Deepdale Festival 2024 - The Review

A return trip to any event begs the obvious question - will it live up to expectations? My first experience of Deepdale last year was the perfect end to the festival season, but something I hadn't taken into account was, what can most charitably described as, adverse weather conditions. No one should sensibly expect blazing sunshine on the last weekend in September - though frustratingly that's exactly what he had the weekend before - but temperatures halving in seven days, howling gales and biblical rain did seem a tad unfair. The festival takes place within the curtilage of a permanent campsite, so if you've deep enough pockets, you can sleep on site in a room with a bed. Failing that, there is room for campervans a plenty, with proper toilets and showers. Unfortunately, as one of the 1% brave/foolish enough to arrive with a tent I have to confess the rigours of staying overnight on Thursday defeated me, and I therefore missed, among others, the aptly named Man the Lifeboats.

On the plus side, things slowly improved from midday on Friday and I'm still mulling over whether the precipitous fall in temperature was bad luck, or the sunny interval of the weekend was good luck – maybe both are true. In any event, having finally manhandled my tent in winds that first bent, then broke, my tent poles the day started with Thea FitzGerald doing her best to energise a sizable but soggy audience sheltering in the Courtyard. We at least got a sunny disposition from Elizabeth and Jameson, who offered up a winning combination of guitar and violin on the Orchard stage, an attractively dressed marque tent in which you might expect to find a wedding reception. Showcasing some lovely vocals they served up a mix of old and new songs with the occasional Green Day cover thrown in for good measure. Back at the Courtyard, Aaron Horlock and Nick Goode had a similar set up, with accordion and banter added into the mix. This is, I now remembered, what early afternoons are like at Deepdale - low key, acoustic sets to ease you into the treats to come.

Norwich based Hemingway opened the Barn stage with a set from the first full band of the day, delivering an anthemic set that brought to mind bands as disparate as U2 and Coldplay. They seemed as pleased as Punch to be playing to a full house - "We're more used to one man and his dog" - in a venue that's as charming as it is practical. In a shift from last year, we'd go on to have only three acts a day in here, which I thought a pity, particularly as there more than enough acts playing on smaller stages that could have filled it. A case in point was Kathryn Williams, who was in the Barn last year, but this time was over in the Orchard. She was performing with Dan Wilson (who, for reasons unexplained, calls himself Withered Hand) on this occasion. They started with A Big Nothing - a song, I should hastily add, from their new album, which they played beautifully and in its entirety. It was, therefore, Wendsum that instead took the next slot on the Barn Stage, and in fairness they were more than a match for it. With an unusual mix of tom drum, guitar, flute and harmonium, their set was a bewitching mix of instrumentals, songs and poetry that meandered, like their namesake river, from dance to folk. A highlight of the day (and of the weekend) I'd urge anyone to give the performed album “Far Away” a listen.

With every indication that the weather was perking up, the day then went from strength to stretch. Track dogs audaciously started their set by spitting the Orchard in two for an a cappella sing along. They proved adept enough with their instruments too, making good use of guitar, bass, trumpet and cajon. The occasional banjo, ukulele and mandolin also made an appearance, as did their show-stopping four part vocal harmonies. 

I remember being told last year that Chris Haycock, curator of all this music, likes to push the boundaries a little. Last year, The Featured Thorns were one of my favourite acts, but I concede were not for everyone (they cleared the Barn faster than a fire alarm) so I knew he took risks. The jury is still out on whether it was wise to extend the policy as far as a headliner, but Bonfire Radicals were certainly, to paraphrase Sir Humphrey, a brave booking. I’ll admit it took me a while to get my head around the pipe and flute dominated sound of their curious, and frequently cacophonous, French/Greek/Irish mashup, but by close of play they absolutely won me over. Unfortunately, I was in the minority, if the rapidly diminishing crowd was anything to go by. In would seem that while this Birmingham based band were happy to sing about everything from Spaghetti Junction to Sarah's muffins, the Deepdale crowd weren't so happy to listen.

Despite an utterly freezing night, Saturday was a glorious day, a cloudless blue sky interrupted only by the extraordinary sight of geese flying off for the winter. What better way to set yourself up for the day than a singing bowl meditation? Sadly, try as Niki Gregory might to get us in the mood, the calming effect of resonant bowls were mitigated by blokes tinkering with the heating system outside. Aware that shouting "Do you mind, I'm trying to meditate in here" wasn't quite the done thing, we all pretended we couldn't hear them, but the moment was rather lost.

Shortly after lunch, Deepdale regular Nic Zuppardi teamed up with Adam Clark to impressive effect in the Courtyard, the two of them seemingly having a telepathic ability to know what the other is playing and is going to play, after which George Samsome and Matt Green served up a slice of traditional folk leavened with mordant wit. Who knew a song about the vagaries of the postal service could be so compelling? Less compelling was the interminable wait while Ebb Tide completed their sound check - something hard to explain or justify when they were the first band in the Barn. Whether hanging on proved worthwhile I cannot say, as after the half hour mark I went off in search of Eliza Delf and the Wilderness. 

