Insider Festival, Aviemore, 17-19 Jun
And so to Inshriach House, a beguiling bastion of all that is charming Highland eccentricity, and The Insider Festival. A Festival of Pimms and Penny Farthings, Folkiness and Fabulous Flying Machines, Hip-Hop and Hula Hoops, Moustaches (lots) and great Music (even more lots), Welly Wanging and Well, did we mention the music? Insider Festival is small in scale (750 fortuitous patrons) but large on (repressed Victorian) joie de vivre.
Friday
Arriving just in time to catch Friday’s closers Washington Irving (honestly, Mon-Fri, 9-5, whose idea?) and darkness has descended for what, mid summer, will be a very temporary twilight. The tranquil surroundings (a stoic Spey winds peaceably through the Cairngorms) suggest placidity abounds, but the Glasgow-based folk-poppers put on a show which sets the scene as anything but a Sleepy Hollow (contrived I know, sorry, but true). No doubt sick to death of googling themselves and landing (eventually, on page three, there is that famous American author they’re named for) on Mumford and Sons' home page they should really just get offline and keep playing. Their energetic, effortlessly harmonic set a fine portent of the weekend to come, and so to bed, to sleep for what feels like twenty years.
Saturday
Abagail Grey enlighten this reviewer to the fact that the real breakfast of champions is a healthy dose of scathing lyricalism adormed by pretty keyboard riffs and not one, but two harps (washed down of course with some super-strong cider). Songwriter Clare Campbell’s ominous tales of love spurned on tracks such as Pike and Ice Disco recall a certain Michael Douglas/Glenn Close cinematic outing (at least in my head) but it’s very entertaining at this time of day. And there are lots and lots of bunnies in the park to go round.
There’s a pleasing earnestness to the soft and subtle delivery of troubador Robin Adams, who’s not shy about displaying his fondness for the Americana of the likes of Dylan, Springsteen and Young, but, y’know, also somehow distinctly Scottish. His low-key banter is also self-effacingly amusing, with every break between songs bringing the promise of something more ‘upbeat’, which is comparative to say the least. But, in his own words, it’s possible to feel good about being sad, and cider helps!
Travelling all the way from London via, it would appear, the American deep south, stopping off in the Hebrides, the Bonfire Band’s canny mix of ear-catching folksy bluegrass and wryly humorous lyrics (including some pointed advice for someone who is now surely an ex-friend) they provide a real hoedown moment, evoking the spirit of the Waterboys with the Song of 100 Years.
The early evening bluegrass spirit is kept alive by accordionist Gwendolen Chatfield; after she makes an appeal for someone to join her band last minute. The way some musicians have been shamelessly moonlighting with each other’s acts means it comes as no surprise when the ubiquitous ‘guy in a panda hat’ makes his way to the stage... it’s quintessential crowd-pleasing stuff, with a mass chorus of Miaow, and a spelling lesson that tells us that T is for trouble, S is for sorrow, A is for Aviemore, D is for Cider...
Dead Man’s Waltz self-styled ‘folk-noir’ is probably exactly how you’d imagine folk-noir to sound, but this is a very good thing. Think The Pogues inviting Nick Cave or Tom Waites on stage to add a(n even more) sinister, vaudevillian edge. The four Skye musicians certainly paint well-rendered, if gloomy pictures of incongruous events (much like the shorts they are wearing) and, oddly, but not surprisingly, love aboard a U-Boat. The baroque single Fallow Fields a nice early evening highlight.
On the lawn outside the house is all the fun of the Victorian fair and it’s about time for some unnecessarily energetic, cider-inspired, wooden hoop-related personal injury before heading to the backwoods (a secluded stage in a wonderfully enclosed, well, backwood, duh) to see French Wives. At this point ‘surprise' guest reviewer Emma B insists on delivering her verdict on the Wives’ set. “Many of them wear wellies. One is very tall.” OK, that about sums it up, but to be fair she was done and dusted before the Glasgow quintet had finished their brief soundcheck. Meantime, the three years that the gang have been together means their graceful, harmonic, orchestra-pop, interspersed with neat interventions from rogue glockenspiels, fills all the right spaces, with Halloween a particular standout.
