Wilderness 2024 Review

It rained on the way in and rained on the way out, but somehow this only contributed to the feeling that Wilderness festival was akin to a fever dream, so exactly did it slot into a brief window of sunny skies dotted with fluffy clouds. This time last year the festival battled against truly terrible weather, and while that battle was ultimately won it was a close call for an event that encourages the curious to go explore a site fecund with riches. While an entirely different experience was therefore on the cards, Thursday proved to be more about exploring than finding. In part, and in fairness, the unrelenting rain made setting up camp such a challenge that it was early evening before I made my way to the Jumpyard to see what the Old Time Sailors were getting up to. Ostensibly an evening of 19th century seafaring songs, they had turned the amplifiers up to eleven by the time I got there and were delivering a blistering set that owed as much to AC/DC as food stomping sea shanties.

All manner of bars were open, many of them badged with the livery of a sponsor, and if overt product placement bothers you, then Audi presents Wilderness might not be for you. I'd just as soon recognise the perilous state of the entertainment industry by shrugging my shoulders, turning a blind eye, and be thankful there are still festivals to go to. That said, with the Peacock bar, the Veuve Clicquot Champagne Garden and the Club House all failing to convince they were more than glorified bars, time was surely better spent investigating The Riddle, an entirely new venue that was keeping its secrets close to its chest. So close that a performative sticker was applied to the lens of all the mobile phones that punters were foolish enough to admit to. In the spirit of secrecy I suppose I'll keep to myself what lay within, but I will say this set a high bar of expectation that ironically turned a perfectly pleasant addition to the festival into one that was mildly disappointing.

Elsewhere, the Haus of Fatale was putting on an Atrium show better suited to a more intimate venue, but which was nonetheless impressive, while in the Forum Charlie Baker stretched a routine about not being tall and DNA testing to breaking point. Mildly frustrated at scratching around for things to do, I reminded myself I felt the same way last year and, looking forward to things to come, opted for an early night. 

What better way to start the Hedonistic Treadmill of the first full day of the festival than to have Robert Smith and Mark Vernon explain what a Hedonistic Treadmill is? In their Philosophy Slam, Smith and Verson took random word suggestions from the audience and philosophically ran with them - essentially clever blokes word juggling. This was the first of a quadruple bill in the Forum, followed by Murray Lachan Young juggling words of his own, and ably demonstrating how his poetry earned him a brief moment of pop star fame. A last minute reshuffle meant John Sweeney had a disappointing crowd for his talk, a profane rant against Putin that bordered on the unhinged, but was nevertheless fascinating. Heydon Prowse did his best to keep up the batting average of the Forum with a discussion about what it meant to be English, but he was badly let down by a humourless, self-regarding panel that seemed disinclined to accept the premise of the session.

I left the tent reeling from all that heady discourse, did a drive by the Atrium, where Joel Dommet was cheekily undermining his role on the masked singer, and went in search of sanctuary in the woods. The Estilo String Quartet were performing a cheeky cover of King Crimson far away from the arena, under a canopy of trees, their sublime performance followed by brief acoustic sets from Olly Bayton and Cosmo Pyke. It was lovely way to recharge the batteries after all those words, as was the subsequent trip to the actual Sanctuary, a zone devoted to mind and body, where the Shala venue hosted In Space Through Sound, a diverse collective that had us lying back and zoning out as we bathed in the vibration of a multiplicity of calming instruments.  Not quite as calming, but nonetheless invigorating was Nick Hart's - described as the governor of British folk music - tenor viol combined with Tom Moore's viola. The barn like Smudge of last year has been fittingly rebadged as, well, the Barn and was a perfect showcase for Hart's sonorous vocals and adept playing.

The appearance of Palace signalled it was time to experience the main stage, and it’s fair to say they commanded it, with an anthemic soundscape that brought to mind artists as disparate as  Jeff Buckley, Mogwai and Radiohead. Afterward, in what was surely a statement of intent, Faithless got Insomnia out the way within the first 15 minutes - satisfying those only there for the big hit. It freed the set up to explore the full range of the band's long history, as well as a couple of cheeky covers, and made for a fine end to the evening. With Sister Bliss the last woman standing and with the late Maxi Jazz spookily on board through recorded voice, it did have a valedictory feel that at times edged close to tribute, but the many misty eyed, baldies in the audience would have had no problem with that.

