Cornbury Festival 2007

The train trundles into the Charlsbury countryside and we finally step out into some sunshine for the first time in weeks.  It suddenly feels like we’re in the 1950’s and somewhat out of place with a lager in our hands.  We wait for a shuttle bus to weave us through what looks like the set of Emmerdale and into a country manor one presumes belongs to Mr Toad.

Running a little late we head for the arena with our tents to catch David Ford’s set in The Word Tent.  His set is a sublime opener for the weekend but it's only witnessed by a few as many are snaking in the manor’s grounds waiting to get in.  Ford delivers a remarkably mature yet intimate show delivering building delicacies complemented by an unmatched work ethic and poetic, lyrical perfection.

One would think those still queuing would be disappointed to miss such a meek yet sharp act, but the hoards who have made it in are too busy laying blankets and cementing pull out chairs near the front of the Main Stage.  All very ‘Germanic’ behaviour which would fit better for a Night At The Proms rather than a festival.

The two stages are where the festival first stumbles.  Their times coincide with one another so there is only one act to see at one time.  Unfortunately, especially with the high calibre of acts performing on the second stage, the majority of fans remain on their Main Stage seats reading a broadsheet rather then undergoing a two minute walk to see some quality music.  More an English picnic than a party.

When David Ford had roared through his final track, ‘Cheer Up (You Miserable Fuck)’ we dart down the golden green hill to the overpowering Main Stage to see Scott Matthews.  We carefully shuffle past chairs and tiptoe over blankets to get near the front to witness the singer/songwriter release his own intrusive style of blues, which oddly yet splendidly hang between the bleakness of Radiohead and the rock echoes of Pearl Jam. Unfortunately Matthews’ set, like most of the weekend, doesn’t seem loud enough, especially as the arena is a naturally sloping amphitheatre.  He concludes with the single ‘Elusive’ which unfolds subtly and gently on the warming crowd.

However a large selection of the weekend's revellers are inexplicably absent until we stumble across them by a stall called Kerrie Berrie.  Flashes of security attire, through the masses, glint brightly in the sun.  They’re holding back the numbers.  Has Debbie Harry been mobbed whilst merely searching for a festival hemp hat?  Further investigation reveals the stall has somehow acquired a wasp’s nest and a bee keeper is removing it from the site.  It is still quite unclear if this is part on the onsite entertainment but a gallant laugh from myself is met by a scornful mother tending to her crying son.  We scuttle off to the fun fair.

Unoriginally, and in tittering school boy manner, we rename the rides the ‘Un-fair’ after a go on the Ghost Train.  Yes, I am ashamedly too old to even consider this, but I have also had a belly full of cider.  The ride carts us around an oversized bin liner for thirty seconds before pulling us back into the sunshine.  Not even the most claustrophobic toddler would have distinguished this ride from the darkness of bedtime.

Back into The Word tent and soul songstress Bettye LaVette is saucing up the Chardonnay filled lovers who nearly fill the tent.  The 61 year old smoothes through the tracks that make her album ‘I’ve Got My Own Hell To Raise’ an irresistible and essential soundtrack to your next break up.  As some couples drunkenly grope one another their children look away in embarrassed disgust and I join them.  Instead I’m entertained by the middle class dancing in the tent: clapping hands accompanying an emphasised nod complete with overcompensating hip wiggles.

Then something strange happens as the tent empties.  A gentleman, though unscheduled, called MJ Hibbert takes the stage with a ukulele to perform his unique version of Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince’s ‘Boom! Shake The Room’.  It was almost unrecognisable yet affectionately catchy – I obviously need more cider. This is where the festival comes into its own - a trail of splendid drinks, from Hoff Premium strong German larger through Old Rosie 'knock-you-over' cider via a jug of wine, Pimms and even Champagne.  After we’ve sampled as much as we can, we merrily push our way to the main stage for David Gray’s headline set.

Gray, dressed like a commuter, with his omnipresent wobbling head, performs a special stripped down set of his hits and his rarer unknown numbers.  The Manc treats the Cornbury crowd to a gentle, elegant and classic acoustic set.  Bare versions of his very early work holds their own against the hits ‘Sail Away’ and ‘This Year’s Love’ and performing on both the piano and the guitar, Gray delivers a mighty performance which shows why he’s top of the bill, with ‘Babylon’ the obvious sing-a-long crowd pleaser.

The arena closes rather too early so we head out to get some more drinks for a night cap back at the tent.  Armed with enough vodka and Red Bull to sedate a large farm animal, we stumble on a beer tent overshadowing our small 2-man pebble excuse for shelter.  A singer playing on a small stage is covering all matter of indie hits acoustically.  His audience, which spills from the tents sides, slur in their best I’m-a-bit-to-loud-but-I-really-don’t-care singing voices to every last number.  We leave the party around 3am to salvage some sleep.

