It’s always hot at Cropredy and it’s not just the weather. With record temperatures, shrivelled grass, dire water shortage predictions and lots of dust, Simon Jones journeyed once more to the Fairport Convention festival and found, music, more music and an eclipse!
The man on the weather report said it was going to be the warmest year on record both here and across the world. It was alright for him he was in a studio with air conditioning and probably would be for the rest of the week. In fact Thursday was the day when the pavement flag stones were supposed to be cracking and quite possibly the reservoirs of England boil dry. But that’s Thursday and today’s Wednesday.
“Here borrow these,” says a kindly soul on the Cropredy campsite proffering a pair of spectacles as the sky turns a rather dull shade and the light goes a bit wonky. They’re all looking at the eclipse, which has even turned up in the festival press blurb and I have to admit is on everyone’s lips. The glasses look like something she’s got from a cracker but give you a clear enough sight of what is going on in the heavens above. The sun’s gone black and has a halo of light all around it.
There are various cardboard devices around, some extremely dodgy looking, cereal packets with holes punched in them and a kitchen towel roll inner attached. Clearly not made by John Noakes on Blue Peter, more like cub scouts, enthusiastic but ultimately naff. Everyone’s caught up in the experience and as hunger calls and there’s a table at the Braesnose waiting, the movements across the sky have to be put to one side.
“Did you see the eclipse, wasn’t it exciting?” says the lady opposite on the bench in the pub garden, “it went all kind of eerie and dark didn’t it?” She’s obviously got eclipse fever. So has the waiter, “I didn’t see it all that well as I have been in and out of the kitchen for the duration,” he regretfully informs as we commiserate with him over his misfortune.
The eclipse soon gets lost in jovial banter and tales of past Cropredies and Fairports down the years. A bloke on a table nearby is holding court with a boast that he’s been every year since the first one. He’s not doing badly until a wag near him points out the two-year gap caused by the pandemic. At which point he switches to that old chestnut about how he’d seen every line up of Fairport Convention. Looking at him he’d have been about 3 years old when he caught the first ever incarnation. Likely? I think not. At which point my mind wandered towards a good night’s sleep and I quietly departed whilst he and his colleagues argued about why Richard Thompson left Fairport in 1970. January 1971 in fact.
Thursday dawned bright and clear of cloud from horizon to horizon. Yes, this was shaping up to be a day to remember weather wise. The stewards on the gates had put out signs to keep your dog off the metal track ways as they would be too hot for paws. Which raises the question why do people bring their dog to a festival in blazing heat? Normally I wouldn’t notice dogs that much but maybe because there are signs for doggie ice cream, announcements about how to keep them cool, where the dog water points are, dogs seem to be multiplying! There’s even some in what look like push chairs being wheeled round the field in state by their owners. Whatever happened to walkies? And I notice the majority of pooches seem to sport a red bandana round their necks? What next Cropredy dog coats with the year and line up on? I can just hear the bloke from the pub… “My dog has been to every Cropredy and got the coats to prove it.”
4pm and the field is ready for music and as ever the entire thing is opened by our hosts, Fairport Convention in unplugged mode, this year displaying a natty line in head gear and shorts. The brief set began to the chime of their bell in the local church tower and thus flowed a selection of songs which were highlighted by ‘Banks Of The Sweet Primroses’ and the Morris-centric ‘The Happy Man.’ All too soon they were gone and left the stage to Banter Simon Care’s creation which has quietly been building a distinctive sound and reputation. They’ve a new album in the pipeline which is mostly trad sourced but takes the material to places hither unknown. To say their set was a revelation wouldn’t be putting too fine a point on it. It was explosive and the audience responded likewise. This was their Cropredy debut which really began to motor when ‘Roxanne’ got an electro folk refit resplendent in squeezebox riffs, thumping rhythms and keyboard swells, Sting would have been pleased as punch. Nina Zella’s vocal rode the instrumental tide like a surfer on the crest of a wave, the heft of the music carried by an under tow of bass and percussion. We were treated to what amounted to the story of folk rock, stacks of Steeleye, Albions and a neat touch came with mentions for Ashley Hutchings, John Tams and Gareth Turner whose ‘Jake’s Jig’ had been their opener. An excursion into Incredible String Band territory saw a revival of their ‘Black Jack Davey’ always a folk song to my ears though Mike Heron got the writing credit on ‘I Looked Up.’