A stentorian early morning walk led to a clearing in the woods, at the far end of which was the Fabularian stage, a handsomely dressed mountain scene. This energetic company entranced their young (and the young at heart) audience with a tale of the hare and the moon. A mix of broad comedy, jolly musical numbers and impressive costume combined with an insight into Astronomy added up to a show that was both accessible and fun.

Back in the Shala, there was yet more magic as the Murmuration Choir encircled the audience, letting their ethereal voices sweep over us, utterly entrancing by the power of their voices. Staying put was rewarded by a return visit from the Ambient London Orchestra. Last year they performed compositions by Ell Kendall, but not content with merely repeating what I would have happily listened to all over again, they instead bravely opted for an entirely improvised set, at one point pulling a conductor from out of the audience. Immersive rather than euphoric this was a refreshing, risk taking performance that paid off handsomely.  

Some big comedy big hitters were squeezed into the Forum last year, which meant more people missed them than saw them. Wise council must have prevailed, as the Atrium was given over to Rory Bremnar and his impressions. Soft target Donald Trump quickly won round a crowd otherwise perplexed by John Major and Wilderness's answer to Banquo's ghost, David Cameron. Bill Bailey won a further upgrade, playing to one of the biggest crowds seen at the main stage. Silly rather than hilarious, but charmingly so, there's little doubt his jokes are buttressed by his musical ability, but I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing Metallica’s Sandman played on bulb horns.

Unfortunately, Festival Voices offered up a rare misfire, as accomplished a capella singing was torpedoed by intrusive, and frequently mistimed, electronic beats. Imagine listening to Vaughan Williams's Lark Ascending while the neighbours had the builders in and you get the idea. Far better, in its silly, unpretentious way, was the Naked Pop Quiz. Conspicuously clothed, but none the less a hoot, it had the entire Club House dancing and singing to classic tunes from the last century. And far better still, despite the uninspired name, were Plantfood, ably complementing the Barn's eclectic line up. Comparisons with The Comet is Coming are inevitable, though those of us with longer musical memories couldn't help but recall the frenetic energy of Pigbag. Afterwards, I finally squeezed into The People's Front Room, only for Vanity Fairy to roam the fields outside, as she shared her poptastic set list with the bewildered masses.

All of which should have left me with a double bill of soul from the Teskey Brothers and Michael Kiwanuka, but it’s nigh on impossible to stop yourself wandering during down time, and so between their excellent sets, I did just that, and stumbled across United Freedom Collective. They put on an astonishing display of musical virtuosity, ably assisted by some preposterously jolly dancing from the audience at the front of the Barn stage. A musical highlight of the weekend, I missed half of Kiwanuka's set to see them out, but don’t begrudge them a minute.

Kiwanuka was outstanding, climatically finishing in a way that felt like it could have – perhaps should have - closed the festival. As it turned out, he didn't even close out the night, as a late night version of the jewel in Wilderness's crowd, Letter's Live popped up on the Atrium Stage. Short, sharp, genuine letters, spanning the centuries were read by various folk, the degree of fame measured by the warm welcome from the crowd, with the biggest noise reserved for Olivia Coleman. With the cold dissuading me from venturing further, and a head full to bursting with experiences anyway, I decided the near mystical Valley would have to wait another year and somewhat so shame faced, I sloped off to bed.

Can a festival be too good? Perhaps too bountiful is a better word. This was my waking thought on Sunday morning. The last two days had been so crammed with treats that had I packed up there and then, I'd have felt quite content I'd had my fill. Yet another day, I posited, risked sensory overload, and was therefore grateful that my first outing was Connecting Through Sound at The Shala, yet another opportunity to lie down, get my head together while Catarina Carvalho and her pal Alex tooted conch shells, shook rain sticks and chimed bells, while Catarina's haunting vocals took the assembled on a journey that teetered close to an altered state.

