TAKEN FROM TALK MAGAZINE - YORK

www.thetalkmagazine.com

**Warning** - This review is a biggun, and as such, should not be consumed on an empty stomach.

The tribes from all over Yorkshire gather on Addingham Moorside for the second instalment of The Moor Music Festival. Two full days of hot, sticky, hazy fun. Rockers, ravers, hip-hop kids, white-boy rastas, ageing hippies, crusties, soul fans, D.J.'s, musicians, poets, journalists, filmmakers, the people. All have come with similar aims: to go absolutely mental to the newest, freshest sounds around, to shake off the drudgery of their day-to-day existences, to regain their senses of freedom, to celebrate the Great British summertime and to have an experience. This is ours.
We pitch up, smack bang in the heart of a picturesque countryside idyll and crack open a few cold ones. Soon the serenity of this rural landscape will be broken, shattered and twisted into an indulgent, hedonistic, responsibility free party. Our time here is a precious commodity and we should start things the right way, the proper way, in quiet reflection, at one with ourselves, at one with each other, at one with the universe. Or maybe we should just get on with it, watch some bands, listen to music, get drunk, dance our arses off and pass out in the middle of a field.
We head to the arena where young guns TestTone3 open the MoorLive stage with an energetic mix of electro, rock and funk. Ostentatious frontman, Ad Gaunton, rips out tasty riffs, blinding the audience with his shiny, silver guitar, Andy Precious kicks out seriously funky b-lines and sibling Rich complements the sound with superb, synth driven segues. A perfect icebreaker in this thirty-degree heat, TestTone3 set the high benchmark for the other acts to beat.
Stunning singer..songwriter, Hayley Gaftarnick, follows in the Earl Hickey Tribute Lounge. She produces an excellent, expressive, emotive performance, brimming with confidence and charisma. Her expansive vocal drips with soul, her onstage persona reeks of attitude. Only on the delicate, balladic highlight "Butterfly" does she expose a more vulnerable, feminine characteristic to the audience, buried beneath a beautiful, imposing, f**k you front.
The sweet, summery style of diminutive Leeds based 8-piece Little Sister draws a sizable crowd to the MoorLive stage, with a tasty recipe of blues, jazz and Deep-South spice. More flavour to add to the melting pot. They even have the audacity to throw in an outstanding, if almost unrecognisable, bluegrass reworking of Justin Timberlake's "Cry me a river". Little Sister are a light-hearted slice of family friendly fun and rightfully deserve this small, but perfectly formed, mention.
The circus rolls into town with Idle Jack & The Big Sleep. Multi-instru-mentalist Ringmaster of Rock, Rob Hughes, unleashes his Burton-esque fantasy with a megaphone blast, plume of smoke and flurry of glitter. The bastard sons of Jim Morrison and Mr Bungle deliver pure, unadulterated vaudeville. They conjure up images of a Faustian rock opera, staged at a carnival freak-show, a dazzling, gothic, experimental, uncompromising, assault on the senses. Idle Jack & The Big Sleep are absolutely unique and just far too good to ignore.
The undisputed highlight of the first day comes in the form of Yes King Soundsystem on the Homespun stage. Brainchild of the mysteriously absent Grand Central maestro Mark Rae, better known as one-half of the production outfit Rae & Christian. Their magnificent melee of hip-hop, dancehall, ragga and funk is just the right ingredient to get the party started for real. Six-foot, Sudanese born siren, Ayak lands a power punch with the mighty "Crunch". It's the tune of the night, solid dancefloor gold, go and hunt it down.
Friday's headliners are handpicked professionals plucked from the indie elite, York's own musical royalty, Rick Witter & The Dukes. Frontman Rick Witter (ex-Shed 7) is charisma personified, a first-class performer who punctuates every vocal line with an unmistakeable swagger, Stuart Fletcher (ex-Seahorses) is arguably the best bass player in the city and schools the audience in the science of solid sub tones, drummer Matt Lunn (ex-Colour of Fire) is the back-bone of the band and belts out an unrelenting barrage of beats, guitarist Rob Wilson demonstrates with irresistible hooks, that you don't always need to be a big fish to be an outstanding catch. Their set showcases excellent new material combined with a reminiscent romp through a couple of crowd-pleasing classics. This is the sound of your hometown, be sure to appreciate it.