Are my cables plugged in? Simon Care gives folk an electric shock. Photo Helen Jones.
Soft Machine have a lineage almost as complex as Fairport, the present band contains long serving guitarist John Etheridge and three other appropriately adaptable musicians. Their offerings chiefly centred on the recent ‘Thirteen’ album, all very prog rock and improvisation to the core, though it took the arrival of former Soft Ric Sanders – now of course of the House of Fairport- to give them more shape and certainty. Less off grid, more on the map, but still without a compass. Soft Machine all grin like Cheshire cats it was just as much fun on stage as listening in the crowd. Turin Brakes follow, when I spoke to them before the gig I got the feeling here was a band who were comfy in their music and who really appreciated what Cropredy could give them. It showed in a relaxed set which was pulled from many corners of their career, part playful, part serious and always melodic, to label them is just lazy thinking. Music perfect for sunsets, not a genre that I know of but Turin Brakes played it anyway.
Le Vent Du Nord earned their top of the billing with a rousing, can’t keep still mash up of Quebec reeling and determined stage prowling, you will have a good time, no matter if we have to force you. No need for force as the five piece had the crowd in their hands virtually from the off. They make a splendid racket with instruments, vocal harmonies and feet, the longer they go on the music seems to grow in proportion. Have you ever seen an audience baited by a hurdy gurdy before? No, me neither, but it made an impression which lasted long after they’d departed.
Forecast for Friday. Cooler than yesterday’s sizzling says the weather man. That translated means one degree less with the very occasional piece of fluffy cloud. But at least today there’s a wind he continues. Make that a breeze. The trackway’s still too hot for dogs.
The core of Fairport hold a press meeting and deliver various bits of news, speculation and rumour. It’s a jolly occasion if only for the array of T shirts, Ric Sanders must have a wardrobe full of ‘Pretty Damn Cosmic’ in black, Chris Leslie’s Grateful Dead number was somehow fitting and of course Peggy’s bijou creation had a pint of real ale prominent. Mr. Nicol was as ever sartorial and seemed quite cool as the temperatures climbed once more.
Danny & The Champions Of The World perfectly caught the spirit and expectation of the afternoon with compositions that echoed power pop yet also hinted at a certain New Jersey sound with swirling keyboards and soaring lead guitar. But then again the bass player wearing a Big Star shirt suggested another worthy influence. Whatever spurs them on worked a treat, the music was catchy and groovy, an hour flew by, absorbed as I was. Danny Bradley had work to do following and you did think maybe he’d have been better with the previous slot. He sauntered on with his acoustic guitar and observed this was a bigger audience than a folk club – just a little- you could understand if he’d been nervous, if he was it didn’t show. He’s a master of his chosen instrument, at times six strings seemed like twelve, strumming and singing he cleaved through his own compositions and reset several folk songs in shimmering chords and delicate filigree. Quoting his biggest influence as Richard Shindell there was an American edge to his playing, his songs can be off the wall or joyously about his own back yard in Liverpool. He breezed through with a knowing grin and left Cropredy wanting more. His return seems inevitable.
Next up a bunch of French men with an Irish singer who’d impressed me at Shrewsbury a couple of years back, The Celtic Social Club proved to be the ideal way to wake up an audience who could so easily have laid back in the sun and dozed in tropical temperatures. Instead they got virtually everyone to their feet and delivered sparkling folk pop which mirrored Dexy’s Midnight Runners in many respects, stomping rhythms, passionate vocals and Celtic jigs from a pair of fiddlers raised miles from County Clare. It’s clear they’re determined to make the audience work as hard as they do with exhortations to sing along and dance coming every few minutes. There were even examples of seated dancing along the row from me, those determined to remain glued in the chair sort of wiggling and moving their lower half whilst maintaining a 90 degree position. Quite a skill I suppose. Meanwhile the band made 6,500 new friends and no doubt sold shed loads of CDS. They certainly deserved to.
