily Smith’s set was pretty but forgettable, but the Martin Simpson Quartet (of which there were six…) really ramped things up with a foot-tapping Mississippi set and by the time the headliners, Bellowhead, came on the audience were almost in the mood for a folk festival. Bellowhead, as ever, were on top form, parping out London Town, Fakenham Fair and Jordan with their usual charisma. The evening rounded off with Proms-style fireworks, reminding us that this was a folk festival for people who sort of like folk (so long as it’s the safe sort and there’s sparkling wine).

Review by Hazel Davis I definitely can’t deny that I’m prone to extreme emotion at folk festivals. Last year at Beverley it was the divine Jeni and Billy (more on them later) who prompted an outpouring of my love and this year it was Eddi Reader. Not that [...]]]> Beverley Folk Festival (June 2010)

Review by Hazel Davis

I definitely can’t deny that I’m prone to extreme emotion at folk festivals. Last year at Beverley it was the divine Jeni and Billy (more on them later) who prompted an outpouring of my love and this year it was Eddi Reader. Not that I wasn’t expecting THAT of course. I have seen her live a thousand times but she topped a thousand wonderful performances with a blinder worthy of the closing and not the opening concert (Proclaimers Schmoclaimers).

No matter. It put us all in the mood for what was to come. Dedicating the French-inspired (and by that I mean accordion-heavy and Piafesque) evening to Susan Boyle “Who just woke up one morning and just thought ‘I think I’ll go and sing for Simon Cowell’”, Reader, gorgeous in blue with red flowers in her flame-orange hair, was breathtaking. Leezy Lindsay made me cry, as did Dragonflies and Muddy Water and her only-she-could-get-away-with-it closing monologue-song-medley sent everyone out into the night in a Mike Leigh (the other one…!) haze.

But there was more to this year’s folk festival than Eddi Reader and the next day (despite extreme consternation that she wasn’t performing) Barbara Dixon enthralled in the Acoustic Tent with tales of her folk-to-showbiz transition.

As ever, I gravitated mainly towards the open-mics and a mix of the awful, endearing, try-hard and green and the downright amazing (Anxious Andrews – the reason folk exists – and his tear-jerking rendition of The Old Triangle). Andrews was one of my personal festival highlights. As he jittered up on stage and started ranting about his council house being demolished I sunk into my chair, embarrassed. But I sat bolt upright as his clear and plaintive voice rung out rendering the tent both angry that we’d even bothered clapping the earlier double-denimed John-Not-Denver and teary that Anxious might actually be telling the truth when he said he’d been sleeping rough.

The Moonbeams Tent played some blinders. My newest crush Boss Caine, with milky-blue-eyed Daniel Lucas’ womb-scrapingly gravelly vocals (fuck knows what he was actually singing about but I bloody hung on every word as Joan Baez to Bob Dylan) and the delicately-tonsilled Edwina Hayes whom I have had rammed down my ears by friends for years and have recently fallen in love with a bit).

Elsewhere, Dogan Mehmet and his Deerhunters (Turkish-English gypsy-punk fusion) were amazing, showing Manu Chau-style future superstar quality, and I LOVED The Why And Wherefores’ blinding blues set at the Americana Party. Said party also featured folkingcool darlings Jeni and Billy, whom we will never tire of writing about (and not just because they dedicated a song to me –SCREAM). Mixing stuff from their last two albums with a couple of newbies including Windmill (NEED), a gorgeous tale of dustbowl survival, they delivered each performance like it was their only one and made each audience feel like it was the best EVER.

Roy Bailey and Tony Benn on the main stage were great value, if predictable (worth it for Bailey’s still-brilliant voice) and the impromptu village-green activity was entertaining, if, like last year, a bit haphazard. But we don’t mind haphazard when a festival is a fun, friendly and welcoming as Beverley. Counting the days till next year…..

