CROPREDY FESTIVAL: REVIEW
You may have noticed that here at Fused Towers we take a healthy interest in the festival season. You may even have entered one of our numerous competitions and whilst doing so you will have thought to yourself “No other UK website offers anything that can compete with this!” which just shows how wise you are. You may also have looked at the list of festivals on offer and thought “Cropredy? What the hell is that?” or perhaps “Cropredy? That’s just for old folkies and old fogies isn’t it?”
Well isn’t it? As the senior member of the Fused team (and by senior I mean eldest, not most important) I was summarily despatched to find out why 20,000 people descend on a tiny Oxfordshire village each year and if Cropredy’s reputation as the UK’s friendliest festival is well-deserved.
Now, the last time I tried camping at a festival a friend and I drove down to Reading, popped open the boot and realised that I had left the tent in my garage thereby sentencing myself to an uncomfortable night on the passenger seat of a Ford Mondeo. No such schoolboy errors today. My £5 car-boot sale bargain tent was soon erected and off I went to watch our gracious hosts for the duration, Fairport Convention commence proceedings with a lively 20 minute acoustic set.
Some background information for you. After inventing folk-rock in the late 1960s and undergoing a bewildering array of line-up changes over the next 10 years the fortunes of Fairport Convention had experienced a sharp decline in the post-punk era leading to the loss of their Vertigo record deal in 1979. The band held a farewell concert that same year and enjoyed it so much that a re-union concert was held the following year. Whether it was pragmatism or sheer laziness that caused the band to hold the concerts in the home village of bassist Dave Pegg and (then) fiddle player Dave Swarbrick it was also extremely fortuitous as the fields between the villages of Cropredy and Williamscot provide a natural amphitheatre perfect for live performance. The concert became an annual event and went from strength to strength becoming the sold-out 3 day event we currently know as Fairport’s Cropredy Convention. The band’s fortunes improved correspondingly as generations discovered and re-discovered their ground-breaking music, leading to reformation and stability. The current line-up has now been together for an unbroken 16 years.
A glance at the first day’s running order blows wide open the first myth surrounding the Cropredy festival – this is not just for folkies. Following the initial Fairport welcoming session we have Tradarrr (ok, folk), Dreadzone (dub reggae), Katzenjammer (baroque pop/gypsy punk) and Emmylou Harris with Rodney Cromwell (country and western). The diversity is set to continue for the duration of the festival with acts as disparate as Level 42, Skinny Lister and Toyah Willcox set to perform.
A walk around the arena belies the second commonly held belief many people have about Cropredy – that the average age of the attendees is about 82. Whilst not attracting the same adolescent pop hordes that flock to V, T, or any other single letter festivals this truly is an inclusive event frequented by all ages. There are children’s entertainers and activities at the top end of the arena, plenty of youthful faces abound the numerous stalls and eateries that flank the concert field and some of the more senior patrons enjoy the proceedings from their fold-up chairs, the like of which other festivals don’t allow.
After Dreadzone had got the crowd moving with their up-tempo techno-reggae we were treated to what for my money was the set of the day and quite possibly the whole festival from Norwegian all-girl quartet Katzenjammer. I have a particular fondness for bands that can split the singing duties such as CSN, The Beach Boys and er, Kiss. This multi-talented foursome not only alternate lead vocals but also operate an instrumental musical chairs approach with a capacity to play over 20 instruments between them including trumpet, miniature piano and cat-faced contra-bass balalaika (obviously). Katzenjammer executed a routine filled with vitality and musicality interspersed with charming and sometimes linguistically clumsy interaction with the audience; “Thank you for being so listening”.
However, you invoke the spirit of Sandy Denny with caution in front of an audience of Fairport devotees and a taste of things to come occurred during Turid’s otherwise beautiful performance of “Crazy Man Michael” from the classic 1969 Liege and Lief album. The heaven’s opened; umbrellas were unsheathed, mackintoshes unfurled and audience members scattered for shelter, or in my case back to the car for my waterproofs.
