No Direction Home 2012 - a rambling remembrance

A new kid on the block this, but one with a fine heritage.  End of the Road has established itself as one of the best small festivals around, and this year the organisers of that fine fest inaugurated a young sibling known as No Direction Home.  Set within the extensive and picturesque estate of Welbeck Abbey on the fringes of Worksop, NDH promised a variant take on EOTR's brand of easy-going boutique festivalling.

Nice Chopper, Mr Wet Nuns Drummer

First impressions were encouraging - a beautiful drive up from the main road reminiscent of the track into Latitude, but then, what is this?  A queue?  Yes, and one that took an hour to clear into the car park.  Something to work on for next year methinks, though the sight of a flock of scythe-winged swifts buzzing over the fields provided a pleasing distraction.  The weather conspired to refuse to turn dry until the last tent peg was in the ground, so sodden and seeking shelter we spent much of Friday in the comedy tent.  This turned out to be an inspired choice, as it offered us the sight of John Robins failing to chat up a girl with his encyclopaedic knowledge of Captain Beefheart, followed by Josie Long's brilliant impression of the "real" Ed Milliband and Robin Ince's inimitable brand of resigned anger.  But that was just the start...

As we left the comedy tent, Robins and Long had taken over the mics after the formal comedy session had ended, to engage in some random karaoke.  They had decided to keep going until they had driven everyone out of the tent, but many were hanging around just for the fun of it. We left them belting out Toto's Africa for at least the second time, as we had an assignation with Wet Nuns.  A Sheffield two-piece who make a glorious blues-rock racket and are a lot of fun into the bargain, who could not love a band who weild a huge denim axe on stage?

I Want Your Sax: Ms Green's Right Hand Man

Much of the rest of the Friday evening was spent aimlessly rambling, exploring the site and getting our bearings, in the company of two women we met at the Wet Nuns show, one of whom directed a video for them and the other was there to run fabric bird making workshops, and who had some splendid magpies on display in a tree.  In the meantime we caught snatches of Django Django, Eyes and No Eyes, Dirty Three, Veronica Falls and The Low Anthem, but somehow Friday didn't seem to be about the music.

We closed the day out back in the comedy tent, where - you guessed it - the Robins and Long Karaoke Marathon was still in full swing.  In time enough order was restored to run a bit of a comedy session.  By this time Josie Long was very much in her cups and proved a hilariously ramshackle host, and frequently riffed off brilliantly.  We were finally herded out at the end of the night to the sound of - full marks again - Africa.

Saturday began with a touch of Laish on the main stage.  Brightonian, with lashings of the Miserable Rich and Divine Comedy, they held my attention for long enough until it was time for cheese tasting at the School of Artisan Food. This felt like something that would fit in well at Latitiude, and was popular enough that there wasn't enough cheese to go round!  After that what else is there but to listen to the jazz-blues inflexions of Liz Green?  Accompanied by an oddly-attired band including a turbanned saxophonist and double bassist in misguided silken shorts, Green's easy charm and rapport was an instant winner.  Good to see her after so many failed attempts.

Martin Simpson, possibly in DADGAD mode

First revelation of the weekend was Martin Simpson.  His was a name I'd heard of, but it suggested yet another of those those yeah-yeah folk singers.  Imagine my surprise to hear some exquisite, intricate bluesy picking and inventive re-tuning, not to mention heart-rending songs and delightful chat.  I enjoyed it so much I was happy to watch him give a half-hour gutar techniques demonstration later in the day.

Over to the Electric Dustbowl - the main tented stage, and not a name I particularly took to - for the Cornshed Sisters.  They have become one of my favourite live acts of this year, though they seemed a little ill at ease on this occasion, displaying less of their customary wit and bonhomie and harmonies not always hitting the spot.  Shame, because on their day they can be utterly beguiling.

This tent became the default venue for most of the rest of the day's entertainment.  Firstly, Joe Gideon and the Shark.  Bathed in a dark light, which did little for their highly visual show, and majoring on new, unreleased songs, they didn't come over as well as they had done at EOTR a few years back.  Then there was Moon Duo, whose psych-rock workouts had me swaying and threatening to drop off, trance-like, in a very good way indeed.  A tighter proposition than Ripley Johnson's other outfit, Wooden Shijps, and arguably better for it.

It's the Shark.  It says so on the luminous xylophone.