‘Go and see Lail Arad!’ honked the folkingcool ed. ‘Lail’s amazing!’ Being called Joy, I obviously can’t help but be naturally cynical, negative and suspicious. When my expectations are raised this multiplies and I end up being all worried that the gig’ll be crap because I know I’m supposed to [...]]]> Review by Joy Thomas

‘Go and see Lail Arad!’ honked the folkingcool ed. ‘Lail’s amazing!’ Being called Joy, I obviously can’t help but be naturally cynical, negative and suspicious. When my expectations are raised this multiplies and I end up being all worried that the gig’ll be crap because I know I’m supposed to like it. To calm myself I decide to stalk Ms. Arad on MySpace and watch the video of Who am I? This was a totally rubbish idea – the video paints her as a typically irritating, middle class North London girl and I decide sorrowfully that I’m probably going to hate her.

And so I arrived at the veggie café in Camden Town where Lail was playing. Oh naivety! Oh innocence! It’s a vegetarian music café in north London! Of COURSE it was going to feel creepily wholesome, wanky, and superior. I sat down feeling very out of place amongst the we-buy-all-our-clothes-in-Oxfam-to-look-cool-but-we-live-in-a-massive-house-in-Hampstead crowd.

URGH, then. The Joy-pal and I cowered in a corner with our eye-bleedingly expensive organic lager and cheered ourselves with an excellent chinwag and some frowned upon marlboro light runs (I’m sure rollies would have been fine). The staff with their brown rice halos kept tidying away our unfinished beers which didn’t help matters and we were a bit frowny by the time the lights went low and we realised that Lail was coming on. We folded our arms, raised our eyebrows and prepared to listen to come kooky pampered princess la-la-laing to a smug crowd of the arty rich. URGH.

Accompanied by a chap on guitar, Lail started the set behind a keyboard with songs that rhymed in a really annoying way. You know when you’ve never heard a song before but it’s so predictable you can sing along? That. The Joy-pal scrawled ‘Regina Spektor’ on my notepad and she was right. Fine, Lail, but come on love, have you got owt else? Sigh.

And then… hang on a minute…

Things started to change. Lail surveyed her crowd and sang a song along the lines of ‘If I’d had it harder and had been a bit more fucked up then I’d be able to write nonchalantly about the horrors I’ve seen… but to be honest I went to a nice, arty liberal school and I like my parents so that’s that then.’

She mooched out from behind the keyboard, came to the microphone, blew her nose and took a gulp of water. And before I knew it Lail Arad had blown my bloody socks off. She is just … personable, nice, self aware. And she’s FUNNY. She’s got a sitcom writer’s eye for the nuances in social funnies and has an ability to make these delightful, clever and satisfying songs that have you hooked onto her completely.

She drumsticked (drumstruck?) a chair whilst singing the slightly bonkersville Everyone is moving to Berlin. She held her maraccas the wrong way round to clonk along to another song. She sang about terrorists, carpooling and putting the heating on. Where was the rubbish rhyming from the start? It was like a different person from the Regina-alike behind the keyboard.

Reminds Me Of You is a perfect example of a song which is intimate, tender and almost a bit sad .. but then dead funny at the same time. The same can be said of Someone New and Winter. The humanity of her humour, the knowing acknowledgment of the flaws and bumps of life is so attractive. Kind of opposite to the atmosphere I’d picked up when first entering he vegetarian café-land. And opposite to what I’d assumed she’d be.

A cover of Leon Russell’s If The Shoe Fits finished me off in terms of abhorrent shame at myself. ‘Can you get us in free, my girlfriend and me, we like the songs but we hate to pay…’ Gah. Ok, ok, you’ve got me, Lail. Well done.

She finished her encore with a treat of a new song called Pickled Love which made me beam with absolute wonder. United with the people around me who I was so quick to deride, I clapped and whooped her offstage, looked around and felt dead grateful to be where I was. Is Humble Pie vegetarian?

It has long been established that the nearer to a pole you live the madder you are. It’s the magnetotron rays that do it. Eskimos build houses out of snow and throat sing at each other until they summon the aurora borealis. Scandinavians split neatly into groups that venerate either Black [...]]]> Review by Stephen Taylor

It has long been established that the nearer to a pole you live the madder you are. It’s the magnetotron rays that do it. Eskimos build houses out of snow and throat sing at each other until they summon the aurora borealis. Scandinavians split neatly into groups that venerate either Black Metal and then burn churches, or Eurovision and wear fluorescent pop socks. Penguins look shifty. Inge Thomson makes grin-inducing, cynic-melting, accordion-soaked tunes peppered with electronic bleeps and African thumb piano boings.

