I was excited to be introduced to Martin Phillipps when The Chills came to play at Norwich Arts Centre. This was the chance to sit down with a writer of an unimaginable number of songs, (many more than the 500 oft-suggested), while he was passing through Norwich.
We sat in the beer garden of The Plough, soaking up the late-afternoon heat and talked about song writing, playing in a band, the history and geography of New Zealand, where Martin, founder and leader of The Chills, resides. Spin a globe round until you find South Island. To locate Dunedin, look pretty much as far south as you can go on the east coast. It’s a fair way.
Dunedin’s remoteness, (or is it we who are remote?), seems such that people have to make their own entertainment. And thus it was, in the late-1960s when Martin and his two sisters were corralled by their mother into piano lessons at a young age. One of their mother’s friends had announced she was setting up as a piano teacher and Mrs. Phillipps offered up her offspring accordingly.
A few months under the tutorage of a strict teacher taught Martin enough about music to realise that being drilled into playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star was not taking him far enough, or close enough to the sophistication of Chopin’s masterpieces he had loved hearing from his dad’s records. However, those initial painful weeks of formal piano tuition turned out to be time well spent. Learning about octaves, major and minor keys, chords and the structure of the key board became the spring board for his life in music.
Origins covered, I was keen to know how Martin’s song-writing happens. Unsurprisingly, it just does, all the time. A notebook, then a Dictaphone and now the iPhone have been essential to catch the nuggets as they flash in the stream of consciousness that is the world we live in.
Martin is on constant alert for a phrase or line that might spin off into a new song. It may be from conversation, reading non-fiction, or a TV programme that demands to be paused to get the provocative line. His lyrics then take on a life of their own, rarely remaining as unearthed, having to be smelted and beaten into something of relevance.
With a song in mind, the idea and emotion of the song is taken to the band, which seems to be the tricky bit. Phillipps admits that the technical jargon of music is not his forte and this means that the feeling he has about a song has to be communicated through imagery. For example, the music for a song might sound like a cold sun rising on a winter’s morning, or a breaker crashing onto a pebble beach. The ability of band members to tune into his wavelength at this point is pretty crucial.
In the past Martin has been “…accused by former band members of perfectionism.” a character trait, he demurs. He just strikes me as a man keen to push himself and his fellow musicians to find fresh ways to bring his lyrics to life. He is as keen to avoid musical clichés, as he is to avoid lyrical ones, something not easily done.
When signed for a lucrative seven-album deal by a Warner Brother’s subsidiary, Phillipps was never worried at the prospect of turning out that many new songs. Yes, there were rare pep talks with the message, “Martin, you need to come up with more hits.” but States-wide success on the college radio network, a loyal fan-base in the expanding German market and being played on Radio 1 by John Peel, gave The Chills a solid sales base. He was not phased by it. He was being well-rewarded for doing what came naturally
I had read that Martin’s songs with The Chills were highly influential on REM, but until listening to the band at Norwich Arts Centre this week, I did not get it.
Honestly, being a punk listening to the post-punk musical music, was not my thing. Dave Burns, a friend of mine at Birmingham Polytechnic, had to almost force me to listen to the debut Orange Juice album, You Can’t Hide Your Love Forever, before I got what Edwyn Collins was creating. So, The Chills were not a band I was open to in the 1980s.
However, other more musical ears were open to the Sound of Dunedin, notably Michael Stipe and REM. Listen to The Chills album Submarine Bells with the No 1 song Heavenly Pop Hit released in 1990 and then put on R.E.M.’s album Automatic For The People from 1992. Immediately you will identify why Martin Phillipps is held in such high regard by the writers of Rolling Stone magazine and members of R.E.M. and The Pixies, (a little more surprisingly).
The Chills, Martin Phillipps triumph and tragedy, rated as a five-star documentary film, covers all the ground you need to know about the trajectory of The Chills from a small city in NZ to the upper atmosphere, before falling back to Earth. Obviously, Martin addressed his career path at times in our conversation, but soon to celebrate his 60th birthday with a trip to the ABBA Arena, he has arrived at a place where he realises, you can’t take it with you when your time comes.