A brief relocation to the main stage for Andrew Bird.  Great showmanship, brilliant musicality and some superb tunes.  Shame the weather wasn't ideal, which took some of the sheen off, but hey, I'll be seeing him at the Roundhouse later in the year, which should be a more intimate affair.  Heading back to the Electric Dustbowl, we encountered Pyramids.  Like the Archie Bronson Outfit?  Of course you do.  Well, you'd like Pyramids.  Because they're the same thing.  Although in their Pyramids incarnation they're a looser, sleazier, bluesier take on their usual persona, locking into the riffs until they scream to be let go again.  Mesmerising.

So on to Sunday, and a noontime encounter with Ned The Kids Dylan at the Rough Trade stall.  This junior singer/guitarist was a revelation at last year's End of the Road with his self-penned tunes, many of which draw on his experiences - though some, like the cocaine lament Emily, hopefully don't - and he clearly has oodles of confidence and has been honing his stagecraft at such a tender age.  It'll be interesting to see how he develops.

A Moon Mono.  Brudenell t-shirt not featured.

A short hop to the main stage for Trembling Bells.  I'd seen them at Union Chapel with Bonnie Prince Billy and while it was good, it felt like there was something missing.  That something was volume.  On their own, and with a much better sound system, turned up to 11, the same songs came alive with bristling guitar and creative drumming that didn't overpower the rest of the sound.  A truly stunning set.

Sunday afternoon?  A sunny Sunday afternoon at that?  What's needed is a bit of gospel on the main stage.  Cue Cold Specks.  For a little lady, Al Spx has an amazingly powerful voice, almost overpowering at times, but perfect for kicking back on a blanket to.  Then the Wave Pictures come along to wake us up, to bop around to their beaty tunes full of cheeky and intricate guitar licks.

No mention has been made yet of the Flying Boating Club.  This is a stage at the edge of the beautiful lake, which has the feel of a pub beer garden, and with the best bar on site (mostly) well-stocked with a range of regional ales (a nice touch being a focus on different cities' beers on each day).  Here we saw Dog Ears, an acoustic three-piece combining the vocal harmonies of the Leisure Society with the guitar stylings of Nick Drake, and with an endearing and warm stage presence.

No age restriction here for Ned the Kids Dylan

Back to the main stage for Slow Club.  A recurring theme of NDH is the high quality of the sound, particularly at the main stage.  As with Trembling Bells, Slow Club benefitted massively from the improvement in sound quality compared to my previous experience of them in Guildford.  There's nothing particularly original about them - most of their songs remind me of something else - but they deliver them with boundless energy and sense of fun, and in Rebecca they have one of the finest vocalists around.

Like a shuttle train we headed back to the Flying Boating Club, where Laura J Martin was displaying her impressive multi-instrumentalism.  I wasn't totally tuned in for all of this but what did grab me was some gutsy flute playing reminiscent of Ian Anderson.  After that it was one last venture to the main stage for Richard Hawley's headline set.  He was debilitated by a leg injury and wheeled onto stage where he conducted his set from a seated position.  Having only ever seen him asa walk-on guest for Elbow and Pulp, it was good to see him engage the audience on his own terms and deliver a much more varied set than what I've heard of his recorded output suggested.

Trembling Bells Almost Killed Me

So, that was it. Except it wasn't.  Off to the Electric Dustbowl to see Mikal Cronin.  And what a way to round off the festival.  A set brimming with jangly surf-punk brilliance that might just have been one of the best hours of the whole weekend.

So, what of the festival overall?  How does it shape up?  Well, EOTR is a hard act to follow, and clearly NDH will always struggle to shake off the shackles of its elder sibling, and doesn't have some of the features that make EOTR so special, but features like the Flying Boating Club and many of the craft tents bring something different to the feast.  There is plenty of room to move, in fact it is clear that it was laid out with future expansion in mind.  And the excellent comedy tent seems more accessible than those at EOTR that tend to be hidden away somewhat.  The sound quality is excellent, especially on the main stage, and there is a good range of stalls including an excellent pie stall (yes, better than Pie Minister).  The local farm shop and range of local beers available were welcomed, although they did tend to run out of beers a little early on.

All in all, a good start for No Direction Home.  Next year's festival is confirmed, and I expect it to be busier than this year's.  It's already likely to win over Glastonbury for us next year, and that's no mean feat.