Thereafter, the personality of the festival seemed to shift a little. It was as if it had suddenly become aware of unfinished business that needed sorting, as the regular features took place one after the other. The Wilderness Cricket match, brilliantly commentated on by Bearded Kitten, was hilarious, the obligatory streakers building in number throughout until something like thirty - a literal flash mob - invaded the pitch to cheers a plenty. The Wilderness Choir, having rehearsed all weekend, made light work of Elbow's one day with the help of The Wilderness Orchestra. Mark Kermode wittily introduced the orchestra's performance of classic movie themes, after which they returned for a sing along jukebox. Sandwiched in-between was a return to Letters Live, John Lloyd's sonorous voice introducing fairly famous folk reading fairly amusing letters. I wearied of the anticipation fuelled by Robert Rinder and Olivia Coleman so perhaps missed out on celebs to come,  instead opting for one last session in the Forum, as John Rees discussed the politics that lay behind the release of Julian Assange.

The Van Morrison Alumni Band seemed to me to be an odd booking. No doubt accomplished musicians and singers they lacked the charisma to carry a show. Van Morrison may be a notorious curmudgeon, but there's a reason he occupies the centre stage. Much more promising were The Egg - the electronic version of the Bohman Brothers - who played a sneaky ambient set in the Shala. The performance was most notable for a stunning serendipitous collaboration with Alison David.  Completely unplanned, she explained afterwards she was on her way out with her suitcase when Ned made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Imagine sitting in on the actual recording of Clare Torry's vocals for Great Gig in the Sky and you’ll have an idea of the intensity, emotional heft and sheer musicality of her impromptu performance. The Scott brothers did well to hold it together after with a set of down tempo numbers that included some classics from the past. Afterwards, I went a wandering, stumbling across Andrew Bird, a comedian who had gone to the trouble of tailoring his set to a festival audience - He didn’t want to make some noise, or put his hands in the air - and was all the funnier for it. Later on I tried to repeat the experiment, but found Matt Richardson, so swings and roundabouts.

Which just leaves BICEP, an odd choice of headliner for a Sunday night. I can’t have been the only one with one eye on the journey home, and judging by the modest crowd, many decided to call it a night. The relentless pounding beat of their dance tracks would surely have been a better fit for Saturday night, when having it large comes only at the cost of a Sunday lie in. A switch with Michael Kiwanuka would have brought us down to earth gently on the Sunday night, sending us off to bed with a song in our heart, rather than our beat in our oh so dancing feet. As it was, the Barn once again offered salvation in the shape of Another Sky, sending me off to bed with one last memory of a proper band playing instruments and singing, like proper bands do, rather than the knob twiddling and projections of a headliner out of whack with the mood of the punters, or at least this one.

So how did Wilderness compare, second time around? Nothing can ever quite capture the shock of the new, but experiencing the festival in the sunshine it was made for more than compensated for familiarity. I'm conscious of the promises I made myself and then broke - specifically a whole bunch of venues I promised myself I'd try this time but still haven't visited. I did stick my nose into Togetherness, where Zoie Kennedy told tales of serpents, but it wasn’t for me. Neither was the Lakeland Spa, or the Banqueting trestle tables or the Mindful Space. I dare say others spend all weekend in such places, or drawing in the Studio, Flying with Seagulls or Hunter gathering in the forest. Their Wilderness would have been different from mine, but no lesser. The real wonder of the place was the coming together of disparate folk, perhaps only rubbing shoulders after a visit to the spotless loos, or while queuing patiently for coffee, or crossing paths while acts changed over, but rubbing shoulders none the less. It’s often said about a festival that no trouble took place, as if that's the bar we should aspire to, but Wilderness seemed to go that one step further, with all sorts of folk actively and determinedly happy to be there and share in that happiness. Not just the punters, but Stuart on Security laughing his head off having been caught dancing to BICEP, lovely Wendy in the Press Tent making us feel genuinely welcome, or Oxfam volunteers Fern and Christine stoically guarding an overflowing urinal with a smile on their face. Just about everyone, come to that, seemed blessed with a beatific smile and generosity of spirit. It elevated what would have been a fun weekend into something uniquely special. 

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