The night comes to a close with the captivating Cara Robinson in the acoustic tent. Sumptuous, striking, original soul: influenced and inspired by the back-catalogues of some of the greatest female vocalists of all time. Don't be fooled by the warm and friendly exterior, inside her chest beats the heart of a 70's diva. When she snaps her fingers you'd better come running. This is a lady who takes no mess, suffers no jive talking fools gladly and demands 110% at all times. Her band delivers this without fail, providing a stripped-down, low-key feel whilst maintaining the energy of an electrified, stacked up, racked up act. Cara changes the mood in the tent from "sit down and chill" to "get up and dance" with two outstanding encores: "California Soul" and "Woman of the Ghetto". A fantastic performance with outstanding vocals and a fitting, albeit premature, end to day one.
Numerous rumours circulate surrounding the cause of the curfew. The official line is: Health & Safety, in a fit of sanitary insanity, bans all live music until the toilets are emptied. Unfortunately, I cannot log (ahem) this pile of crap as the reason and the truth will remain with the privileged few.
Sleep, rise at 5am, climb a hill with total strangers, chew the fat and watch the sunrise.
The second day begins with acoustic innovator and local hero, Jon Gomm, a one-man music machine, defying logic with his unique guitar style. My assumption is that Jon realised that being part of a band was, basically, a load of old bollocks. Drummers always drink too much, bass players are plain lazy, vocalists are egomaniacs and lead guitarists are frustrated frontmen. Why not roll all of these into one neat package? The result is an eye-popping, jaw-dropping, hair-raising, thrill-a-minute, white-knuckle, roller-coaster ride. Boundaries are blurred when this, dextrous, virtuoso performer stupefies his spectators with percussive pyrotechnics, mid-song retunes, double-handed finger picks, sound box slaps, claps, stomps and astounding vocal melodies. I sit dumbstruck as Jon delivers the closing refrain to Radiohead's "High & Dry" and my personal rulebook has a new entry that reads: "If you don't play as good as Gomm, then you just won't get on". Damn.
By contrast, Ava Hegarty & Jon Martin take a more conventional approach in the acoustic lounge. Ava appears apologetic, terrified, trapped on a stage with no escape. She flinches, looking around in fear that she might fail. Her avuncular mentor flashes the briefest of reassuring looks and then, a voice. Not the thin, timid, insipid whispering of a nervous novice but the powerful, resonant, soulful vocal of a seasoned pro. A huge surprise that leaves the audience hushed in appreciative support of this young talent. Jon's faith in his protégé is well placed and together they deftly deliver a set of classy, chilled-out covers. Ava has an introverted, self-effacing charm and lacks the pompous, self-importance of other acoustic artists. Her understated quality sets her apart from the deluded and over-confident pack.
Monkey Business launch into action with a set packed with organic, homegrown soul. The delight of watching them live is drawn from the bizarre blend of characters onstage, standing shoulder to shoulder. The equal mix of youthful exuberance and steady experience creates a curious balance, a harmonious equilibrium. They share their conflicting influences with each other, open up new creative avenues together, each time adding to the depth and confidence of their sound. This rag-tag line-up is an inclusive enclave representing a true cross-section of society, disparate musicians devoted to the production of damn fine music. Close your eyes and listen. Can you really believe that band is from England? With their soulful, stripped down melody lines and subtle song structures? All I can hear is the smooth, authentic sound of 1960's Philly. The romantic "Hold Hands" shimmers with a sunny optimism, without appearing overly sentimental and "Really Want To Know" bristles with an upbeat beauty. Monkey Business won't bludgeon their way into your heart, they'll just slide on right down next to you, take you by the hand and stroke you slowly into submission.
The live stage is transformed into the arid vista of the Mid-West by Boss Caine, York's very own country rock collective cashing in on Johnny's legacy. G.T. Turbo (A.K.A. Dan Lucas) fronts the group with his distinctive, gruff, gravel-voiced growl, lead guitarist Gaines, adds his boundless energy and onstage charisma to the mix, guitarist Adam Rogowski, lays down the perfect rhythm, fresh-faced Jim Gipson, skilfully controls the bass-line, Mike Newsham steps in as skinsman to confirm his multi-instrumental credentials in superb fashion and all are backed up by Shonet and Laura Hockenhull, the sultry soul sisters. This is a well-respected core of local musicians, carving out a strong new collaborative identity, creating a high quality, alt-country sound to rival Alabama3. These dark disciples of the damned drag the awestruck audience into their warped world of whisky, women and lost love, with a piece of pure, blues-drenched Americana. We dangle from the precipice and gaze into abyss, vultures circle above, blackness beckons below and with the scythe of death ready to strike, we jump.