He is gradually decluttering and delving into previously neglected works. Consequently, the gig on Wednesday had the unusual feature of the artist giving away some of his merchandise. A signed, limited edition print to someone who knew the title of their first hit, a tee-shirt to the person who came up with the best question, (“What’s your favourite pie?”). I was going to ask, “How influential has the Treaty of Waitangibeen in developing New Zealand’s cultural identity?” but that would have been cheating, as I had already discussed that with him down the pub.
After hearing how that treaty was presented orally to the Maori tribal leaders, but then translated into Maori for signature, with an English version establishing the dubious governing principles of the islands, we turned to conversation about the tension within New Zealand politics between those wanting to pursue an ecologically sustainable agenda and the people trying to keep their heads above water in a heavily rural economy. How much of this does Phillipps draw on in his song-writing, I asked.
Underwater Wasteland and America Says Hello are songs considering environmental concerns. He has also been moved to write about domestic violence, with Sanctuary taking a woman’s point-of view. Whatever themes he picks up on have to be relevant and credible.
As we focused again on song-writing, Aldous Harding was referenced as a current singer-songwriter admired by Phillipps. She is someone he admires for striving to write original songs, cutting out her own creative route, something he has sought to do throughout life.
Now with a band, which has coalesced over the past 24 years, with only bassist and trumpeter, Callum Hampton as the newbie, each is contributing to the evolution of The Chills. Erica Scally brings the electric violin into the mix, as well as guitar and additional keyboards to Oli Wilson’s keyboard. Drummer Todd Knudsen is the rocker, by all appearances, but he is just about able to constrain himself enough to stay on-side and sympathetic to the tingle-tangle sound of the band.
The Chills play a varied set of familiar and songs from the most recent album Scatterbrain, for about an hour at the old church before a two-song encore. The set closed with I love my leather jacket, the tribute by Phillipps to his friend, Martyn Bull, an original member of The Chills, who died of leukemia at 22 years of age.
The gig attracted a disappointingly thin crowd, but they toddled off having had a really nice time. A bit of nostalgia for some, with something new to enjoy along the way.
The sound of the Chills is well-suited to warm summer evenings, the company of family and friends and thought-provoking conversation. They are not a band to be taken at face-value, but might be easily over-looked, because the music throws a dummy disguising the edginess of the ideas. The Chills tour in the UK continues for another week, before tying off in Galway. I hope that the weather holds and ticket sales are strong, Martin Phillipps and The Chills still deserve to be heard.
Waking to find a heavy sun beating down on the ancient city, warmth in the air at last, I hauled my old limbs into the shower, steeling myself for a long day. I was to be travelling south to trudge around the old port of Ipswich trying to make sense of Brighten the Corners.
This multi-venue festival, has a name that misleads aurally, (Brighten, or Brighton?). It has artists listed appearing at six venues, plus talks at a seventh. It attracts musicians from as far distant as Los Angeles, CA. The whole event brings together the resources of the local university, the post-16 college, BBC Suffolk and venues, of vastly different styles and a range of capacities. My initial impression was that this is an ambitious event, offering stages for over forty bands and acts, several of them possibly only known to each other.
But festival-goers are not necessarily seeking out established acts. Meaningful talk is often about discovering new bands and meeting new people. Festival-goers are musically-curious people, people with plenty of music-love to share and open to being musically-seduced into long-term musical-romance, or even up for a musical-quickie in a dark room, or perhaps a flirty musical-kiss-me-quick in passing.
Before that analogy gets out of hand, I’ll start in the middle, The Cornhill. That high sun was absolutely battering the streets and zeroing in on the Cornhill square, where a loosely assembled, temporary arena had been set up. Cornhill is the hub of Ipswich’s shopping area.
A large performance stage to the west of the square, a mobile Adnam’s bar to the east and a choice of two hot food stalls at the sides, offered ample choice of sustenance and beverage and there were plenty of people out and about in the town on such a nice day, Lowestoft’s seaside not being the distraction it once was.