I've seen Deft backed by various sized Wildernesses. This version was a stripped back version - only acoustic guitar, cello and drums. I thought it worked well, producing a leaner, cleaner sound on top of which Delf's voice was free to flutter. I understand the comparison with Kate Bush, and it's there to be heard if you listen. However, to my mind, Delf's voice has a muscularity that brings to my mind – this is going to sound weird - the vocal gymnastics of Justin Hawkins combined with Irwin Spark's lightness of touch. Whatever she sounds like, and really she just sounds like herself, this was a mesmerising performance from an artist still finding her feet, but who seems to grow with each iteration.

She was followed by another festival highlight, as Christian Smith and the Heretics demonstrated the value of a tight band playing as one. There were shades of Springsteen in this confident band that was arguably the best straightforward rock performance to grace the Barn Stage all weekend. Trying to persuade the audience to wave their phone torches in the air was probably a miss step so early in the day, but we can put that down to youthful exuberance and move on.

Sadly I did have to move on before the end of their set, as I was keen to see Lady Nade, which made for a rare but nonetheless difficult choice. She repeatedly fretted over her jetlag, but there was little evidence it was compromising a performance that was one of the most popular of the weekend, judging by the number of folk squeezed into the Orchard stage. Bristol based singer, guitarist and songwriter Nadine Gingell captivated her audience, on this occasion backed by a full band. I’m told that towards the end Eliza Delf joined for a duet (the reviewer’s curse, I’m nipped out to check on the other stage) which must have been quite something to see and hear.

The Shackleton Trio suffered from the same success story – you had to squeeze yourself into a sardine packed Courtyard to see them. In what I'd politely suggest was a scheduling error these festival favourites were put on the smallest stage, resulting in the only crowd discontent I saw all weekend. Granted this amounted to little more than pulled faces and disapproving tuts, as bodies got in the way of other bodies, but it was a shame their tales of Norwich's Mousehold Heath, Frost Fair Elephants and doomed eels couldn't have been enjoyed in more relaxed circumstances. 

Both gigs brought back to mind the limited use made of the Barn this year - frustratingly empty while we struggled for elbow room outside. Chris Haycock explained to me the shift was governed by the acts booked. Some, he pointed out, simply suited the intimacy of Courtyard better. It was a seductive argument, but the popularity of the Shackletons surely belied the decision. Better, I would have thought, to make full use of your main performance space – especially when it’s so special - based on expected audience size, rather than focus on the nature of the act. If it was my train set, I'd have closed the Orchard stage with the Shackleton's and had Granny's Attic warming up the Barn Stage before the headliner. As it was, Granny's Attic filled the Orchard with their boundless enthusiasm for traditional folk, all wrapped up in jolly banter. George Sansome made his second appearance of the day - recycling his dubious dogging anecdote for anyone who missed it the first time - and was joined on stage by the violin of Lewis Wood and the multi-instrumentalist Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne.

Having jigged about for an hour it was a wonder we had energy left in our power packs for Skinny Lister. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for some, Skinny Lister came with a power pack of their own, in the shape of a flagon of rum, passed around a crowd already up for a party. Dare I say that the Deepdale audience leans towards the mature side - they can all afford to drive a campervan, after all - but the shackles of middle age were cast aside for a riotous conclusion to Saturday's entertainment.  Skinner Lister is a band that teeters close to chaos from the outset, with a rousing set list that starts with a ferocious energy and then never lets up. Lorna Thomas is the band's co-lead vocalist so a comparison to Bez might seem inappropriate, but as she prowled and danced and clapped, unencumbered by an instrument, I was reminded of the Lord of Misrule, whipping the crowd up into a glorious frenzy. One can only imagine the sore heads of the morning after.

I encountered a few the following day - bleary eyed foot soldiers recovering from last night’s revelry on a promise that Sunday would be a day of recovery. I also encountered strange noises coming from the Barn. Not, I was assured, someone in pain, but instead the early morning laughter workshop. Tempting though it was to have a laugh, a walk along the Norfolk coastline beckoned. To some, leaving the curtilage of a festival is sacrilege, but to travel to North Norfolk and not spend at least a morning in the hauntingly empty flatlands that separate land from sea would have been a greater sin. I got as far as Burnham Ovary Staithes before returning to find out that Alton Wahlberg's showcase for unsigned talent had been blighted by pregnancy and a car breakdown. I arrived in time to hear Phoebe Austin's soulful set, but otherwise Wahlberg manfully filled in with depressing songs (his description, not mine) about ex-partners and dead people. 

Polly Paulusma was unapologetically introduced by Chris Haycock as one of his favourites. He spoke with such passion about her music it highlighted what lies at the core of Deepdale - not just an abiding love of music but a keenness to share that love. We all had a friend at school that was either the coolest or the nerdiest - you were never sure - who would thrust an album sleeve into your hand of a newly discovered band, insisting you listen to the record. I'm guessing that Chris was one of those friends.  "I hope you liked most of what you heard" he would later say, with knowing self-deprecation. Not everything will be to your taste, was the message, but everything will be worthy of consideration. 

