Posts Tagged ‘festival’

By the final day of a three day festival, the average punter is a little worse for wear and Womadians are no exception. Ignoring the winsome few who have opted to kick-start their day with a Tai-Chi class and now appear to be waving their bodies around like depressed windmills,  I head directly for Che Sudaka who are playing a sample on repeat in an attempt to attract a crowd. When the motley assortment of Colombians and Argentinians eventually bound on, they conjure up a style of music synonymous with Spanish troubadour, Manu Chao. Obtuse and trivial, the sextuplet proceed to mash together the most obvious elements of reggae, ska, dub and punk. Though together these genres comprise the blueprint of rebel-rock, Che Sudaka’s abuse of combined influences comes across as an exercise in self-indulgence and is, as such, repellent. However, this provides me with the perfect opportunity to return to the Endor-like BBC3 arena and bask in the open rain listening again to the ethereal sounds of Mamer.

Returning to the main stage and admiring my newly signed Mamer CD,  I am struck by the number of strollers, wheelchairs and mobility aids scooting around. Though many festivals claim to be accessible, it is heartening to see one that actually seems to deliver these claims.

Pulled in by the affecting sounds of the kora, an instrument I’d never heard before, Ba Cissoko‘s band put these unusual instruments through wah pedals and fuzzboxes before letting rip with some unfeasibly fast playing. It’s possible to see why the Guinean group have been described as ‘West Africa meets Jimi Hendrix‘.  That seems somewhat simplistic, though, and their mix of contemporary styles with the traditional relies on a fusion of genres which, rather unsurprisingly for WOMAD, includes reggae, ska and jazz. By the end of Ba Cissoko’s set, I’m set for a change of pace, and Nneka is next on the list.

After hearing Chase and Status’ remix of ‘Heartbeat‘, I was anticipating Nneka’s original, live offerings. Dressed in a green military-style jacket and dark hoody, her aggressive image is somewhat tempered by a pink and blue skirt, but the downtempo, bass-heavy, electro-pop is lively and infecting. With fist raised through much of the performance, stand-out songs are ‘Would you show me love?’, ‘Can’t wait’, ‘The uncomfortable truth’, ‘Vagabond in Power’ and, of course, ‘Heartbeat’. Comfortable on stage, Nneka annoyingly takes every opportunity to explain each song in detail, which detracts from an otherwise enjoyable set. She is the only artist at WOMAD yet seen with potential to cross over to the mainstream.

Tel Aviv’s The Apples experienced some success in the West with their dancefloor-friendly cover of Rage Against The Machine‘s ‘Killing in the name of’ in 2007. A funked-up nine-piece instrumental group, the absence of guitars is exacerbated by the prominence of four turntables scratching out samples that sound like guitars. It’s an unusual trick and one that has brought them the attention they deserve, but though DJs Erez and Ofer are fun to watch, dressed as they are in luminous yellow jumpsuits, their skills are just not up to…well, standard. Nonetheless, the band excite the audience and succeed in getting most to their feet and even making a few fold up their ‘portable’ chairs. The shock! The horror! Though the rain is well and truly pouring now, there is nothing but sunshine under the Big Red Tent. Hardest hitters are ‘The Bell Step’, ‘Upskirt’, Snap‘s ‘The Power’ and the deadly ‘Killing’. Drummer Yonadav Halevy was, for me, the musician of the festival: it’s clear to see his relentless enthusiasm and intuitive ability are valued by his fellow band members as well as the audience.

Unable to watch Roy Ayers and remain dry due to every Herbert and Mabel lying across their tartan rugs munching olives, I decide it’s time to head home. WOMAD is truly a family festival and is perhaps best experienced that way. At the end of my first WOMAD, I can firmly say that I am glad to have been, but I doubt I’ll be back.

Huge thanks to all the team at Borowski for putting this together.