As soon as Breabach announced their regular piper couldn’t make the gig but they’d managed to secure a replacement my curiosity was piqued. Who could it be? Why none other than that multi instrumental genius Ross Ainslie, he whose latest album had been playing in the Jones mobile on the way to this very festival. This was going to be something, his dexterity matched with Megan Henderson’s fiddling and gorgeous vocal and the drive and heft of the boys in the band. You want gentle lilting airs, driving jigs which’d shift mountains or clever, bucolic reflections on living in the Scottish/English borders? Brebach’s got them all. Special tip of the hat to their bass player who must have lost a couple of stone heaving it about the stage in excited frenzy either that or worked his fingers down a few inches as they flitted up and down the fret board.
It’s all about the bass, no trouble. Breabach’s James Lindsay works out. Photo Helen Jones.
How to close the day? By now the sun had long dipped below the horizon and the anticipation for Richard Thompson was almost palpable, his name skittered amongst the assembled who all seemed to have different favourite tracks, wishing he’d play them. If that was the case we’d be here until dawn, not that any of us would mind in the slightest. He arrives with just an acoustic guitar and immediately gets everyone’s attention. ‘Turning Of The Tide’ rang round in unplugged mode, the immortal ‘Beeswing’ with its bittersweet romance presaged the arrival of Zara Philips to add harmonies which were best displayed on a great rendering of ‘Withered & Died.’ Three fifths of Fairport then joined their mate to rock out and allow Richard to shred splinters from his guitar and ricochet them around the surrounding countryside. The gravity which Nicol, Mattacks and Pegg brought to proceedings was considerable, they’re almost telepathic in the way they all know exactly what to do to make Thompson’s music more potent with each number. ‘Hand Of Kindness’ was a high point as was ‘Shoot Out The Lights.’ Selections from his next album out in the autumn show he’s lost none of his Britishness and hopefully he never will. If you weren’t there, tough luck you missed something spectacular.
Mr. Thompson a man of action acoustic or electric.
Saturday. A mere 28 degrees today so the weather lady smiles a lot and talks about cooling down. Nobody told the sun it was meant to be less fierce, but to compensate there was far more cloud and a handy breeze or was it a wind? The track way was still a no go for Rover.
Gerry Colvin’s Big Band with much gusto and plenty of extra-curricular guests proved him a songwriter of perception and observation in glorious wide open arrangements. He totally embraced the role of front man, a charming cross of theatrical MC and non-stop comedian, each song came with a story and what seemed to be a revolving door of musicians. Names you might recognise, Guy Fletcher, Marion Fleetwood, PJ Wright and Tom Leary amongst many. Gerry filled the afternoon opening slot with aplomb, Mr. Colvin deserves wider success and this show did him nothing but credit.
Rob Jones & The Restless Dream took Cropredy in their stride and gave us a confident, well rounded performance of Mancunian pop, wafting pedal steel and Americana chugging rhythms. Young Rob used to be a teacher but found that music just wouldn’t leave him be, so quit the education game. Sensible chap. His musicians were tight and could solo for England, they’ve even got a song called ‘January Man’ which is almost as good as Dave Goulder’s. However yer man’s ability to create likeable numbers which conjure smiles and swaying is promise enough, never mind their ability to add sparkle to covers by their inspirations, The Travelling Wilburys getting a north of England redress.
So far Saturday hadn’t seen much that you could say was folk. That was taken care of by The Haar free form versions of Irish trad which transplanted familiar material into new, strange locations. Central to the game plan was vocalist Molly Donnery whose voice seems to turn songs inside out and reconstruct them along with her band mates winding their own individual paths through say… ‘The Wild Rover’ or ‘The Wild Mountain Thyme.’ They milk the light and the dark of the tradition with Joy Division brittleness and they got a well -deserved standing ovation. It’s brave if challenging stuff.
