Beverley bothers
Hazel Davis dons her best folk festival pants and gives this shindig one more chance
Words by Hazel Davis. Pictures by Ian Pickles.
As Justin Beiber (or someone) famously said, “I wouldn’t want to be in any club that would have me as a member.” And that’s how I feel about the UK music festival scene. I genuinely love nothing more than donning some too-wide silk baggy pants, wafting some patchouli around my teepee and eating mung beans while a willowy girl in plaits dances outside. But I don’t want a festival full of ‘em.
And that’s why Beverley Folk Festival remains one of my favourites on the entire UK circuit (and I’ve tested a few). Simply: you don’t “glamp” at Beverley, you turn up, pitch your tent and get on with enjoying the music.
Taking place annually since 1983, the Beverley Folk Festival is all about the music. That’s not to say it doesn’t have a great atmosphere. It’s one of the friendliest festivals around.
Granted, this friendliness often comes at a cost. I have been going regularly for about four years and every year without fail there are issues with my tickets. One year they hadn’t heard of a press area. Another year they couldn’t work out whether my ONE-YEAR-OLD also needed a press pass (she had left her NUJ card at home) and last year the venue had changed from the city centre to the racecourse and so the whole Getting In process was chaos.
I’m being unfair actually. The festival proper appeared to go swimmingly last year and this year. It all got done and everyone had a great time and that matters a whole lot more than little old me getting my tickets in time to see Billy Bragg and I would rather a beaming smile and a bit of slowness from a dithering biddy than a bank of expressionless young trust-funders with iPhones processing people efficiently and charging you £10000 to sleep on a sequined cushion.
This year the fest kicked off with the red devil himself on the Friday night (which I was unable to get to in time). Part of me thinks this was bad programming as surely many people arrived on the Saturday morning but scheduling Chas and Dave as closers than made up for this.
As ever, the festival highlight was the Moonbeams Tent, expertly curated and lovingly presented by Leila Cooper and going on until the wee small hours (what happens in the Moonbeams Tent after midnight stays in the Moonbeams Tent). There were a couple of real gems here, namely in the form of a young girl called Skye, who blasted out a few likeable Taylor Swift numbers (“I’m not sorry,” she said, “She’s brilliant.”) and a woman whose name I missed and now can’t find but whose Taboresque voice stopped me in my tracks.
And that’s why Beverley Folk Festival remains one of my favourites on the entire UK circuit (and I’ve tested a few). Simply: you don’t “glamp” at Beverley, you turn up, pitch your tent and get on with enjoying the music.
Taking place annually since 1983, the Beverley Folk Festival is all about the music. That’s not to say it doesn’t have a great atmosphere. It’s one of the friendliest festivals around.
Granted, this friendliness often comes at a cost. I have been going regularly for about four years and every year without fail there are issues with my tickets. One year they hadn’t heard of a press area. Another year they couldn’t work out whether my ONE-YEAR-OLD also needed a press pass (she had left her NUJ card at home) and last year the venue had changed from the city centre to the racecourse and so the whole Getting In process was chaos.
I’m being unfair actually. The festival proper appeared to go swimmingly last year and this year. It all got done and everyone had a great time and that matters a whole lot more than little old me getting my tickets in time to see Billy Bragg and I would rather a beaming smile and a bit of slowness from a dithering biddy than a bank of expressionless young trust-funders with iPhones processing people efficiently and charging you £10000 to sleep on a sequined cushion.
This year the fest kicked off with the red devil himself on the Friday night (which I was unable to get to in time). Part of me thinks this was bad programming as surely many people arrived on the Saturday morning but scheduling Chas and Dave as closers than made up for this.
As ever, the festival highlight was the Moonbeams Tent, expertly curated and lovingly presented by Leila Cooper and going on until the wee small hours (what happens in the Moonbeams Tent after midnight stays in the Moonbeams Tent). There were a couple of real gems here, namely in the form of a young girl called Skye, who blasted out a few likeable Taylor Swift numbers (“I’m not sorry,” she said, “She’s brilliant.”) and a woman whose name I missed and now can’t find but whose Taboresque voice stopped me in my tracks.
The real advantage of Moonbeams is that it’s constant so you can do a stint in the main tent and then while they are switching over, head to Moonbeams for a bit of open-mic (always quality though) fun, and then back again for the main event. In the main tent my three-year-old snoozed on my lap to a lovely set from a very doddery looking Martin Carthy and his daughter, Eliza. It was a shaky start and, like most Waterson-Carthy events, featured a bit of “FFS DAD!” swearing from Eliza when he messed things up and faux-grumbling on his part. Nonetheless, her slightly cracked rendition of Molly Drake’s Happiness had me moved to tears and was worth the trip alone.
In the concert marquee, John Hegley, was, as always, brilliant (John, if you’re reading this, CALL ME, we can make tiny belligerent babies together) with his abuse of the well-sighted and second-guess poems. He was also touchingly undeterred by my child laughing loudly gamely along at the back about five minutes after each joke had ended.
Other high points included the sublime Josienne Clarke, the future Grande Dame of the folk scene, and Coco and the Butterfields, hands-down one of the best festival acts around. They’re young, idealistic, a bit posh and dreadlocked and their lyrics don’t always bear repeating BUT their energy is infectious and they had us all dancing in the aisles. Every year I max my credit card in the festival CD shop and this year was no exception. And as I drove home, my car resounded with the sounds of Greg Russell and Ciaran Algar, two ludicrously young lads (Algar has just done his A levels) with an obscene amount of talent: “Here’s one of Stoke’s finest traditional love songs,” Russell had earlier quipped, “Angels by Robbie Williams,” Algar shot back, showing you’re never too young to start with the folk banter.
www.beverleyfestival.com
Ian Pickles Photography
In the concert marquee, John Hegley, was, as always, brilliant (John, if you’re reading this, CALL ME, we can make tiny belligerent babies together) with his abuse of the well-sighted and second-guess poems. He was also touchingly undeterred by my child laughing loudly gamely along at the back about five minutes after each joke had ended.
Other high points included the sublime Josienne Clarke, the future Grande Dame of the folk scene, and Coco and the Butterfields, hands-down one of the best festival acts around. They’re young, idealistic, a bit posh and dreadlocked and their lyrics don’t always bear repeating BUT their energy is infectious and they had us all dancing in the aisles. Every year I max my credit card in the festival CD shop and this year was no exception. And as I drove home, my car resounded with the sounds of Greg Russell and Ciaran Algar, two ludicrously young lads (Algar has just done his A levels) with an obscene amount of talent: “Here’s one of Stoke’s finest traditional love songs,” Russell had earlier quipped, “Angels by Robbie Williams,” Algar shot back, showing you’re never too young to start with the folk banter.
www.beverleyfestival.com
Ian Pickles Photography