The rain subsided in time for Marianne’s bluesy growls to close the set with “Hey Ho On the Devil’s Back” but returned with a vengeance for the headline act, Emmylou Harris and Rodney Cromwell. It is difficult to hold the attention of an audience that is getting absolutely drenched by unrelenting teeming rain and especially so when singing plaintive ballads such as the tender “Love Hurts”. I felt for Emmylou, the elements conspired against her and a large proportion of the crowd sought shelter back at the campsite.
Back in my tent I lay awake listening to the rain pounding on the canvas and watching water globules develop on the inside of my roof. After an hour or so the rain ceased and I ventured outside in my PJs to crack open a bottle of wine (purely for somnolent purposes of course). Halfway down my first glass I felt a few light drops of rain and so popped into my car until the shower passed. Two and a half hours of apocalyptic torrential downpour later there is a brief abatement and I make the dash back to my waterlogged tent.
After such a deluge I fully expected that the fields of Cropredy would have become a swamp of biblical proportions having witnessed similar scenes at Glastonbury and other festivals in the past. Instead I can confidently report that the ground remained firm and that the drainage at Cropredy is excellent. Unfortunately, most of said drainage was into my tent and I awoke at 6:30 on Friday morning with my airbed surrounded by a moat and my bedding and lovely tartan pyjamas soaked through. Apologies to any passers-by who were unfortunate enough to witness a large, pale naked man contorting himself inside a 1990s cabriolet but I had no option than to dry off and dress inside my car.
A little later I took a walk into the picturesque village of Cropredy itself where stalls had been set up selling a wide array of produce and fringe events were occurring at the two village pubs, The Brasenose Arms and The Red Lion. Stopping off for a pint of Mr Whitehead’s Rum Cask Cider in a roadside marquee I met Annie and Dave from the Welsh valleys. Dave, who I would say is in his early forties attended his first Cropredy at the age of 17 and has returned every year since, being joined by Annie for the last 15 years. They tell me that the best headliners have often been the most unexpected; the highlight of recent years being a set delivered by that well-known folk icon Alice Cooper. Before I leave they tell me to take toilet paper to the Richard Digance set on Saturday to join in with the comedy Morris dance routine.
For me they have summed up what Cropredy is all about. If you think you’re not going to like a particular act there are plenty of other things to do around the arena or in the village, but more often than not if you just buy into the spirit of the event and go with the flow you will be amply rewarded.
I returned to the concert field in time to enjoy the bittersweet sounds of Judith Owen , whose voice I had previously been enchanted with when seeing her perform with Richard Thompson. The entrancing Laurel Canyon inspired set was delivered with a ready wit and received tuneful backing from a band which included the legendary bassist Leland Sklar, possessor of the festival’s finest beard (beating the wizard from the Children’s entertainment tent into 2nd place).
As a special treat, Owen was joined on stage for a performance of “Old Joe’s Place” by her husband Harry Shearer, whom you may also know as Spinal Tap’s Derek Smalls or possibly the Simpson’s Montgomery Burns, amongst others.
I have a confession to make. As an awkward callow youth my first musical heroes were not Joy Division, The Cure or any of those new-wave acts so beloved of the early 80s music press. No, my reverence was reserved for Aylesbury neo-Prog rockers Marillion and in particular the grandiloquent lyrical stylings of their charismatic Scottish frontman, Fish. Things came to a head (quite literally) when I made the calamitous decision to cut my own hair in the fashion of my hero without realising that the Caledonian colossus was fighting a losing battle in the tonsorial department. As a result I became the only child in class 4a with a receding hairline. Chastened by the resultant derision from fellow pupils and teachers alike I turned my back on all things Prog, spent the next 6 months cultivating a luxuriant quiff and joined the Church of Morrissey.
Fish on the other hand left Marillion in 1988 and continued to plough his own furrow in the musical landscape taking with him a devoted and gloriously uncool band of followers.
Tonight we would finally be reconciled as the big man proceeded to show me what I have been missing these last 30 years in a set full of pomp, power and beauty. A blistering rendition of the 1985 “Misplaced Childhood” album in full was given a tremendous ovation from the crowd as Fish took his bows and exited the stage. The Midlothian man-mountain then re-appeared somewhat sheepishly to announce he had got his timings wrong and there was still another 5 minutes to fill. Cue an impromptu, but welcome performance of “Market Square Heroes”, the song that first hooked me in all those years ago.
