Green Man Festival 2024 - The Review

Many UK festivals pride themselves on the grounds in which they are set - why, after all, wouldn't you pick somewhere attractive - but Green Man is one of only a handful of festivals that celebrates the region that hosts it. Perhaps its Welsh personality shouldn't be a surprise, but most festivals, once you're within the curtilage of the site, almost defy you to remember where you are. There's nothing East Anglian about Latitude, nothing Yorkshire about Leeds, nothing Oxfordian about Wilderness. The Green Man festival encourages Welsh bands to perform, has bilingual signage everywhere, and most impressive of all, is nestled within the Bannau Brycheiniog National Park. The festival even encourages you to turn up early and go explore the area, such is its pride in the locale. It was an invitation I decided to take up.

In my naivety, when I arrived on Monday I assumed I'd be joining a small group of people who had managed to take the week off work, making use of the facilities in the morning, before going off for a drive in the country. What I encountered was so different it almost feels like betraying a delightful secret to say more. I was expecting the mountainous backdrop, not the level of entertainment laid on. In the three days before the festival there was time enough to walk through quarries, climb mountains and make friends with a sheep. But if you chose to stay put there were Welsh lessons, nature walks, acrobatics, juggling and all sorts. A full programme of music followed, spread over two stages and three days, featuring performers drawn from the pool of talent in Wales. I hadn't heard of any of them, which says more about me than them. Some of the acts were obviously just starting out, but many clearly had a decent sized following. The crowd's appreciation of, and familiarity with, Tara Banito brought home the seemingly impenetrable musical border between England and Wales with a punchy set that felt raw and personal. Preceded by the infectious pop of Murder Club – dare I say Wales's answer to The Last Dinner Party, the heretical thought popped into my head that the UK could have either of these acts in the Eurovision Song contest, singing in Welsh, and how marvellous that would be. I’m still pondering why artists such as Banito can pack out a Settlement Stage yet remain relatively unknown in England.

The previous night' headliners Parcs mixed beautiful harmonies with catchy synth pop, but it was over on the smaller Hudol Stage that some very interesting things were going on. Trio Francis Rees created a dreamlike state with their Welsh language songs that swung from pop to space rock to simply otherworldly. The music of Em Koko – all Emily’s work her bandmates were quick to point out – was an hypnotic, yet curiously engaging shoegaze alternative to the prevalent indie sounds I’d been hearing. Harkening back to the days of the Cure, with perhaps a touch of Portishead thrown in, this was bold programming of something refreshingly different. Straight after, came Bau Cat, for me the highlight of the Settlement’s offering. Resolutely an ensemble affair - bassist and lead singer Abby Butler was quick to credit fellow band members Jacks wells on drums and Jim Davies on guitar – but there was little doubt her natural charisma and fine voice is what distinguished the band. I should also throw into the mix No Sleep Dance Theatre, who deftly weaved a narrative into their aerial acrobatics, star gazing from local enthusiasts, a charming family of jugglers, impromptu hula hooping, fire dancers, and a small number of superb food vendors. Altogether, it had the makings of a tiny festival of its own that I was sad to see go, notwithstanding what lay ahead.

The weather Gods had been kind to the Settlers on the Tuesday, a bullet dodged as the forecasting downpour largely passed us by, so I was hoping for a similar reprieve on the first day of the festival. Sadly, the God's doubled down, the heavens opening just as events got underway. Martin Scorsese's fascinating epic examination of Powell and Pressburger zipped by in the Cinedrome tent, but there's something amiss when your festival starts in the cinema to get out the rain. Thereafter, what should have been an evening of discovery, as Green Man's labyrinthine layout revealed itself, became a duck and cover mission. The fringes of the Far Out tent and then the bowels of Chai Wallahs filled to bursting with disinterested punters keener on getting out the rain than listening to Islet or Metz.

Things settled by the time we got to headliners Sleaford Mods, so perhaps by then I was disinclined to hang around a tent when I didn't need to, but I thought their performance was lacklustre. Jason Williamson is a brilliant lyricist, and speaks of injustice with clarity and rage. Yet there was something a bit off when the crowd chanted along, without really listening to what they were saying. I wonder if he senses that, a victim of his own success playing to huge crowds waiting to go down like BHS, while not knowing what that means any more.

I sloped off early, disappointed that an act I'd so admired seemed to be phoning it in, and instead had a much jollier time jigging along to K.O.G. in Chai Wallahs. Afterwards, frustrated I hadn't been able to exploit my first night as I hoped, I chased my tail back in the Cinedrome, where a Canadian horror film was playing. Had I not grown up on a diet of 80s slasher films, I dare say I'd have found “In a Violet Nature” more engaging, but after half an hour, with only a dismembered limb on the scorecard, I made my excuses and left.