Seating in the arena was limited. More of the long temporary benches, or a few more deckchairs, would have been welcome given the heat, but that left plenty of space for dancing and to move around. Thankfully the artists were well protected from the sun’s glare in the shell of the stage. It was the kind of summer day that falling asleep in a deckchair would likely result in a visit to A&E. Blistering doesn’t begin to describe the intensity of heat that early afternoon. So, who better than Gabby Rivers and her band to boot everyone out of a summer torpor?
Increasingly well-known around Suffolk’s music scene, Gabby Rivers has an irrepressible personality, which resounds throughout her set. She delivers a high energy performance, using much of the stage to express herself as she sings and plays guitar. Rivers engages naturally with her audience. She is welcoming and grateful for their attendance, but totally gets that her job is to entertain. And she does!
The content of her songs cover varied territory. For example, arguments between partners (Boredom Rows), how expensive it is to just live (Moneymaker), the dubious nature of working in retail (Two Face). Each song has an upbeat tempo, a decent melody and a catchy chorus. Gabby Rivers has a strong voice and her lyrics come over clear as a bell. I feel she could easily (and successfully) turn her hand to folk, or country, well as she performs the rocky stuff she revels in.
Her band this afternoon, comprises Nik Booty on drums, Pedro Danger (guesting on rhythm guitar), Stan Horseman on bass (and stepping in with a rap vocal as a stand-in for an absent friend) and lead guitarist, Jan Ashwell. They did a great job, each ably demonstrating their talents during the set. It looked like playing in the Gabby Rivers Band is a lot fun.
As the set progressed, shoppers and families ambled into the arena and quickly picked up on the tunes. The chorus lines, simple and easy to follow, proved very popular. The applause from the crowd was enthusiastic. They had enjoyed the music and discovered a new act in the process.
The Cornhill stage underlined the importance of free street music. Such public platforms for young artists are an important way to share their music. Where else can new musicians cut through to all ages of the population, other than busking? It was great to see. As the day turned to evening, it looked as if the Cornhill was devoted to younger, local musicians. This would clearly be a big day for those making a public debut. Great experience for them and fun for their mates and the local populace. Who knows which of these tyros will have to turn to their parents one day and say, “THIS is a PROPER JOB!” Brighten the Corners certainly ticked a few boxes for organising these youth opportunities.
I set off in search of a wide-brimmed hat to protect myself from the sunny southern weather. A little later, after some decent fish and chips, I fell in with a motley collection of individuals from London, experienced festival goers to a man. They had a plan! I have heard that is the only way to deal with such a variety of acts. I looked up ‘plan’ online. We made our way to the Smokehouse in order to catch Butch Kassidy. I can tell you there was no space for a hat in there. A wall of sweaty heat and a barrage of sound in a low-ceiling room that was rammed to the architraves. WTF! This was heavy.
It was pitch black in there too, so the lighting effects had double impact on sun-drenched retinas. I have to say it was numbing. I could just make out what was happening on stage. The two miniature TV screens to each side of the stage relayed what was happening in this uncomfortably snug venue, which was a credit to the popularity of Butch and his band. Serious stuff, reminiscent of the output of Godspeed You! Black Emperor when they go deep.
Yes, I do listen to that kind of stuff at home, but I can choose how loud I want it and when I want to listen to it. Mid-afternoon, on a sunny Saturday, in a crowded cell, just wasn’t right. However, this is no disrespect to the band, they were damn good at what they do. They had drawn a capacity crowd, who were totally absorbed. I will follow Butch Kassidy with interest. I feel there is room in my life for a musical-dalliance with these guys.
After most of my companions stumbled out of The Smokehouse into the light, we made our way to The Baths. Rod told us that Led Zeppelin had once played there, so for that alone, we trooped along the dusty street, back towards town.
We arrived to hear the start of the Moreish Idols set. Indie guitars with keyboard effects, a saxophone on some tunes, a flute on others. The musicality of added woodwind and reed to the standard guitar sound was an interesting twist and decidedly moreish. Nice work.