I retired to the bar (not for the first time being propped up by Ralph McTell) to enjoy a pint of “Fairport Five” and sing along to a set of raucous folk-pop classics by The Proclaimers.
I was now left with a dilemma. Should I stay to take in the unique bass playing of lightning-fingered plinkety-plonker extraordinaire Mark King and Level 42, the band which he has led for 34 years; and of whom I was never a fan even in their 80s heyday? Alternatively, should I commit a dereliction of duty and head back home for a night in a warm bed and perhaps even make last orders in my local pub? Sorry Mark. I’m sure you and your band were terrific and the crowd lapped up your slap-happy bassmanship but by the time you arrived on stage I was long gone.
Unfortunately, my plan to take in last orders was scuppered within a few miles of Cropredy when my car dashboard became ablaze with warning lights, the electrics in my car failed along with the power steering and my vehicle lurched from the road. Temperamental 20 year old convertibles do not take kindly to sitting for 2 days in sodden fields being rained on. Just as I was contemplating the possibility of walking back to the festival and another night in my washed-out tent I managed to re-start the car and carefully piloted it along the motorway and back to Fused Towers (Stourbridge annexe).
I returned on Saturday, too late for the traditional Richard Digance midday set but fully refreshed and with dry silk bedding for my airbed and pillows.
Having noticed that everyone I had spoken to thus far were festival returnees I set about trying to find a fellow Cropredy virgin. In the signings queue I met 19 year old Luke from Glasgow, a fellow first-timer surely? No, he was here last year and proceeds to tell me how good a Fish-free Marillion were then. On my way into the village I chanced upon young Beth Stokes receiving a roadside henna tattoo observed by her fresh-faced friends from Leamington Spa – all of whom were Cropredy returnees. With my faith in youth restored I resigned myself to being a lone “virgin” and made my way back to the arena.
As a pre-pubescent youth I first became aware of the opposite sex thanks to Top of the Pops and the performances of Legs & Co, Agnetha Faltskog, Debbie Harry and Toyah Willcox. The latter named must surely keep an aging portrait in her attic and delivered an energetic punk-pop set with spasmodically operatic vocals which she reckoned have “5 years left”.
Folk Rock
I return to my camping pitch to narrowly avoid self-immolation in my cack-handed attempt to operate a portable gas cooker. After not quite enjoying the resultant charcoal burgers I sojourned to the roadside marquee bar to wash the taste away with cider and prepare myself for the climax of the whole event – the traditional Fairport Convention headline set.
Trust me when I tell you this: Fairport Convention are a superb live act. After an amusing “Mission Impossible” style vignette on the stage-side screens introduces the band they proceed to deliver a two and a half hour set filled with poignancy, precision, energy and charm. Guests include Dan Ar Braz and Clarisse Lavanant, Kevin Dempsey and Rosie Carson and a highlight for me occurs when Fish emerges for a stunning recital of the Sandy Denny song “Solo”.
After the concert ends in the time-honoured manner of an onstage ensemble and the hymn to absent friends “Meet on the Ledge” I return to my tent-side, crack open a bottle of wine, gaze up at the stars and drink a silent toast to Sandy Denny.
Here’s a tip for all you budding campers out there; don’t put silk sheets on your airbed. I found this out on Sunday morning when I woke up in a different part of the tent to my bedding. I hurriedly chucked all of my camping equipment into the back of my car and took my leave of the festival fields as dishevelled revellers slowly emerged from the tents around me.
So how can I best sum up Cropredy? Cast your minds back to the last festival you attended. Remember struggling to find a place to sit on the noodle-laden floor? Take that away. Remember those cups of beer (or worse) being hurled by hilarious wags in the crowd? Take them away. Do you remember falling over people as you try to make your way across the field? Try traversing clearly marked-out walkways. And do you remember that fizzy pop masquerading as beer? How do you fancy supping real ale with Ralph McTell? Sounds good to me.
No wonder that when Fairport founder member Simon Nicol brought the curtain down on the festival with the words “Same time, same place next year?” , the response was a unanimous and unequivocal “YES!”.
Tom McDougall