Friday morning heralded a day of glorious sunshine, making the memory of last night's deluge seem like a fever dream. Abandoning plans to go see Opus Kink when I saw them so shrouded in smoke they were literally unseeable, I instead took a punt of Mermaid Chunky, not least to check out the near mythical reputation of the Mountain Stage. Its reputation is fully deserved and easily the most dramatic arena on the festival circuit. The panoramic backdrop of Crug Hywel was jaw dropping, the banked amphitheatre ideal for letting the music wash over you, while Mermaid Chunky were a delight. Accompanied by dancing owls and mop wielding youngsters, Freya Tate and Moina Moin offered up the perfect start to the day.

Tucked around the corner of the Mountain stage was Rising, a lovely little nook nested within trees that was devoted to up and coming acts. Humane the Moon gave an impassioned performance reminiscent of the late Ian Curtis, after which the ridiculously talented polymath Johnny Flynn, playing with a full band, seems to have eschewed folk for a country-tinged sound. So despite the cheers when a couple of similar sounding intros started up, the Detectorist theme remained disappointingly unplayed. Beak>, meanwhile, thankfully, eschewed the fog that had bedevilled earlier performances, and all other staging for that matter, relying instead on their considerable talent to engage the audience. Not only did we get to see the whites of their eyes, we got to hear the amiable banter that leavened what might otherwise have been an overly intense set.

Back on the Mountain Stage, Mount Kimble were taking full advantage of nature's lighting, as the sunset fittingly turned the range behind into an ominous silhouette while they played music from The Sunset Violent. The consequent vista was such a wonderful spectacle, I'm not sure it's possible to objectively judge the music. Kai Campos, it turns out, is a much better singer than Dominic Maker, though either were preferable to the brattish petulance of guest vocalist King Krule.

Unsure whether to close the festival with the heritage cacophony of The Jesus and Mary Chain or Jon Hopkins, it was particularly galling that the latter took to the stage over half an hour late without explanation. Maybe his tardiness and the cold affected my mood, but I was underwhelmed by the techno-by-numbers set he then subsequently delivered. Having greatly enjoyed his Ambient performances (something judging by the program notes the festival thought it was getting) I found the undoubted visual spectacle which accompanied the set insufficient compensation for something akin to bashing a saucepan with a wooden spoon for two hours. Lord knows when he finished, but it was gone one in the morning when I could still hear it while tucked up in my tent.

Having, much to my regret, caught only the tail end of Stewart Lee's King Rocker documentary on Friday, I was keen to see the subject of the film in the flesh, and The Nightingales's blistering set didn't disappoint. That said, I looked at the schedule in dismay at how many of my must-sees were joining them on the Far Out stage. I dare say, had it been raining, I'd have unhelpfully pointed out there was nowhere under cover, so it's difficult to begrudge this one stage. Nonetheless, this cavernous, soulless venue seemed tangibly out of whack when compared to the general loveliness elsewhere. With poor sight lines and the current obsession with haze, only the very committed were going to see the excellent Bdrmm, the seriously unhinged John Maus, or the stunning Nadine Shah in any sort of detail, very probably on the modest TV screen outside. I appreciated each performance, but more in theory than practice, all the while fidgeting that something more immersive was going on elsewhere.

A case in point would be the marvellously bonkers Fantasy Orchestra, a community based project of 80+ performers, slimmed down to 20 or so on the day, playing an umbrella based choice (you had to be there) of tune to the delight of the assembled. Their hosts, the Solar Stage, was set within the family friendly Einstein's Garden, an area loosely devoted to science, arts and thinking about things. Whether discussing potato passengers (again, you had to be there), brain scans, indigestion or, ahem, vaginas, this was the place to go to discuss things you didn't know needed discussing. Afterwards, King Creosote offered a welcome opportunity to return to the Mountain stage, and while the clouds refused to part, his sunny disposition and self-deprecating humour more than made up for it.

The Osees had been on my wish list since records began, but after Nadine Shah's emotionally exhausting set that culminated in a plea for a Gaza ceasefire, I needed a break and so went in search of comedy. The jury is still out on whether Nick Helm's wildly anarchic set in the Babbling Tongues tent qualified, but in an age of trigger warnings I found his brand of excessive audience abuse and ramshackle disconnection hugely enjoyable. As the stony-faced Easter Island statue sat to my left testified, he wasn't for everyone, but he was at least boldly different from the anodyne alternative so often served up as comedy. Tony Laws followed, with a set that largely revolved around the absurdity of playing to an empty tent while the headliner was on, and was - in his way - pushing back against the norm as surely as Helm. Nonetheless, when I moved on and caught the last few minutes of Nabirah Iqbal's superb Walled Garden performance, I did rather regret not getting there sooner.

