Ramsbottom is a nice festival. Tucked away at the very tail end of the outdoor season, it bills itself as a family friendly event with an eclectic mix of music and entertainment. Looking at the line up, you can definitely see a ‘something for everyone’ approach to booking bands and artists. And given its local demographic and all-inclusive ethos it’s probably a good idea: something to boost ticket sales and make everyone feel welcome.
Unable to make the entire 3-day event, I settled for a Saturday slice of festival action. It may have been only a short ride away from Manchester but it certainly felt a world away from Northern gigantism of the rainy city’s imposing Victorian red brick. Set in the grounds of the Ramsbottom Cricket Club, the site was an open field that somehow instantly felt very exposed under the stoically grey Lancashire sky.
Within an hour I also felt I’d discovered all of its wonders: the nice-but-pricey food stalls, the well-stocked beer tent, the kids entertainment area and the music stages. With my reconnaissance tour of duty done, I could get on with listening to some music.
Alongside bigger names at the summit of each day’s bill, each day presented plenty of local music and new discoveries; and the festival’s dedicated support of grassroots music was not only part of the attraction but my main motivation for attending. And there was definitely diversity…
Newcastle’s Bridie Jackson & The Arbour brought heartbreaking sorrowful melodies, sparkling folkish vocal harmonies and dark lyricism. The bearers of a vividly imaginative name, Thugs on Wolves, also turned out to be architects of curious sonic constructions binding together heady mixtures of musical genres and influences.
The Cameleon stage was given over to what was described as the ‘alternative programme’. Some of the acts, like the Merseybeat outfit Jimmy and The Revolvers, were less alternative and more retro, but Loop Aznavour‘s brilliantly deranged Theremin rants were truly remarkable. With no obviously comparisons, his vicious vignettes echoed the craft of Go-Kart Mozart, Captain Beefheart and Sleaford Mods. Then again, with song titles like ‘I sent my monkey to the moon’ and ‘Children of the worm’ I should have known I was onto a winner: megaphone amplified brutal verses, theremin induced sounds, simple coarse beats. If you get a chance to see him, grab it with both hands!
In the early afternoon the main stage seemed almost incongruously big for the site. Tupperware sky with darker clouds in the distance meant that many didn’t trust the weather enough to get the tickets and the crowd near the main stage seems disproportionately sparse. London reggae band The Skints got a rather anaemic reception, and their questioning of Ramsbottom’s reggae credentials met with silent indifference. Admiral Fallow‘s indie folk was playful and joyous, and by the time we got to the main support the audience were drifting towards the main Hills Stage. Jimi Goodwin played a competent festival set and got an enthusiastic response from a crowd that clearly included a good few Doves fans. No mind-blowing revelations but a solid show.
But all of this pales into insignificance when the main act of the night took to the foliage of the forest-themed stage. Having seen British Sea Power on many occasions, I already knew about the ever-present element of unpredictability in their act. They are a force of nature: anything can happen and something did happen on Saturday night at Ramsbottom. Yan, the band’s frontman may have had ‘a couple of beers’ and may not have been entirely aware where he was but this is a man who can go from the profane to the the sublime in half a drunken whisper. His absurdist, defiant shenanigans provided ample entertainment on many British Sea Power nights but on this occasion it provoked a less welcoming reaction. Which, frankly, was a shame. Messy as it was, BSP delivered an intensely brilliant performance. Epic, cinematic sound of ‘The Great Skua’ lifted up into the dark skies, soaring over the hills. Yan’s unhinged performance was perfectly suited to the ecstatic razor edge intensity of ‘The Spirit of St Louis’ and (despite an aborted first attempt)‘Waving Flags’ was a rousing classic hymn from the chronicles of BSP’s ‘high-church amplified rock music.’ Neil took over vocal duties for some of the numbers from the recent album Machineries of Joy, adding elevated air of mystery to the proceedings. It may not have been a perfectly polished performance but it was majestic in its imperfection. Unlike too many bands, on Saturday night BSP showed once more that they are a band that CAN change you life and can inspire life-long devotion. In an age where ‘It’s not worth the risk’ is considered a credible campaign slogan, BSP’s feral poeticism felt brilliantly urgent and poignant.
After the main stage show, the orderly crowds quickly dispersed into the chilly September night. The site looked remarkably free of plastic glasses, discarded food wrappers or any other usual gig waste byproducts. Like I said, it was a nice festival.