Tags: 2009, festival, music, review

Saturday is the sun’s day and thousands of sweaty, canvas shelters simultaneously give birth to myriad Homo sapiens who emerge, blinking, into the fresh Wiltshire wilds. Rushing headlong into life are the Dhoad Gypsies of Rajasthan – an exotic and colourful assortment of lively characters who, rather unsurprisingly, blast out traditional songs from their homeland. Sensing the audience’s inability to dance to the music, tabla maestro Rahis Bharti invites the splendidly attired Lakshmi on to show us how it’s done. After a stunning display that sweeps away Solomon Burke‘s aurally salacious display from the night before, a fakir demonstrates methods to improve posture – by balancing a large clay pot atop glasses stacked on his head. As though this were not suitably impressive, he dances the duration of a song with the weight before coming to a standstill on a bed of nails. Pot removed, the slight man then blows billows of fire into the reverential crowd and though I pause to ponder if this all serves to perpetuate stereotypes, I suspect that I maybe somewhat incorrectly prejudging a collective intelligence.

Indeed, if it’s cranial heft I’m after, China’s Mamer is ready to deliver that and more on the Siam stage. Playing a jaw harp for a full five minutes unaccompanied while manipulating it to sound more like a Cylon playing a 303 synthesizer than one of the world’s oldest instruments threatens to momentarily empty the tent, but this is merely the start of a slow burn. With three two-string dombras, a bass guitar and percussionist, Mamer performs one of the most dynamic sets seen at Charlton Park yet. As people leave in search of more immediate, thrusting sounds that don’t drone and slap, Mamer’s translator notes, “Our music – it  isn’t for dancing.” Leaving spiritually fulfilled and culturally enriched, I spend a little time watching adults shopping for new, stupid hats or trying curried goat while children scavenge for discarded cups to exchange them for 10p each or hurl their new multi-coloured diabolos wildly into the air. There is a queue at the ‘Medicine Man’ stall and he seems to be rapidly running out of sun-lotion.

As the sun begins to set slowly in the West, I head over to the foreboding Big Red Tent as Chicago’s Hypnotic Brass Ensemble take up their shiny, metallic instruments and bellow, somewhat misguidedly, “HELLO LONDON!” It takes a short while to rectify the error and a lack of sleep is cited as the reason for the mistake. “I get two hours sleep every 13 days,” claims one of the nine. Regardless, as the rain comes down, the tent’s audience grows, and the ensemble blow the roof off with their explosive show. Combining hip-hop showmanship with jazz cool, the excitement all round is tangible. Treating us to new songs ‘Fire’ and ‘Kryptonite‘ alongside their staples ‘Baliky Bone‘ and ‘War’, a cordial British tone somehow seeps through the multiple, falling brass harmonies and interweaving melodies. Closing the show with a little Chicago house threatens to turn the weary rabble to lava, but a satisfied and thrilled throng mob the brothers at the end to grasp CDs and hands.

Trudging across wet grass back to the Siam tent, Cuba’s Orishas start well with some technical turntablism and well-delivered rhymes, but there simply isn’t enough to keep me interested, with their clinical brand of hip-pop serving to perplex rather than amaze.

As the main man behind WOMAD, I feel I owe it to Peter Gabriel to join with the hordes who have gathered to watch his headline set. As mystical strings announce his possible arrival, the set opens with Paul Simon‘s ‘Boy in the bubble’, which is hardly the most exciting proposal, but it is pleasingly well sung. The theme from Scrubs finale ‘The book of love’ follows and I dream of sitting on a sofa, changing channels and flicking Oreos at JD and Turk. Snapping out of this wondrous unreality, I realise that I’m in a damp field of people watching Peter Gabriel perform ‘Steam’. Plumes of dry ice are propelled skyward each time Gabriel says “Gimme Steam!”

I know my culture from my trash, so I leave the congregation in favour of the Red Tent where Snowboy (Mark Cotgrove) is spinning some original vinyl platters at 45rpm. Instantly warmed by the body heat generated by fierce drum breaks and grooves, the amusement is far from ending.