Hailing from Fair Isle from off of the shipping forecast she’s about as polar as you can get without falling off the edge. And. She’s. NUTS. Shipwrecks and Static is about as good as a description of itself as it could be. The whole album has that island kookiness and tiny town eccentric edge that could be anywhere between Lost, Northern Exposure and the Clangers. Inge plays with the Karine Polwart Trio when she’s behaving herself, presumably playing mad scientist in a sonic shed somewhere the rest of the time, preparing to launch her solo efforts onto a more molecular-audiology ready landscape.

Most of the songs are fairly traddish, folky numbers augmented with a synth backing that is sometime a subtle replacement for percussion, sometimes a full-on Boards of Canada romp through vistas electronic. John is wrinkle-your-nose cute. Almost a round sung with herself it’s speckled with banjo twangs and anklet jangles. Tin Man is an instrumental tearjerker that, along with an unironic helping of sunshine, countryside and the prospect of pretty company, jerked more tears than was strictly decorous on British rail. Scoundrel Clouds is a bit of a rant about the weather.

Childlike whilst avoiding naivety, when the experimental stuff doesn’t add anything it doesn’t detract. And when it hits the mark it’s perfect and new to the point of pinching its cheeks and going wubba wubba wubba.

They say it was a brave man who once tried an oyster. I bet it wasn’t. It was a loon from the Shetlands who wanted to try everything to see if it was nice. Good luck to her.

Chorlton St Clement’s Church, Wednesday 26th May 2010

Churches seem to have to diversify to survive in today’s times and this Chorlton church seems to be very much a church-to-hire. Host to various regular exercise classes and toddlers groups, it is a major sponsor and one of the main venues during Chorlton [...]]]> Review by Ruth Rosselson

Chorlton St Clement’s Church, Wednesday 26th May 2010

Churches seem to have to diversify to survive in today’s times and this Chorlton church seems to be very much a church-to-hire. Host to various regular exercise classes and toddlers groups, it is a major sponsor and one of the main venues during Chorlton Arts festival. On Sunday 23rd May, a select crowd enjoyed the quirky sound of Beth Jeans Houghton. Benefiting from a famous lead singer, the Bad Shepherds drew a full house, despite the mid-week slot.

Adrian Edmonson, in case you didn’t know, used to be famous for being the ‘punk’ character in TV’s Young Ones and for his comedic work with Rik Mayall. He’s pretty much been off the radar for a while and now seems to have reinvented himself as a musician – lead singer of the Bad Shepherds. Formed just a couple of years ago, they were nominated this year for Best Live Act in the Folk Awards.

What makes the Bad Shepherds different is that, instead of playing traditional folk, they play punk/pop and new wave classics in a folk style. Curious as to how, and if, this could work at all, I ambled down to see them at the sold out church – a fitting venue for such a band name!

It is difficult not to smile and laugh a bit as the band open with perhaps one of the best known punk anthems, Anarchy in the UK. Two things soon become apparent as band rattle through some of Britain’s best known 45s of the late 70s and early 80s. Firstly, this is most definitely not an amateur project; Edmonson has surrounded himself with three fine musicians, particularly fiddler Andy Dinan whose fingers deft fingerwork and bowing leave me in awe. Secondly, this is no comedy covers band. These are full-on folk reinterpretations of originals rather than the lazy folk-punk covers band that they could have turned out to be.

Some songs definitely work better than others. My favourites included The Model, Once in a Lifetime and Rise. Where the lyrics may have been equal in importance to anger and attitude in the originals, they stand out here and when it comes to masterpieces such as the Jam’s Down in the Tube Station at Midnight it works. However, other songs, initially rousing singalongs, suffer when that anger and attitude is taken out and they become bland folk ballads. There are a few mash-ups of trad tunes with the songs and the audience show their appreciation whenever the band launches into a full-on traditional tune.