On the way out of The Baths, I stumbled across regular Grapevine contributor Hayley Clapperton who was working as one of the many volunteers that oil the works of this festival.
Typically, the volunteers were enthusiastic, keen to help and worked efficiently in their appointed roles. Charlie, one of the volunteers at St Stephen’s was another whose name I got to know, but any of the team who I had the pleasure of interacting with, did a great job, from security to hospitality. They all played a big part in making this an enjoyable event.
Now firmly bonded with my new friends (and after a refreshing visit to a cocktail bar, The Botanist), we turned into the impressive auditorium of The Corn Exchange.
We had come to catch Triptides and their retro-California, peak-hippy sounds. They were cool. You could hear the sunshine in their music. Perfect for a summer afternoon, but perhaps better outside with a gentle on-shore breeze. The Corn Exchange is a big venue and was not half-full. It felt as if the high ceiling produced a lot of reverb. Does the venue need to invest in the sound dampening discs hung from that impressive ceiling, as per The RAH, to improve sound quality? Triptides put on a great set. Funnily enough, the song Latitudes (now there’s a big festival) was perfection. I enjoyed the feel of this band and like the Cosmic Rough Riders at the turn of the century, Triptides capture what we all believe late-1960s California probably sounded like with, or without, the psychotropics.
Later, The Corn Exchange was where the headliners, The Go! Team went on to smash a closing set for the venue. People in Norwich the next night were still raving about The Go! Team’s Saturday show in Ipswich. Music, the great unifier. It was a pity I could not make it back to for The Go! Team, but by then the momentum had carried me to the impressive St Stephen’s church.
It was here that I had one of those special festival moments – a personal musical discovery.
Joshua Idehen was performing his last show of a UK tour. This was a bit special and with the strikingly backing of Ludvig Parment, Idehen is freed to focus on the drama and exuberance of performance, while the sophisticated, atmospheric electronica backfill with exotic acoustics.
Joshua Idehen, is making waves. His poetry known to those acquainted with The Poetry Society, contemporary spoken-word performance poets and the album Your Queen Is A Reptile, released by Sons of Kemet.
Oh, the irony of Idehen performing in an old church. The man performs with such power in his poetry. He is a Fire and Brimstone performer. What he believes in, what he writes about Love and Hope and Kindness and Humanity are emphasised passionately, but with due regard for his congregation. The congregation can feel the Love, are lifted by his Hope, love the Humanity of his words. If he worked from a US TV-pulpit with a DIAL 800-SendLoveand$ he could be living in a palace for the rest of his life. Luckily for us, Joshua Idehen was live in Ipswich delivering a majestic show. With the modest Ludvig Parment, these two guys made a great combination of talents. Look up the 2023 mixtape Learn to Swim on any of the major online music distributors. There is a hardcopy LP / CD hoped for in the near future.
Idehen is looking at getting together with community choirs and expanding his show. From what was shown on Saturday night, this concept would work beautifully. If anyone asks me about Joshua Idehen, I will just say, “I believe!”
With people clinging to the cool stones of St Stephens to get some respite from the heat, it was time for Karma Sheen.
This band had been getting to as many sets around the festival as possible. They love music, dress like rock stars and enjoyed many conversations with people around the town, often opening with “Are you guys in a band?” Take a look at the pic… “Are you guys in a band!!” C’mon Ipswich, WAKEY! WAKEY!
I have seen these guys perform a few times in the last year and their audiences love them. The blend of Hindustani Classical music and blues rock is truly exciting. This Raag & Roll is the sound of 21st Century Britain. The cultures of different times and places are transformed by the Karma Sheen musical blender to produce something special.
This is music for listening, for grooving, for dancing, for making love. You are not going to be distracted by the meaning of lyrics, because the voice of Sameer Khan is one of the instruments. Like his sonorous bansuri pipe, or the vintage Harmonium, made more than half a century ago in Kolkata, Khan produces notes in Urdu, not Urdu lyrics. There is no meaning to muse over here, these vocal emanations are essentially music.