Never fear brothers and sisters, our redemption is near. Chunky Butt Funky offers salvation for our lost souls and can rescue us from the fires of eternal damnation. Cleve Freckleton preaches the Gospel, according to the blues, reggae, soul & funk, from behind his ebony and ivory lectern. We are his flock, he leads and we must follow. Sax legend, Jason Rae, blesses the audience with a divine sound, manna from heaven to feed the hungry throng. Today's sermon is titled: "peace, love and unity" and is read perfectly from the Books of Marley, Gaye, Brown and Wonder. Hearts and hands are lifted up as we all join together to sing hymn 169: "Mighty, mighty, mighty people of the sun". Cleve has found his church, congregation and choir. We have been saved.
Soft-spoken Scottish songwriter, David Ward Maclean, makes a welcome appearance in the acoustic lounge to a full house. David has been affectionately described as a local treasure, for his humour, endlessly self-effacing character, generosity of spirit and a lifetime devoted to music. Absolute silence is required in order to appreciate the full emotional impact of his songs. A mere whisper from the audience could ruin his delicate melody, drown his hushed tone and lessen the experience. David's vocal clarity is unparalleled, with a range that stretches from tenor to falsetto effortlessly and every note sung is pitch perfect. Each lullaby, evoking the pastoral landscape of his Gaelic homeland, slowly builds from the Lowlands with somnambulant restraint, moves up through the foothills and valleys with dizzying vocal lifts, to reach an emotive climax in the soaring apexes of the Highlands. It's a journey well worth taking.
The Homespun stage ignites, fired up by the arrival of The Dub Pistols. Their anarchic arsenal of hip-hop, reggae and electro is unleashed, synapses spark, heads explode, brain matter splatters in every direction, nobody sits, everybody bounces, shock and awe. This is subversion on a massive scale, anticipation builds, our pulses race, our heart-rates increase, broad smiles flash across the faces of the captivated crowd, bodies jerk and twitch to the hip-hop beats, punk riffs, techno beeps and funky ass bass-lines. The MC's propagate their provocative propaganda, harrying the audience into a state of panic…and then they drop the bomb. "ACDP", a clever mash-up of "Highway to Hell", explodes launching shards of twisted metal into the rioting mob, no one escapes the fallout. It's all got a little bit messy. The Dub Pistols conduct psychological warfare, using modern technology and advanced sonic weaponry, creating an unstoppable, cutting-edge hybrid of styles. They have the power to dominate the stage, control our bodies and blow our minds. We have no defence, can offer no resistance, our hands are in the air, we wave the white flag and surrender.
Breaks D.J. Tom Beaufoy dons his Evil Nine guise to propel the audience higher into the stratosphere with an intense array of genres, all ripped up, shot through and pounded to a pulp by this master purveyor of the broken beat. The tunes rocket skywards, building to a crescendo and then…falter. The lights go out, the music stops, confusion reigns supreme. Bloody Health & Safety! But before I can say: "gag reflex", the tankers arrive and the human effluence is pumped and taken away, the lights go on, the tunes kick back in and the party continues…
Very Special Guests, The Pigeon Detectives, cap the night off with a set of new-breed indie, hitting all the right spots and plotting uncharted erogenous zones, teasing and tickling the buds that other bands just can't reach. A crashing, bruising wall of guitar wail, combines with ferocious, feral drumbeats, syncopated, heart-stopping bass grooves and deep, powerful vocals to create a truly breath-taking atmosphere. The crowd is a hyped up mass of sweaty bodies, shouting and dancing with unfettered joy. Inhibitions lost, happiness found, childhood rediscovered, job done. This is the icing on the cake and the cherry on the top, the cat's whiskers and the mutt's nuts. This is the incredible finale to this small, friendly festival and it's all thanks to the organisers, staff and musicians who have worked so hard to make it all happen…but the most important thanks of all should go out to all of you: students, security guards, builders, plumbers, clerks, shop assistants, secretaries, accountants, lawyers, doctors, nurses, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, the people. Sleep.
A rude awakening, a nefarious night stalker tries to gain access to our tent at 4 o'clock in the morning. I leap out of my sleeping bag, tear open the tent flaps, smile at my hapless adversary and laugh at his adversity. A stern look and short, sharp "how do" is enough to send this cowardly rodent scuttling back to his bolthole with his tail between his legs. Wide awake, with a pounding hangover, dirt under the fingernails, desperate need for a comfy bed, shit, shower and shave, I decide that the party is definitely over. We pack up and head home with high spirits, tunes blasting on our car stereo. We had an adventure at The Moor Music Festival, now go out and have yours.

jim flanagan