It did at least mean I was in good time for the wittily named Byrne's night, which featured increasingly shambolic covers of Talking Heads songs. As an ever-changing cast of guest performers strangled David Byrne's lyrics, as a huge fan of said David I suppose I should have been annoyed. But the backing musicians were fine, the songs remain brilliant and the atmosphere was so jolly even Nadine Shah's incoherent version of Once In a Life Time had me smiling.

Sunday at a festival can be an odd, even melancholic, day - something I'd already experienced once when the settlement shut down. After a late finish the night before, it was a late start for me, with a commanding performance from the Mysterines pulling me back to the Far Out Stage, for one last time. The sun had come out again, though, and aware how lucky I'd been with the weather, I was determined to make the most of it, bimbling round and about a site I still struggled to fully get to grips with. I fell across holograms care of Megan Broadmeadow's sorcery, the depleted barrels of the courtyard beer festival, the location of the secret Cabaret tent, and a headless couple taking a stroll, before settling in to what I understand is something of a tradition, the Green Man Film Quiz. I confess to being underwhelmed by what I'd hoped would be packed with film clips rather than adverts and nerdish cineaste knowledge rather than celebrity trivia, but this was harmless fun if you didn't take it too seriously.

Afterwards, the Walled Garden hosted Green Man regular, Pictish Trail. Scottish musician Johnny Lynch entranced a deservedly huge crowd with songs of loss and longing. Accompanied by cello and harp, his music offered a welcome sorbet after so much sound and fury, as did the cosmic fusion of Nebula Sun in Chai Wallahs, who produced a jazz inflected sound that I rather preferred to the jazz/afrobeat mashup of main stagers, Ezra Collective. I should add that I was in a minority of one, though, as the packed arena swayed and clapped and jigged about like a single, breathing organism. Standing high up on the ridge of the arena, the audience reaction became part of the show - arguably the most important part - as the sun set on Green Man for a final time.

The plan was to squeeze Rob Deering in before the final act of the act, but along the way I heard something quite special coming from the Rising stage, a route I only took to avoid the crowds. It turned out to be Big Special, a band unknown to me but one that had attracted a huge crowd. It quickly became apparent why. Duo Joe Hicklin and Callum Maloney mixed anthemic pop, spoken word and infectious good humour to produce, at close to the eleventh hour, what I would consider the performance of the weekend. With a mix of compassion and righteous fury that brought to mind the ethos of the ldles, and a bond reminiscent of Soft Play, they were everything the Sleaford Mods failed to be, providing a telling and ironic bookend to the festival.

I say end, but not quite. Having checked out first Sampha, then the cacophony of Model/Active, I finished outside Far Out, resigned to hearing if not seeing Explosions in the Sky while waiting for the burning of the Green Man, the imposing giant that had overseeing the weekend. It was a fitting Wickerman end to an event that at times felt more like a cult than a festival, such was the devotion of its fans. I did grow a little weary of being told how ruddy marvellous it was, and also how other events paled by comparison. Did Geoff Barrow really need to tell Glastonbury to fuck off? Did Nadine Shah need to share that attendees at other festivals she's played at are boring cunts? By all means take pride in the festival, but don’t knock the alternatives, not least as a typical Green Man punter, judging by their T-shirts, go to the very festival Mr Barrow was keen to dismiss.

Green Man is fundamentally a music festival, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not the multi-faceted event it purports to be, and I did speak to folk disappointed with the quantity and quality of the alternatives. There are talks, but most revolved around music. There was comedy, but it's largely club circuit level tacked on late at night and played out to several. The cinema tent had some great films, but many I had already seen, and relied on more than its fair share of music documentaries. The science stuff sat uneasily between adult and child attractions, while the acrobatics and performance rarely held one's attention for long. And if talking to randoms is on your festival agenda, be warned you'll have your work cut out with the perfectly polite but surprisingly reserved punters it seems to attract.

But there is so much more to like - love, even - at Green Man. The campsite was a pleasure to stay in, the showers the best I've had in twenty years of festivaling. The security and stewards operate with the lightest of touches, the festival instead relying largely on the self-policing of attendees it treats like adults. Its setting is one of unparalleled beauty, with a main stage that is both dramatically stunning and eminently practical. There are endless musical choices that have obviously been curated with care. There's a vibrant nightlife that stops short of hedonistic excess, yet is lively enough to feel just a bit naughty. Best of all is the ethos, promoting its independence not as a thing in itself, but as a vehicle to do good in the community, perhaps in the hope that doing good might rub off on the people that turn up, and they might then consequently take a little bit home with them.

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