Back in the field! I’ve been waiting for Ey Up all year, and when Thursday finally came around, the van was loaded before sunrise.
The awning was pitched after three, and we were ready. Partially. Our festival group numbers four, but on Thursday, it numbered two: me and Dave (Dave one). Friday was the arrival day for Chris and Dave P, but I didn’t want to miss a minute. To quote Darwin’s Rejects, “So let’s go crazy, jump around, let’s get lazy and play the sounds. Forget about the rush within the city, just let it go.”
I needed it a lot, as you’ll find out later.
Thursday
Thursday was the bonus night, and I suspect Neil and Amber thought it might be intimate. ‘We expected 100,” Neil told me. 500 came, because when you build it, they will come. It seems many people more than me needed this little oasis of insanity in a world increasingly falling apart.
The line-up was fun, Mexican Dave. George Gadd, Fraser Morgan and finally, Gaz Brookfield headlining. I suspect it was meant to be a nice, easy way into the festival, and instead, it became a bit of a rollercoaster.
Mexican Dave was a great opener because the first thing he delivered was that anti-right-wing atmosphere. Here is a guy, playing a guitar, chatting like you and I, who, unlike you and I, is told by people he doesn’t belong here. He does, and no amount of scraped knuckles and ‘X’s in Reform boxes will change that.
I hadn’t seen Fraser before, and to be honest, sometimes a singer with a guitar can be similar to another. That’s no criticism, but the ones that jump out usually have a song or two that make you know it’s them. I’m sure Fraser did, but that’s not what grabbed me. He did. Here was a lad full of such raw honesty, such outward emotion, that I immediately felt vulnerable myself. You see, I have been holding something in, keeping it dampened down, and when I saw this raw, unfiltered performance in front of me, I felt the lid of the jar loosening.
Gaz was great as well, because he is a guy who has a great selection of songs, who stands above his peers with skilled songwriting and a great back catalogue. I’m particularly fond of Gunner Haines, but Black Dog Day resonated with me this time. I get it, I always have, but over the last eight months, I’ve been hit by those on occasion.
Sorry to skip George, but I am going to skip a lot of acts; it would take you a full day to read if I did not.
Friday
Time and a Plaice, or Your Plaice or Mine? I suspect they’re the same, but the vans kept swapping, and it spun me out. Whichever it was, they dropped the Duckin’ Big ‘Un on us this weekend, meaning the 90 rashers of bacon I brought were redundant. Yeah, 90 might have been overspeccing, but can you ever truly have enough bacon? Unless you’re vegan, then I suppose the answer is yes.
Dave P arrived in time to park his van and have a can, and Chris arrived at midday to take us to the Harvey Arms in Finningley for lunch. I liked the later start; it gave us a nice morning, a really good pub lunch, and a couple of cold beers out of an actual glass. By the time we got back, music was due, and the day looked to be a banger.
Nasty Fishmonger could carry a slot as the sun goes down, not the opening spot on a Friday. They’re superb, and even without a drummer, they kept the energy up. They’ve got something to say, particularly about society and the government’s attitude to the disabled community. I’ve loved them since GIAF a couple of years ago, and even when the sound went off, they didn’t miss a beat, coming into the crowd and playing acoustic. That resilience under pressure, always smiling, no matter how tough things get, I respect so much.
My other Friday highlights included Samantics, a Wroot staple who has the talent that deserves a bigger stage, and Darwin’s Rejects. I wrote about them after GIAF last year, and they’ve stuck with me. I love their tunes, even the likes of Cabin By The Sea that they don’t perform anymore. Quite how they make a song about nuclear bombs feel like a sing-along, I don’t know, but I imagine it’s catchy songwriting, and something to do with hooks or chords that a guy who can’t play an instrument wouldn’t understand.
I dare say they’re my favourite band at the moment, and in fairness, Headsticks and the Virginmarys passed me by a little. I blame the Staropramen, both canned and from the excellent bar. This weekend was a lot about liking what I like, if that makes sense. It wasn’t a conscious decision, only something I realised as Sunday passed by.
Friday was a good day. Much was drunk, much was eaten, and we made some new friends. The mustard couple were parked near us, Di and John (Dijon). I hadn’t clocked that; they introduced themselves on Thursday, and regrettably, I forgot their names. John said he remembered ours by ‘Oooh Gary Davis’, which is how late on Friday, someone said ‘Gary and Dave’ as we stood around the urinal and took me very much by surprise. When I confessed my weakness with names, John said think of mustard.
After the heaviest of days, we got back to the van, sat down, rolled a cigarette and immediately I felt sick. Went to bed, slept solid for eight hours, no headache the next day. Sweet.
Saturday
Imagine a festival where you get up after two nights of music, go to the main arena, and there is no rubbish. You go to the toilet, and they’re clean, stocked, and even smell good. The respect that 850 human beings show each other, the event and the organisers really strengthens my belief in society. As it crumbles outside of the festival, it is nice to know there are kindred spirits out there. Maybe we should all just move into a field together, like the New Age Travellers of the eighties. I understand that movement much more now than ever before.
I missed the handfasting ceremony; my apologies. I haven’t been sleeping well at home, so to get a good night’s sleep in the van felt like a real treat. I guess we all come to these fields for our own reasons, and as much as I wanted to help two friends I haven’t yet met celebrate a union, I also needed a little self-love as well (not like that, Dave, I know how your mind works).
Actually, Dave won’t have got this far, I’ve used some pretty big words….