Tags: 2009, festival, music, review

The 27th World of Music and Dance festival was to be this particular hack’s induction to WOMAD. After a damp start, The Skatalites get festivities underway on Thursday night. Consequently, Friday morning smells of patchouli and musty marijuana smoke. Traversing the site with barely a soul in sight, actor Pete Postlethwaite seems to be on positively sparkling form considering he’s somewhat laboriously pumping up a double airbed. Now we are off, off to The Big Red Tent to imbibe Los Desterrados‘ lugubrious, pan-European, Sephardic sounds which are romantically delivered with ornate use of flute and violin harmonies. A little of their Latin flavour is preserved, distilled and discharged by the intoxicating and hugely entertaining Cimarron at the large, blue Siam tent. Hailing from the cattle-rearing region of Llanos Orientales, Colombia and with a majority of the band sporting Stetsons, an air of menace accompanies the group. Bandolas and harps are picked with speed, accuracy and passion and their debut show at WOMAD is brought to climax with a dazzling dance-off between the percussionist and both vocalists.

Neneh Cherry and husband Burt Ford‘s latest project, cirKus, however, leaves far more to be desired. With some of the least convincingly played guitar parts aired at the festival yet, this flawed trip-hop foray proves to be little more than stinking folly. The final straw comes when Ford dedicates a song to the Prime Minister. “I can’t remember his name, but he is an asshole.” Tedious. Far more memorable than either Ford or Brown is Buena Vista Social Club member Eliades Ochoa, who positively lights up the Open Air Stage. Backed by a band cloaked in red shirts, Ochoa wears black and sports his trademark  stetson. Drawing the disparate Womadians together, the beguiling Cuban rhythms cause the crowd to start swaying, strangely – a pattern that will find itself repeated over the course of the weekend. Regardless, when Ochoa plays ‘Chan Chan’ all thought evaporates and the hairs collectively rise across WOMAD’s neck.

Over at the BBC3 stage and the Dennis Bovell Dub Band is delighting an audience seeking shelter amongst the leafy enclave by dousing them in washes of reverb and delay. A British Reggae great – and a tremendous bass player to boot – he ploughs through classic tunes like ‘Rowin’ and ‘Dubmaster’ with ‘Oh Mama, Oh Papa’ perhaps being the most apt song played all weekend as the WOMAD festival rapidly begins to resemble the World of Mums and Dads. After Bovell’s performance, there seems little point watching the Mad Professor‘s dub show which consists of button-pushing on a laptop and is as such, about as interesting as a chemical toilet. Postlethwaite favourites The Black Arm Band take to the Siam stage with Aboriginal frontman Archie Roach claiming they are about to share “Stories to show the two worlds of Australia”. It’s a shame then that they proceed to represent them with interminably dull music with some plain post-Colonial thought thrown in for good measure, “We have survived the white man’s world, and you can’t change that.”

Unable to last the duration, I spend £10 on the white man’s food and beer before settling in to watch the ostentatious but truly legendary ‘King’ Solomon Burke. Surreptitiously slipping on-stage by being obscured by a veritable bevvy of beauties, the preacher takes his seat on a glittering throne. With a voice softer than golden syrup, laden with enough love to father 21 children, Burke is a typically dramatic performer even when he can no longer move around unassisted. With a raft of hits under his outsized belt, the songs keep coming with ‘Don’t give up on me’, ‘Diamond in your mind’ and ‘Everybody needs Somebody’ all eclipsed by a timely rendition of Sam Cooke classic ‘A change is gonna come’. Though the set is filled with gushing schmaltz (I lost count of the amount of times Burke breathed “I love you” to the crowd), it could detract from neither the fun nor perceptibly touching moments, even if they were few.

Tags: 2009, festival, music, review

The King Blues

 Outside, and VV Brown is dancing with the people (and seizing the photo opportunity with both legs). It’s not long before the police arrive to invoke the Criminal Justice Act, smashing up the free party, killing the carnival vibe. VV disappears faster than you can think the letter ‘s’.

Tags: 2009, festival, music, review