Some of the numbers start with Rodrigo Bourganos teasing out the best of his sitar, others fire up from the off with driving rock initiated by Noah Dayan on drums and Grigory on bass. The development of each song demands attention. The gear changes (I mean the tunes, not the threads), are dramatic and thrilling.
Amad Chima is a key man. He contributes so much with his mastery of the guitar, the rock power-chords, the funky rhythms. Each of the band members brings something unique to the show. The throbbing bass of Grigory is given the space to get everyone bouncing around the floor too.
The close of each number was greeted with the ecstatic roars of the audience.
At the end of the set, the buzz Karma Sheen had created was incredible. The audience had become a crowd of happy people, their animated chattering vibrated around the old church nave. What a touring show Joshua Idehen opening with Karma Sheen to close would be!
I felt that I had been blessed to be in that place at that time. What a great evening.
So, thank you to the people behind Brighten The Corners, the professional technicians, the volunteers the sponsors and organisers. It was a huge collaborative effort. I hope that numbers stacked up and made it financially viable. As a one-day taste of the festival, it worked for me.
Fin de la Siesta curated by the Perspectiva Artists Collective
The Merchant House, Norwich
The literary side of Norwich came to the fore on Friday. This poetry night was promoted by Diego Leon, the voice of Perspectiva artists collective, and curated by Oihane Garcia. The event provided a sellout audience with a beautiful evening of poetry and music in Japanese, (via Chicago), Turkish, Cypriot and Basque, as well as in English, whether as original writing, or in translation.
Along the way, the evening also provided moving insights to lives lived in translation, of bi-lingual people and perspectives on some dramatic political and cultural shifts witnessed in the past one hundred years. The stories, which were revealed between performances by way of introductions, proved as vivid and enriching as anything scripted, sonically and poetically beautiful as they were.
Gathered in the courtyard of The Merchant House café next to Fye Bridge, accompanied by the evensong of blackbirds, we huddled together, some under the complimentary blankets, on the coldest early-June evening I can recall. As we shivered, our host Oihane Garcia, shone. She generated warmth and enthusiasm for the music and poetry, that was wholly justified and greatly appreciated by the audience.
The first act of the entertainment was provided by James Luck, in his first ever solo public performance. He coolly sat at the keyboard, set it to the piano mode and astoundingly, improvised a beautiful jazz sonata. When I asked James what the piece was called, he admitted it had no name, he had made it up on the spot.
During his performance, when hearing a particularly melodic phrase, or satisfying tone, James would involuntarily gasp, perhaps surprised at how the keyboard had somehow taken over the composition itself. Jazz fans will recognise something similar occurring occasionally in Art Blakey live recordings, for example. Was this audible evidence of the performer finding El Duende, the Spanish name for the magic force of art sought through creative endeavour?
The running order of poets had been decided by the course of the Sun’s path from East to West. So, we began with a Chicagoan poet of Japanese heritage, Kana Hozoji.
Her first poem was read in short verses, first in Japanese then English. The Japanese language sounded like music to me, with its short syllables, each a note of their own. Listening to the rhythmic phrasing and hearing repetition of lines, these poems made for entrancing listening. The contrast between the sounds of the two languages was fascinating. Hozoji poems contained the universal imagery of poetry, while addressing symbolic meanings. Hence we heard of stars and the symbolism of food being imaginatively explored.
Kana explained that a particularly problem of being bi-lingual is swapping in words of one language during speech in another, (code switching). With her brother this was an acceptable and easily accommodated language adaptation to living with two languages, although it left her parents aghast. Her third poem, consciously incorporated code-switching. It sparked weird synaptic connections in my monolingual mind. I was clearly using some areas of my grey matter for the first time.
Bodies of Water was Kana’s final poem and compared the idea of pooled water, (the lakeside of Chicago provides an impressive edge to that city), to the strength of membership of an artistic collective. This fascinating allusion was a fine end to her set.
Priya Tripathy, was next. She is an Indian poet, who grew up with a dialect that has no script, but she was taught English throughout her school years, as well as Hindi.