Our greenhouse of a tent wakes us up really early with our sleeping bags melting against our skin.  A quick breakfast bap and a cup of tea wakes us up before we stumble, almost certainly still drunk, out to The Green Inn which is nestled just outside the site, for some mid-morning Snakebites and a Sunday roast. Now, definitely drunk, we go back to the site to lie on the scolding grass and watch some afternoon acts. 

Midlake perform to a crowd of Sunday papers whilst Kate Moss look-a-likes stomp around in inappropriate wellies. Lead singer Tom Smith sounds uncomfortably similar to last night’s headliner as the five-piece bumble out bass-driven junkyard blues with a soft rock edge reminiscent of Bryan Adams.  “We’re soft rock, not hard rock,” explains Smith, “I don’t want anyone to fall asleep out there,” he echoes across the site waking an exhausted mother.

The Word Stage has morphed over night into the Oxford Folk Stage and the rather un-folky T & Latouche skank onto the stage to release their brand of Baggybeat reggae.  The cheap Casio blend of funk reggae, which UB40 so vulgarly distributed in the eighties, is poorly emulated and with a grimace I hold out long enough to hear an uncomfortable Muzak version of Gregory Isaac’s ‘Night Nurse’ complete with 80’s sax solo.

Next on the main stage is Suzanne Vega.  Not short of festival experience, she opens with an a cappella version of ‘Tom’s Diner’.  Then, not short of festival experience, she closes with ‘Tom’s Diner’. Oh, a pattern has appeared there.  Vega’s biggest hit is completed well but she falls short with the rest of her set.  Charming at best, Vega is more background music then ideal festival material.

The English/Irish folk quartet Flook are more inspiring.  Their saintly elegant folk ballads lead by an epiphany inspiring flute that draws many from around the site before the band take an interval to play a competition.  It's called 'Beat The Intro' and is fairly simple; they play a bit of their track ‘Gone Fishing’, before stopping, and whoever is singing along the loudest wins a CD.  A lady in the front row wins but most of the cider-worn crowd, me included, are as bemused as we are ‘Old Rosie’ cheeked.  Then the band declare that Roger Federer, “has just won Wimbledon and he’s rushing to this gig,” – good choice.

The Feeling take to the Main Stage and they’re fitting fodder for the family crowd.  The band make all the right rock moves – girating, turning and gurning as they belt out the album which won them the ‘Songwriter’s Of The Year’ prize at the Ivor Novello Awards.  Children sit on shoulders clapping and sing accordingly as last year’s pop heroes get the crowd bopping.  A cover of The Buggles ‘Video Killed The Radio Star’ gets a cheer but Dan Gillespie's Hitler moustache looks a little inappropriate, especially with children around.

The final act on the Oxford Folk Stage is one of the UK’s very finest at the moment.  Seth Lakeman fills the air with dramatic tales of Devon myths bounding home on an original and very English folk sound.  The heavy double bass is lifted by graceful fiddling and acoustic murmurings babbling like a Tennyson brook.

It’s quite the opposite on the Main Stage just moments later when Blondie take to the boards.  Debbie Harry may be looking akin to that new ruffun from Eastenders but she still epitomises cool.  Harry, who starts with a coat pulled tight before donning just a Ramones’ T-shirt by the end of the set, is joined but her ageing musicians (the lead guitarist looks as if he’s been plucked from an Old People’s home and not plugged in), but asthetics aside, Blondie are brilliant and it is easy to see Harry’s experience on the stage. 

Their new-wave punk is made as exciting and catchy as it had been in the late '70s and early '80s.  A haunting ‘Rapture’ gets a good response as do singles ‘Maria’ and ‘Atomic’.  ‘The Tide Is High’ sounds slightly poppy but that’s Atomic Kitten for you, while ‘Hanging On The Telephone’ and ‘Call Me’ nearly sound as fresh and energetic as they once did. “Play ‘Kid’s In America’”, calls out a misinformed gentleman next to me with an embarrassingly eager shrill.  I suddenly think people might think he’s with me so I quietly tell him – “That’s their encore”.  Childish yes, but funny also, and I skulk off to see Blondie perform ‘Heart Of Glass’ as their last number.

Cornbury is a delightful festival in breathtaking grounds.  The choice of drink is much better than most on the calender but, through no fault of the organisers, the two stages doesn’t work fully.  The family slant and middle class laziness means some of the better acts are missed out on – but that’s not what everyone’s there for. It feels much like accompanying your parents to their friend’s house for an adult dinner.  You’re under scruntany from them and their friends and it makes you want to be slightly naughtier.  Musically, it's pushing the right buttons for the right crowds, but it feels like you’ve always got one eye on the clock for bedtime.