Saturday is fancy dress day. I always want to outdo Dave, but never do. This year, I thought a unicorn onesie might do it, but no, comedy onesies were seen on Friday when it wasn’t fancy dress. Dave, loving attention, got himself a six-foot blow-up frog outfit.
Of course he did.
I sent the image above to my wife, and her response was something like ‘what you get if you order The Justice League from Wish’. Cheers, who needs enemies, right?
There were some great outfits, Dave’s in particular, and while I wouldn’t take images of strangers, I realised if I want to be noticed, I have to seriously up my game next year. On the plus side, I now own a onesie, my first as a 47-year-old man.
Honesty shout: Saturday didn’t have a lot that I thought I’d like. Over the last eight months, I have become quite insular at times. I haven’t been discovering much, be it places, food, friends, anything. So it took me a great deal of effort to watch Jake Martin. Chris loved Thunarwülf and consumed a quarter of a bottle of mead along with the performance. If Chris could have been a wizard, or in Lord of the Rings, he’d have been a happy man. He’s not really for this world, at times, and neither were the band I can only really describe as wizard metal.
I cruised through Saturday. Pie and chips (lamb, nice), too much beer, waiting. The rain didn’t dampen spirits, only my trainers (I did bring seven pairs, so that wasn’t an issue), and we spent some time in the excellent second tent. It got very busy for the comedienne, who was doing her first-ever gig. It must have been terrifying, so fair play to her!
Square Wild are noisy, which the festival needed, but by the time I’d watched Tony Wright, I flagged. Back to the tent, a couple of Pro Plus and a brew, and I got back on it for Marisa and the Moths. Here’s a band that are not really for me, think Evanescence with a 2026 flavour, but they are very good at what they do. My heart went out to them as they were let down by technical difficulties, but Marisa’s admission of vulnerability hit me. It’s good to talk, right? The world isn’t as cold as it feels.
Nothing felt cold for Black Water County: an hour or so of pure energy. I woke up, got battered on the edge of the mosh pit and for the first time in eight months, just let go at a music event. BWC are one of my favourite bands as well. I’ve been following them since 2023, and they have such banging tunes. Under Skies of Black and Blue was something we played at our wedding evening do, and it’s the most played song on my jukebox in the bar at home. I’ll never be able to stand still and watch them.
Back to the tent, and this time we didn’t even think to sit down. It was a quick pit stop for breakfast, before Sunday.
Sunday
The plan was to stay Sunday night, but very early on Sunday, it became apparent that four days would be too much. Not in terms of music, but watching the talented Joe Solo (a new name to me, but one I’ll be more familiar with), I didn’t feel like a beer, and that was my default setting for the day.
Aubrey Blakeledge and the Rotisserie of Cnuts had me in stitches. He was a great compere for the weekend, but an even more superb act. I think they played maybe four songs, but it felt amazing, such great fun. I particularly liked the flag-shagger bit, something that made fun of the awful political scene unfolding outside the festival tents.
Chris left after Jess Silk. Dave Parker went around the same time. Both had work, and Dave P had maybe hit it too hard over the weekend. That left me and Dave and as the 47 years we’ve spent on earth caught up with us, we made a call: home. He watched Spangled as I packed up, then he came back, and I helped him pack up (something wrong there) before we headed off to see a bit of Nick Parker. I couldn’t miss Nick, a Wroot staple and one of those guys it is just impossible not to like, on and off stage.
Nick played a couple of his old favourites, and we were going to stay for the set. He then called Living Again as his fourth song, and before the first note, I asked Dave if we could leave.
I’ve alluded to the last eight months here, and this is where it did get me. Friends and those who follow my full-time writing role know that in September, I lost my Dad, who was my best friend. He was the best man at my wedding, we spoke several times a week and watched Lincoln every week together. Losing Dad is tied to Wroot in a way: I found out his cancer was terminal on the Sunday after leaving GIAF last year. I went through the horrible weeks watching him decline, and then pass away, and sailed the choppy waters of immediate grief.
Post-Christmas, I have tried not to talk as much about it, but it’s been there, like a filter on a camera lens that has just made everything darker. People get over these things, and he wouldn’t want me bleating on. He wasn’t a big one for mental health and stuff like that, but I am. I haven’t been able to enjoy a lot of things since he passed. Football? Yes, because Lincoln City have been brilliant, and because I shared that with him. Everything else? Not so much. It’s like I’ve only wanted to enjoy things that make me feel close to him. Festivals and music were not something where we had common ground, unless Paper Lace and the Everly Brothers are headlining GIAF this year.
When Nick played that first note of Living Again, I realised for the first time since September, I felt like I was living again. For four days, I hadn’t thought about Dad in the first hour of waking up. I hadn’t gone to bed wondering about loss, and if anything comes next. He was still there; he always will be. He pops up in my dreams sometimes, and I never know whether to wake up or not. I always do, but this weekend, from Thursday to Sunday, I tried to be about me. A little quieter, a little less open to the new, but also present. Watching Ferocious Dog in November, I closed off and went home early, like I had this guilt for enjoying myself.
I got that guilt, briefly, as Nick played and we walked away. Guilt at leaving one of my favourite artists as he played such a personal song, but also guilt that I may have started living again. I know that’s not right, I know this amazing festival has given me another step in the grief process, has held my hand as I’ve climbed another barrier.
I even have some anchors as well: I was pegged once (finally) and got left two ducks at the camp. Small symbols, but symbols of being a part of something. I may not have said hello to enough people, I may not have seen enough of the newer bands, but I am a part of something. I can look at my ducks and pegs and know I wasn’t just there, but I was there, if that makes sense.
Maybe now is the time to start living again.