Again, food provided some of the imagery. In Tripathy’s first poem, Dal, (a word from Indian cooking), looks at the mixture of cuisines and languages brought into India by English imperialists and Dutch traders. This was a poem that covered so many aspects of cultural influences that I would have been happy to hear it again, so rich it was in ideas.
It might have been be handy to have had a pamphlet available to read the poetry alongside the performances, something relative to a hymn sheet, to be able to reflect on these lyrical works. Such a resource would not detract from the entertainment, but it would allow the audience to savour the subtleties of the poems for longer.
I Hope You Come (to Me) was a beautiful poem of anticipation and hope written by Priya. We heard it in her native tongue, followed by translation. In any language this was a delightful love poem.
Elif Söyler’s turn on stage carried us off to a village in Anatolia where little had changed for centuries, until the establishment of modern Türkiye. Elif’s explanation of what nation building under Mustafa Kemal Atatürk meant for a land where illiteracy was the norm, was staggering. To ease education of the masses, language was simplified by the new republic’s first government, leading to the deletion of synonyms for words, such as ‘beautiful’. Beautiful, we were told, became a word (güzel) that could be widely applied in many contexts, spelled simply and consistently to smooth the road to literacy.
What literary people in England what might call dumbing-down, was put in place to lift people from the limitations of illiteracy. Clearly it will be the work of poets and other creative thinkers to develop the language in generations to come. In Elif Söyler, here is one of the poets to possibly contribute to the expansion of the written word in her father’s land.
The context of the poems Söyler read, was the dramatic changes wrought in an emerging nation. Thus, the marked differences between rural and urban living, the impact of a revolution and establishment of a republic on real people, on immediate family.
She then read a poem by Orhan Arahami initially in Turkish, then we heard one of Söyler’s own about the village where her grandparents and many cousins live. Each verse was a snapshot of a land and lives very different from ours in urban, cold Norwich. We were presented with a beautiful thread of images from Deep in the desert of eastern Anatolia. Who would not want to live there for at least one August there?
Maria Foka, from the divided island of Cyprus, then introduced us to aspects of the culture of patriarchy that overshadows women’s lives there. She particularly referenced women’s upbringing, strictly aligned to imposed ideals of modesty, deference and family duty. Her writing, lively and full of humour, was a fierce and entertaining counter-weight to such principles.
Oihane Garcia, the headline poet, closed the literary element of the evening. She read poems in Spanish to us from Sonnets to Dark Love by Federico García Lorca. Seb Gale read the translation. The pair presented these pieces beautifully, Gale’s reading tone a soothing balance, to the urgency and desire of the lyrical content, so well communicated in the tempo of the Spanish words.
Next, Oihane’s reading of her own poems was accompanied by Diego Leon, who improvised on guitar. Garcia had detailed how her parents had not been allowed to learn the Basque language under Franco’s dictatorship, revealing how deep fascism cut into her family’s daily lives. Grandparents and grandchildren connected through a shared language, her parents, in a way, a lost generation, speaking only Spanish.
Speak to elder residents of south Wales about the banning of the Welsh language in the Port Talbot Steelworks and you will appreciate something of the antipathy held there towards the English. At least this ban was not enforced through imprisonment and state-sponsored terrorism, although livelihoods could be damaged for breaking the No Welsh rule.
Our evening at The Merchant House closed with Diego Leon on electric piano. This was remarkable for two reasons. Firstly, the resonance of the sound from the ancient stone walls surrounding the courtyard was beautifully sharp. Secondly, that Leon could actually move his fingers to the right keys in the cold air was nothing short of miraculous.
One of the aims of this Fin de la Siesta event was to provide an auditorium for ex-patriot poets in Norwich. Perspectiva, the collective behind the event has wider artistic aims. Its purpose is to make space for overseas, foreign language artists living and Norfolk. The city has a history of providing a platform for people from afar, (not just King’s Lynn or Downham Market), with its Strangers’ Hall and trading links with Europe. Norwich grew in partnership with people from different lands, so the emergence of the Perspectiva group gives a vital injection of youth to the evolving symbiosis between natives and foreigners.