With Amplifico on indefinite hiatus, Donna Maciocia (that’s Ma-Cho-cha, Mr Announcer) has been gigging and collaborating with just about anyone who turns up. Tonight it’s the turn of the Mike Kearney Ka-Tet to bring the party after multi-instumental pedal-wizard Macioca had generally entranced with her minimally constructed, but powerfully delivered ballads.
All emotional after that set, it’s back round the backwoods to grab a guaranteed hug from John Knox Sex Club. I knew I’d have to wait for wispy singer Sean Cumming to deliver his off-kilter sermons, listen to the rabble-raising swagger of their John The Revelator cover, and wonder if they’d just rhymed anthrax with Snapfax before the final, emotional climax. And so it comes to pass, Cumming leaps from the stage during anthemic closer As Close As We Can, gathering the devoted frontline in mass embrace and duly running around to including everyone else thereafter. Except, that is, for me. Just when I need the moral (and no doubt physical) support. What a bastard!
Wiping tears from eyes a return to the main stage sees Stanley Odd ask if we’re ready for a rammy, and in spite of the day’s persistent rain, it appears that yes, we are. In amongst the hip-hop, funk, electronica and soul there’s some righteous exasperation going on. Bad things happen; drugs, oil, prostitution, Cheryl Cole. But, frontman Solareye is a proper party starter whose lyrical riffs are lapped up by a crowd intent on having some fun, which this multinational sextet provide in spades, even if this is allegedly the (yet another) Winter of Discontent.
Admiral Fallow have the task of following up the Odd rammy; away from fortress Glasgow where they seem to be involved in every gig going at the moment. And yes, they start their own, a more melodious version, after a considered start, with the sweetly delivered live favourite Subbuteo. The tempo is steadily ratcheted skywards, bolstered delightfully by guest appearances from Lau’s Kris Drever and Aidan O’Rourke...
By now, the bar has run out of cider and disaster surely beckons. But wait, they’ve run out of the 6.8% proof breakfast juice that’s been served all day and are left only with the ‘proper’ 8.2% nectar of the gods (the gods, like the barstaff, are jokers). There’s only one place for it at 2am, and it’s a Bronto Skylift gig in a tiny tractor shed - and may whoever thought this would be a good idea please take a bow, you absolute genius. Feral, incredibly loud nutcases ripping it up and then the Bronto boys take the stage cidered up and dressed to win a bet. The volume is suitably and predictably cranked to whatever level the gig has to be pulled at, and there’s a high spirits joke in there somewhere.
Sunday
Sunday morning (well, 2pm, but it’s all comparative) is greeted by sunshine, the stiff resolution to avoid the poison apples and the pleasing tones of the seriously talented multi-instrumentalist Jarlath Henderson and his wee ensemble, featuring the exquisitely charming vocal of his sister Alana and subtly understated guitarist Matheu Watson. The traditional music in the main stage area has been curated by the doyens of the Scottish folk scene, Lau and their choice of performers is consistently impressive. The Irishman is a world champion uillean pipe player and at times the skill is dazzling, but then again, that may also be the thumping brainpain. Henderson duly acknowledged the collective tenderness of the gathered crowd, playing a well-received and relaxed set.
Mary Macmaster on clarsach, and percussionist Donald Hay, manage to create an expansive, uplifting sound for a duo, underscored by tones of lyrical menace. Joining them in messing with the ‘traditional’ template are local ensemble Ord Bàn using a wide variety of instruments to fuse traditional Scottish music with influences from further afield, including jazz, classical, and a dress sense inspired by Abraham Lincoln.
On a weekend of inspired collaborations, the fusion of two of Say Dirty Records' finest Endor and State Broadcast (Endorcasters? The State Bendor?) seems particularly divine. Either way, it's twice the soothing orchestration, harmonies, and general bliss (and twice as many Gary Glitter references than there should be on any given Sunday).