Still, punk songs share plenty of common ground with folk songs and I’m left wondering whether folk is the inevitable progression for middle aged punks? It seems that way if this Manchester audience is anything to go by. Overall, I’d say this was an inventive, musically accomplished set and I expect to see more award nominations as they expand their fan-base during the festival season. There are plenty more gigs on this tour, so check them out and make up your own mind.

www.thebadshepherds.com/gigs.php

www.ruthrosselson.net

When You’re Real is John McKeown’s ‘official’ debut album to be released in August 2010. In 2009 he released an unofficial debut album. I’m just as confused as the rest of you. It’s annoying to have to always have age mentioned, but it’s a valid point that [...]]]> Review by Max Wallis

When You’re Real is John McKeown’s ‘official’ debut album to be released in August 2010. In 2009 he released an unofficial debut album. I’m just as confused as the rest of you. It’s annoying to have to always have age mentioned, but it’s a valid point that McKeown, at forty-nine, is releasing the album at an age when most musicians are winding down their career.

He has a very soft smooth voice, incredibly rich and very seductive; however although his technical ability stands up to his younger counterparts, the later songs on the album fall short and leaves the record feeling flat. Accompanying him he has varying other instruments such as the banjo, tambourines and fiddles buit these are never used to their full potential.

From Treat You Like a Woman with its gorgeous duality and brass accompaniment, the love-letter Till the Towers Fall and the upbeat Candy Girl he maintains his momentum. The problem with the album is that he just isn’t as strong on the songs where he isn’t accompanied. His voice is rich enough, don’t get me wrong, but amongst the scene of Mumford and Sons and Laura Marling – with their roaring tunes, and ensembles there is a demand for more encompassing songs.

It’s a perfectly lovely album, very summery– it’s just not phenomenal or groundbreaking. It’s competent, it’s enjoyable and definitely should be commended – it just isn’t amazing. Part of me is glad that it isn’t a last hurrah – there’s plenty of tip top stuff here to keep McKeown in business. I just can’t help thinking that he would have showed his range and ability better with an EP.

www.johnmckeown.net

Traditional yet thoroughly contemporary, The Northern Road is an accomplished album with much to brag about. Jack McNeill and Charlie Heys’ follow-up to their 2008 debut, Light Up All the Beacons, offers a mature collection that oozes warmth and honesty through its sparse and uncluttered arrangements.

Jack’s uniquely percussive guitar [...]]]> Review by Glen Liddle

Traditional yet thoroughly contemporary, The Northern Road is an accomplished album with much to brag about. Jack McNeill and Charlie Heys’ follow-up to their 2008 debut, Light Up All the Beacons, offers a mature collection that oozes warmth and honesty through its sparse and uncluttered arrangements.

Jack’s uniquely percussive guitar style underpins Charlie’s effortless violin to dazzling effect, creating harmony and momentum throughout. The two become almost as one, each instrument working together rather than against each other. This is evident nowhere better than in the hauntingly beautiful instrumental The Knots/Comets. Excellent tracks such as The Wooden Boy, Coastlines and the title track itself do not fail to inspire.

McNeill’s voice – a subtle blend of Damien Rice, Seth Lakeman, Christy Moore and, to some degree, Ben Ottewell – has an endearing, almost timeless quality, suggesting a world-weariness that should not really be possible in one so young. Vocally, he is a very commanding presence.

Lyrically, there are moments of beauty. Like the short story writer or the poet, painting emotion with words, honing in on a particular image with a fine torch beam, the duo seem to capture moments of tenderness with great clarity: of course I will watch you/ and I promise not to wake you/ when your skin catches hold of the sun/ I’ll let the fire take you / and I’ll let your colours run/ two leaves falling to the ground/ spinning in a burning winter breeze/ I hope that somebody’s near me/ when I finally take my leave… (Leaves).

Praise, I feel, should also be heaped upon percussionist Tom Chapman, for his dynamic work on Cajon and frame drum throughout, along with Helen Lancaster and Samantha Norman, for their delightful contributions to The Wolf and the Woodpecker.

Graduating together from the Birmingham Conservatoire, I found it surprising to learn that Jack and Charlie have only been playing together since early 2007 – clearly a pairing written in the stars. Having gone on to become finalists in the 2008 BBC Radio 2 Young Folk Awards, the pair have undoubtedly established themselves on the circuit and certainly seem to have plenty going for them. Appearances at Broadstairs and Bromyard festivals later this summer should help to cement that growing reputation, too. An act to watch out for.