As for Polly, she seemed to get off to an unsteady start, which was surprising for such an accomplished performer, seemingly ill at ease accompanying backing tracks she had prepared earlier. Lyrically, her tales of wild swimming, John Donne and burning cathedrals were as evocative as ever. It was only once she explained that we were listening to entirely new songs - little foals just coming into the world was her way of describing it - did the hesitancy in her voice make perfect sense.

Lewis and Daisy, who had been diligently scribbling away all weekend handing out free poems (I was given one about zombies, like you do) got to showcase the fruits of their labour as Toast, bouncing off suggestions made by the audience who watched their Friday session. On stage with the show-stealing cutest dog on the planet, we got to hear about grandparents, thankfulness and fighting in a faux contest where their contrasting styles were judged by a show of hands. In a festival that's almost entirely devoted to music, their contribution provided a welcome word sorbet, not least as they are such a personable couple. At the close of their set I overheard the bloke next to me turn to his mate. "I didn't think I'd like that, but I really enjoyed it". As Daisy confirmed when I told her, there is no greater praise than that which comes from a convert.

Luke Jackson's blues based set, complete with foot operated bass drum, was reminiscent of the late, great John Lee Hooker, notwithstanding his excellent Richard Thompson cover. As the close of the festival - indeed the whole festival season - crept ever closer, I'm sure I wasn't the only one to feel an air of melancholy as he invited the audience to sing along to the reality that our minds were, at least in part, now on the road. It won him a genuine encore and a standing ovation, despite a rapidly unravelling schedule.

Hawksley Workman was a name previously unfamiliar to me, and as such must rate as my find of the festival. His songs are packed with a mix of sentiment, truth, and whimsy, be that an exploration of his childhood in Canada, his love for his grandfather, oil to gas ratios in snowmobiles, or the sensual touch of Claire Fontaine writing paper. The songs were all embedded in small town life in a way that oddly resonated with the flatlands of North Norfolk, threaded through with a detail that brought to mind the stories of Garrison Kiellor. What really set him apart, however, was his warmth and his wit, and his love of performing matched only by an obvious love of dogs.

If you've ever wondered how the love child of Justin Sullivan and Grace Petrie might turn out then wonder no more, as Jess Silk is the answer. Together with her trio, they thrashed out a bracing set, raging against anything from Trump to HS2, all the while encouraging her audience to drink up their whisky as the Courtyard Stage came to a close. Closing the Orchard stage, the Henry Girls introduced themselves as Ireland's answer to the Spice Girls, but surely the Unthank sisters would be closer to the mark. Having mischievously picked out the Star Wars theme on the harp, we were treated to some beautiful close harmonies and delicate instrumental work that hovered somewhere in between Irish folk and Americana. That said, my favourite was a cheeky cover of Elvis Costello's Watching the Detectives.

So that just left Brown Horse, a band I first caught on the opening night of Red Rooster, one of season's first festivals, way back in May. After that they seemed to pop up everywhere I went, inexorably rising through the ranks of Latitude, Green Man, and then End of the Road, where (incidentally) I lent them my mallet, having spotted the bass player trying to bang in tent pegs with a rock. It felt only right that my festival season ended as it began, enjoying one last performance from Norwich's biggest act since Lets Eat Grandma - they looked delighted to end their festival marathon in the headline slot. With vocals that flipped from Bob Dylan to Bryan Ferry, singing lyrics that drew on films, history and sweeping landscapes, there was something quirkily unique about their country influenced sound, albeit one tinged with alt-rock inflections. It was a fitting end to a festival that punches way above its weight.

So, to return to my opening question, did the weekend live up to expectations? What we got was a faultless setup, top notch facilities, with the drama of the surrounding countryside to explore. If you fancied watching the stars, there were telescopes on hand and blokes explaining all about them. If you’re partial to dogs, there were loads of them, all of them well behaved and super cute. There was a wide range of music, leaning towards folk but not exclusively so. Although there are only three stages, they are neatly scheduled so that almost anything is up for grabs. Over each of the three main days you could easily see twelve acts, with no more than half a dozen clashes over the whole weekend. I’ve talked about my highlights, but while not everything was to my personal taste, the standard was universally high. To paraphrase Chris Haycock’s question, I liked almost all of what I heard, and loved quite a lot of it.

We were missing one thing that sometimes crops up at festivals, however, and that was trouble. I chatted to a security person, curious as to what sort of weekend she’d had. “We had a lady that got a bit tipsy,” she said, after thinking it over carefully, but that’s all she had for me. Whether it’s common courtesy, listening respectfully to the performance, or simply giving you a knowing nod as your paths cross on the coastal path, it’s the people who turned up that really made the difference, a sentiment that seemed to be shared by audience, organisers and performers alike.

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