A fanfare and OTT announcements heralded the arrival of Barbara who proceeded to remind you of about ten bands all at once, chiefly though, Sparks. As with The Maels the group’s the product of the fevered brows of a vocalist and keyboard playing brother, in this case John and Henry Tydeman respectively. Exactly why they’re called Barbara wasn’t clear, they might be called Claire or Miranda, but what was obvious was that their heavily mid 70s tinged creations hit the sweet spot of audience appreciation. After just a handful of songs there was a sizeable slice of the crowd on two feet and doing the kind of dance moves parents do at weddings, encouraged by John who couldn’t get enough connecting with the new converts between the music. Throwing himself around seemed totally natural, the lyrics dealing with stag parties, the down side of social media and those who don’t question work ethics. Catchy melodies, singalong words and hooks enough to catch a stream full of trout, Barbara won both hearts and minds.
Hayseed Dixie barrelled through a set of thrash grass like a runaway freight train going down- hill. Subtle isn’t a word they recognise, but the bluster and hillbilly hokum is all part of the act. Underneath all the pretence they’re actually really skilled musicians who know a lot about old time and mountain music, even if it is adapted to wrap around heavy metal anthems. Dressed like they’ve just come down from the mountain where they’ve an illicit still Hayseed behave as if most of the hooch is inside them. With er…unique renderings of ‘Paranoid,’ ‘All Night Long,’ ‘Ace Of Spades’ and such like you can see why they can virtually play any festival they choose and were the perfect set up for Cropredy Saturday night.
Jen Butterworth & Will Pound brought everybody back down to earth with a nifty collection of acoustic music which proved once and for all that harmonicas are just as capable of grabbing attention as any other folksy instrument, the tunes Will Pound gave forth were powerful and full of bite. “It sounds just like a squeezebox doesn’t it?” observed a bloke two chairs along. Miss Butterworth’s guitar kept pace but when things slowed down and her dexterity was obvious.
The Saturday night extravaganza which Fairport Convention conjure each festival closing has taken various forms and lengths over the years, I have known them clock in at four hours! These days it still stretches to 150 minutes before the communal singalong which is ‘Meet On The Ledge.’ 2026 is a long way down the road from when all this started, the march of time has taken most of the ex-members from us so the tag ‘And Friends’ becomes ever more pertinent. Fortunate then Fairport have been making friends throughout all their yesterdays and one of them – who is often forgotten – provided the most enjoyable reappearance of the night. When Steve Ashley was announced and fronted up ‘Rough With The Smooth’ the grin on my face was that of a Cheshire cat. He’s just as perky and relevant as he ever was, even changing the lyrics to better match the song to the time. Vikki Clayton earned top marks as well with ’White Dress’ and Ralph McTell, by now a regular, turned his attention and considerable abilities to Mr. Zimmerman’s ‘One Too Many Mornings.’
Fairport themselves seem to raise the game with each Cropredy, I don’t know if it’s a better sound system, larger audience or just the fact that this is such a special gig but once you’re in that field their music has that extra something. Maybe it’s the zeitgeist. Songs which are familiar seem to lift to another level. Canny selection this time round too, ‘Rosie’ for instance, originally arising from a period of chaotic membership, some dismiss it as a really lachrymose Swarbrick creation, yet it has over time become a firm favourite in the Convention repertoire. With restored female backing vocals its tender lyric, quiet certainty and late evening relevance came to the fore, Chris Leslie cutting right to the song’s core. ‘Flowers Of The Forest’ is another. Sung by Simon Nicol who plays a fragile sounding dulcimer that makes a mournful thrum, the doomy percussion and ghostly harmonies all define the term, lament. You could have heard a stone drop as it rang over the field. ‘Crazy Man Michael’ also echoed its gothic lyric and mystical accompaniment. Great to see Dave Mattacks’ keyboard skills being put to further use and thumbs up to Guy Fletcher who took over his kit for ‘Fotheringay.’ The whole band put in a hell of a shift and closed with one of the largest guest groupings to round things off, members of the crowd phone videoing the line-up for later reference. Just who is that three left of Ric Sanders? That head behind Peggy is it Whatshisname?
Next year they’re 60. Expect the unexpected. We’re all invited. It’ll be one hell of a party. Guaranteed. Temperatures unknown… but … maybe hot!