This was a thoroughly stimulating and enjoyable show. The attentiveness and engagement of the audience added greatly to the enjoyment of the evening. Look out for events under the Perspectiva label at venues around the region. It is a group of artists who promise to be a worthy addition to our cultural scene.
What makes a good festival? I asked the man waiting beside me in the pizza queue.
Great bands and good people. hereplied.
Well, this is a great festival then! I concluded.
(Ed, Will that do?)
(No. More details, please. Ed.)
I was really keen to get out of the city for our third bank holiday weekend of May, given the beautiful weather, to find out what Nik Booty had organised with the Wildcraft Brewery, deep in the Norfolk countryside.
A simple one-way system into the festival grounds and suggested £3 donation to the local scout group for a day’s parking, set the tone for an event that was well signposted, simply organised, people-friendly and manned by friendly people.
And that weather! How long has the winter been? This was a blissful day, under a silk blue sky. Warm air, oh my goodness! How good it was to feel warm air.
Tents were being pitched and musicians were merrily playing catch, thereby demonstrating why they play music and not cricket. Bouncy castle inflatey thing-gummies were securely settled in the recently mown field. Children and an acceptable number of well-behaved hounds skipped and tumbled playfully under the high sun.
Tagged with my Wildfest 23 wristband at the welcome desk, I ambled by the duckpond and into the farmyard where tables, chairs and empty kegs provided sufficient seating. The burger stall was about to take a mid-afternoon break, the pizza cabin was being stoked for the next run of customers and the queue for the main Wildcraft Brewery bar was a bearable length.
The man on the decks in the shade of the hayloft played his latest Afrobeat purchases from Soundclash Records. Fela Kuti’s Upside Down and Quantic & Nidia’s Curao, being the first I heard of Duncan’s pitch-perfect selections for the first proper summer’s day.
I spotted a quaint 1960s two-berth caravan, adorned with the letters B A R, to my left and availed myself of a pint of draft cider, sold by the welcoming people behind the hatch.
Prices for anything were reasonable. The weekend ticket £20, day tickets £5, beer and cider at £5, any of the simple and ample selection of pizzas no more than £10 for the large, beautifully baked, thin crust pizzas.
I felt, I could relax and just enjoy the day, eat and drink what I wanted, when I fancied, without having to make that all too common festival remark, “I just wanted a pizza, not buy the whole damn business.”
Besides the chilled beats emanating from the DJ, the air was full of the tweets of swallows and chirps of sparrows, a wagtail piping, and an occasional quack from the pond, where mother duck was teaching her three ducklings to dive. Families and friends, band members and associates mingled and chatted merrily away. Beer aficionados, stood in small huddles raising beer glasses to the light, appreciating the clarity and colour of another draft from the Wild Brew crew, comparing flavours in a manly manner. It was a truly idyllic scene.
Nik reported that there were more people in attendance than he had expected to attract from Norwich and away from the N&N festival. In fact, by the end of the day, all the tickets for the day were sold out on the door.
I think people had thought the music would have been in a marquee on the field, but sensitive negotiations with the neighbours led to performances being held indoors.
The stage was set up in the main barn. With old oak rafters holding up a roof possibly twenty-five feet high, with substantial brick walls and a concrete floor, the lack of dampers, made it a quite thunderous setting. Straw bales are out of season in May, but they would have helped the sound quality.
For Nik Booty, one of the Voodoo Daddy’s Showroom audio team, the problems with sound were terribly frustrating. It wasn’t the end of the world. To have gathered these local bands together in one place was a tremendous boon.
Headliners,Vieira and The Silvers, were sun-soaked and beer-soaked by the time their turn came to close the evening, but by then we were all flying on a wave of euphoria after hitting up the vitamin D, enjoying the innovative duo Whiskey Lover Bass Boy, soaking up Amelia & The Lovepools, Mink, Waxx! and boogieing to the partiest of people, Pleasure Inc.
Only Suds, who I was keen to see, were no shows. They played in London the previous night and NR12 was probably a step too far – that’s rock and roll, I suppose.