The Northern Road is available now on Fellside recordings. Highly recommended.

www.myspace.com/jackmcneillandcharlieheys

Hotly anticipated doesn’t quite do it. Eagerly awaited? So-longed-for-it-actually-hurt? And that’s just in my house. Ever since Johnny Flynn’s debut album, A Larum, landed in my CD player, life hasn’t quite been the same. It spoiled all other modern folk music and kickstarted the overused phrase, “Hmmm it’s good but it’s [...]]]> Review by Hazel Davis

Hotly anticipated doesn’t quite do it. Eagerly awaited? So-longed-for-it-actually-hurt? And that’s just in my house. Ever since Johnny Flynn’s debut album, A Larum, landed in my CD player, life hasn’t quite been the same. It spoiled all other modern folk music and kickstarted the overused phrase, “Hmmm it’s good but it’s no Johnny Flynn.”

In the way that only an album from the self-effacing 27-year-old can, it quickly took its place alongside Actual Folk Classics such as Joni Mitchell’s Blue and everything by Bob Dylan, with little commotion. I lent it to friends, I forced them to sit and listen, open-mouthed and I smiled smugly when they went on to buy it for cherished family members.

And how frightened I was when this new album, this thing I had been hoping and praying for, landed on my doormat. How could anything replace the disc that is now so battered I had to get a new one?

Been Listening is a departure. But only a little one. In so many ways it’s pure Johnny. There are Huck Finn-esque tales of river adventures and his romantic obsession with battle reemerges. The delicious wordplay is present and correct and the brain-battering catchiness is all there.

But he’s lost his band, the Sussex Wit, and gained a couple of duetters, Laura Marling on The Water (oh JOY) and someone else (I can find NOTHING anywhere which says who it is but I reckon it’s Lucy Farrell – you heard it here first) on the gorgeous Amazon Love. There is the odd bit of jarring electric guitar (on Howl, which at first is a little bonkers but, like all Flynn songs, quickly seeps into the bloodstream). Even the bouyant Kentucky Pill, which I resisted when I first heard it on the radio, makes sense among its brothers and sisters.

This is another wonderful album from one of folkingcool’s favourite artists of all time ever. And, gulp, it might even be better than the first one. Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny!!

People will say ‘It’s like Marmite. You either love it or hate it.’ Which is fine, except for the fact that the Marmite love/hate split is roughly 50/50. Jude Cowan will not hang the jury in quite the same way. You’d be better off saying ‘It’s like gently lowering yourself [...]]]> Review by Stephen Taylor

People will say ‘It’s like Marmite. You either love it or hate it.’ Which is fine, except for the fact that the Marmite love/hate split is roughly 50/50. Jude Cowan will not hang the jury in quite the same way. You’d be better off saying ‘It’s like gently lowering yourself onto the point of a kaiser’s helmet.’ or ‘It’s like marrying your nan.’ Yes. You’ll either love it or you hate it, but you’re astronomically unlikely to fall into the former camp.

Coincidentally, this morning I drove through the West Pennine Moors where Jude Cowan grew up. I can imagine, glorious though they are, as a teenager you’d be keen to escape the endless isolation using any vehicle available. As her raft she chose shrieking, mawkish onomatopoeic noises and baffling goth-lite ha’penny-really-fucking-dreadful lyrics. The end result is a hybrid of bottom-of-the-class sixth-form revue and your drunkest, singlest aunt trying to lighten the mood at a funeral.

The title track, a weirdly cringey tale of a war-time bunk up is responsible for serious damage to my office chair as my buttocks munched through the seat, whether out of embarrasment or a concerted effort to escape I don’t know. They’re not talking to me any more. Jolly Roger debates whether a mother should tell her estranged sailor lover about an unexpected pregnancy. Kissy noises, horsey clop-clops, Bobby Shafto innuendo and musings as to whether the babies should be hidden in the potted meat suggest that he’s well off out of it. Naughty Daddy - well, you can guess. Beyond that you’re going to have to find out for yourself. I couldn’t listen further.

The funny thing is that the sort of mock macabre, cabaret of the shit could only ever work in a live setting, but this is surely room clearing tackle. Self indulgent beyond bearing, bafflingly ill-conceived and irritating in whole new ways. I’ll take my chances with the Marmite thank you.

www.myspace.com/judecowan