Belladrum Tartan Heart 2008

United Kingdom | | 12 August 2008

Then add a champagne & Pimms bar, organic food, tipis with waterbeds and woodburning stoves, friendly security, and a happy family atmosphere...sounds like heaven, doesn't it? Belladrum Tartan Heart is indeed pretty close to heaven, especially when the sun shines as it does this year......

Festivities kick off with the Crack It Open Ceilidh on Thursday night, a pun on the Scots/Irish word "craic" which can mean good conversation, good music, good friends, good drink, good fun or any combination thereof.  From lunchtime on Friday the festival proper begins and it's the usual dilemma of where to go and what to see? The experienced festivalgoer simply lets the Tao take them where it will, so I walk into the Venus Fly Trap Palais, which usually has an eclectic programme similar to the Spiegeltent on Edinburgh's Fringe. There I find the Blank Album in full swing, completely unbilled - a creation of Natasha Gilmore, "The Catherine Tate of contemporary dance", this is a rocking mixture of music, comedy and dance poking affectionate fun at the classic rockgod schtick. All the dancers are seriously good professionals which makes it amazing as well as amusing. 

The Tao next tugs me along to the double Big Top Hothouse stage, where Old Blind Dogs are playing with a quasi-punk verve and energy to a deeply appreciative crowd, dancing and cheering with abandon. It's traditional Scottish music, Jim, but not as we know it...  Emerging blinking into the sunlight, I hear some uplifting music from the Garden Stage which turns out to be the lovely Baka Beyond, and am then drawn towards the Grassroots tent where, courtesy of the Southern Tenant Folk Union, a long way from home (South London, rather than the Deep South),  eldritch voices are singing in close harmonies over a background of supreme instrumental virtuosity. STFU rock the "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?" soundtrack vibe and captivate a large appreciative audience.   A pause for refreshment gives me a chance to have a quick gawp at an extraordinarily lifelike dog and an even more lifelike giant (fancy dress is encouraged at Belladrum) but means that alas, I miss Rachel Unthank and the Winterset. A snippet of The Kazoo Funk Orchestra's ridiculously wonderful set almost makes up for it, though.

Back in the Venus Flytrap Palais full throated cheers and whistles greet the first bars of the soundcheck for the Orkestra del Sol, nearing the end of a world tour which began in Beijing in February; from the moment they start playing for real, the audience is grinning from ear to ear  and whirling around like a dervish collective.  The Orkestra's blend of wacky, almost Borat-like clowning and superb musicianship is as infectious and incurable as the common cold; by the time their set draws (far too soon) to a close, the longest conga line in the world is snaking and twining deliriously through the tent at dizzying speed. Pausing to savour the last number from Australian brother and sister duo, Angus and Julia Stone, I join the crowd heading back to the Garden Stage to bop and sing along happily to Scouting for Girls who are on fine indie-pop form. Then, determined to wring the last ounce of pleasure from the day, a short bop to the banging techno at the Minuscule of Sound, officially the World's Smallest Discotheque, rubbing shoulders with Arab sheikhs, starlets, and burly, dragged-up "Highland housewives".

Saturday dawns with a short but impressive downpour, and then the sun comes out to play for the rest of the day. The Dangleberries on the Garden Stage are bagpipe playing fiends with manic samba drummers , who get everyone dancing up and down in the shallow mud. Over in the Seedlings Tent, The Draymin from Glasgow turn in an excellent set of energetic indie-pop music including a personal fave of mine 'Rise Up' which they took to SXSW last year.   The unmistakable sound of  Salsa Celtica's horn section gets going on the Garden Stage; their magical fusion of South American beats with Scottish fiddle and pipes leads to a fresh outbreak of enthusiastic dancing.

I run into Salsa Celtica's Toby Shippey in the Press enclosure;  he takes me to see  Nouvelle Vague, French chanteuses who deconstruct punk and new wave classics from the Clash to Joy Division,  adding lashings of bossa nova with very chic and charming results. I can't hang around for long, wanting to catch a glimpse of Dennis Hopper's Choppers - aka Ben Nicholls, a one-man-band, simultaneously playing guitar, bass drum, high hat, organ bass pedals, and vox-organ. Rockabilly meets garage meets punk in Pulp Fiction territory - unmissable stuff.

Back at the Garden stage, the untiring sound crew rise to the occasion of Dreadzone's set with the bass cranked up to 11 on the PA. The resultant dub reverb can be felt through your feet, providing a chance for the crowd to abandon all decorum and dance their wellies off.  Highlight of the day - by a short head from the legendary Pete Wylie, wrapped in what appears to be cooking foil, who tears off an amazing performance on the Grassroots stage while Edwyn Collins and Roddy Frame watch from the wings. It is 28 years since 'Seven Minutes to Midnight' but age does not dim his passionate attack. He debuts a new song inspired by the move to give Mrs Thatcher a state funeral, about which he is not best pleased....the crowd sing along with gusto. Wylie is outstanding, and the other two members of his band are tight but loose, in the best rock fashion.

Then it's time to squeeze into the Hothouse tent for Evan Dando's Lemonheads. More like REM than the Buzzcocks the 3-piece delivers a tight, very pleasing set. The audience ranges from very small children perched on their parents' shoulder to golden oldies, all of whom are lapping it up. Disappointingly, it is near impossible to see Dando (the thinking woman-of-a-certain-age's pinup) under a mane of hair and a Shetland pony-type fringe. Kudos to P David Hazel on drums, whose playing is as crisp and sharp as anyone could wish for.

The Waterboys '>The Waterboys headline Saturday and the crowd loves them, but I return to the Minuscule of Sound to find Dreadzone backstage checking out the DJ's collection and taking a turn on the diminutive decks while the hat-check girls dance manically alongside. Altogether a vintage Belladrum moment.

So there you have it. Belladrum; Glastonbury in miniature and the closest thing to the perfect festival you'll ever find - only, sssshhhh, don't tell anybody. It's a secret....

by Jennie Macfie