As the Sun sunk beyond somewhere called Cambridgeshire, the halfmoon shone over the barn, accompanied by Venus. We all began to disperse. Some to tents, others to Britain’s biggest village. It had been a grand day out.
I hope that Nik and the other organisers of Wildfest 2023 are encouraged to build on this human-scale festival. When you look at the reams of bands listed for Glastonbury, its cost and complexity, Wildfest provided a salutary reminder that music festivals only need great bands and good people to be successful.
I hear that there may be something, somewhere locally, (i.e. a venue in Norfolk’s 2,400 square miles), for September this year. Keep an eye on GrapevineLIVE for more information. If, as and when, we have the latest news, we’ll let you know.
Presaged by a (insert your own collective noun here) of photographers, The Pearl Harts are attracting a lot of media attention right now. At one point, early in the evening, the paying punters only just matched the number of paparazzi present. I was intrigued to hear what so many lensmen had come to capture, (I saw no lenswomen).
I pondered on the name. Pearl, (a precious, rarely-formed jewel, found in oysters) and Harts, (females of the deer species, an animal kept for hunting for sport and venison, idealised as strong and free-spirited), which is an aural pun on ‘hearts’, suggesting a precious sensitivity too; a poetic and interesting band name. Promising.
Are the Pearl Harts the future of 21st Century rock? How far can duos take rock music? Listen to local band Whiskey Lover Bass Boy, for example, and you’ll see there is a lot of creative space to explore in this field yet.
These were just two of many questions I considered, as Kirsty stormed through power chords and Sara pounded the skins and crashed the cymbals in a set evoking the classic sounds of heavy rock. This sound was previously only produced by four-piece bands, until the dawn of The White Stripes, or the later emergence of Royal Blood.
The sound of The Pearl Harts was intense and this matching black, PU / faux leather jeans duo, shook the ancient timbers of Voodoo Daddy’s Showroom. They rocked the room so much, that any deathwatch beetles present were most-likely dead by the end of the set.
Wild Me, Different Kinda Girl, Hit The Bottle and Suck It Up are songs that lyrically position the band firmly in the rock genre. All numbers punching a fist into the face of the social status quo. The Pearl Harts will go down an absolute storm at Monsters of Rock type festivals in Europe and North America, if that’s what they are gunning for.
A guitar string malfunction, meant an awkward moment, while Kirsty delved into the kit bag for a spare guitar. This left Sara to ad lib with the thinning audience. This was the lightest part of the show, giving some insight into the character of the performers.
Until this point we had been presented with raunchy, rock ‘n’ roll of the chopped chords variety, wailing manipulated feedback, frequently repeated song lines, short guitar soloing, accompanied by brief snippets of rock’s ageless rhetorical monologue. Yes, Norwich was having a good time, but most of the city’s population was having it elsewhere. During this impromptu pause, we got to see the human side of two working musicians. Nice people.
The audience was predominantly male. Several would have been able to remember Joan Jett first bursting onto the rock scene to prove that guitars, bass and drums are not the commercial preserve of XY chromosomes. In our gender-fluid world, every punter tonight was obviously a connoisseur of heavy rock music, or at least heavy rock curious, photogenicology, being the very least of their interests.
Let me be frank with you. There may be a strong market for The Pearl Harts. They do what they do well enough. It is loud and raunchy. The duo present themselves with an eye on the rock consumer. The act, the trousers, the song titles, the rock rhythms and tunes, are all on trend for the modern rocker. However, the venue was too small for this much noise and it was getting late on a school night, at the end of the third Bank Holiday of the month, so they lost a fair few of the rock curious customers, who had filled the room for the stimulating art-rock of Hot Wax and the entertaining evening openers, Collars.
Will Pearl Harts ham it up and go for tongue-in-cheek rock, or head toward big rock festivals, where the biker jacket wearing and jean jacket wearing, long haired head-shakers will probably lap them up? Their new album Love Chaos is well put together and sits happily in the traditional rock category. If you are into rock, I am sure that you will enjoy it.
