This Friday afternoon Leeds to Skipton train stinks.
Overcrowded and rattling, businessmen are sweating into families crying into
chavs swearing into hipsters. Gradually, from Shipley through Bingley to
Keighley, the suits and the prams and the obscenities alight, and we become a
carriage of skinny jeans and massive beards. 44 minutes later, knees bent and
arms stretched, we ra ra ra our borrowed tents and buggered cider, with unused
strength of unseen muscle, from murky towns to muddy hills. And we’re here.
Greetings from Beacons.
In a stunning Yorkshire Dales setting, Beacons
essentially opens up Moorfest, a local festival for local people, to outsiders.
The line-up is far-reaching in location and genre. The promotion is hot, offering
fun for everyone; music, art, clothes, spirituality, food & drink… for
families, scenesters, ravers, boozers, hippies… The last and first year was
flooded out. Unsurprisingly, this year is sold out.
The festival is already in full swing and soul, keen campers
having arrived last night and today taken in a trio of bands I promise to see
at Leeds Fest for missing here. The campsites are small enough to find spaced
and big enough to find space. Tent up, cider downed, we leave camp to the
relaxed atmosphere of day and enter festival to the vibrant night.
Unfortunately, we do not witness this with the bright
vocals and dark beats of Jesse Ware, as planned, but by being misdirected
through trawling, winding, unsigned roads to an oddly remote and distant hut, a
most unusual and inconvenient location to hold our golden ticket. We then
accidently appear on site without passing any security. And now it’s
raining…
Despite the open space, Beacons provides ample shelter
from the storm. All stages are covered and so the psych-glam-fuzz of Gross
Magic in the ‘Noisey/Vice’ tent and the loud dream dubstep of Mount Kimbie in
the ‘Stool Pigeon’ tent receive a strong and enthusiastic crowd. Tonight is
headlined by dub-rap-reggae master Rodney Smith aka Roots Manuva. Charmingly
un-bling and infectiously likeable, we are propelled through dancehalls,
schmoozed by Yorkshire Olympic praise, before erupting to alt-Olympic
cheese-on-toast anthem Witness (1 Hope).
The night continues but I don’t, laying my head in my new
home. This is when some inevitable teething problems become apparent. The party
tunes are blared over the camping area and the family-friendly theme is further
questioned by an attempted 5am trip to the glory of festival toilets. Minimal
in number and unusably covered in your imagination, folk are public-peeing,
like enforced Heaton Park Stone Roses hooligans.
Sunshine greets Saturday morning and I feel further
refreshed at the sight of people feeling a whole lot worse than me. The food is
not quite as delectable as advertised but is passable for a festival so a
mediocre breakfast and rather good coffee anticipates the day. Initial
confusion letting people onto the site then throwing them back out soon redeems
itself by the realisation that the festival is responding to toilet complaints
and doing something about it. Kudos. Unfortunately for The Magnetic North, the
delay means they begin their mid-day set to themselves but, soon enough, have
attracted an audience besotted by their Orkney-influenced picturesque folk tales
of seasonal beauty. A lovely opening to shake off hangovers and kick off
session two.
Speaking of which, we head over to a real success for
Beacons; Whitelocks. Ye olde Leeds pub has recently been taken over by some of
Beacons organisers, who have modernised without losing any traditional charm.
This approach is exemplified with the on-site Whitelocks, where a terrific
selection of real ales are supped by the most unlikely of cool customers. The
association may help fill pockets but this is no mere cash-in and the roaring
fire for the cold and outdoor benches for the sun make for a welcoming space
easy to miss bands for.
But miss bands we mustn’t as Cass McCombs is already
riding along his country dirt-track. Expertly played sombre ballads (‘County
Line’) fall surprisingly flat though chugging Americana (‘The Same Thing’)
fares a little better. Followed by Still Corners, the mood remains static but
now sparkles, thanks to both their glorious debut album and vocalist Tessa
Murray’s jacket glistening somewhere between iconic front-woman and ironic
bingo-caller.
After Julio Bashmore had cancelled his Friday night epic,
there are concerns and rumours when Weird Dreams fail to appear next, and Clock
Opera later on. The reasons are unclear but, to the festivals credit, the
latter is replaced superbly by agit-punk entertainers Future of the Left, and
the omissions are helped by a line-up of continuing quality causing inevitable
clashes. We choose Japandroids over Splashh and are rewarded with a chaotic
riot of noise met by a charged pit to bring in the night.
Next up, Ghostpoet fills the tent with effortless style
and an energised set of downbeat tales that have the crowd hip-hopping forward
and bellowing back singles ‘Survive It’ and ‘Cash and Carry Me Home’. Headliners
and adopted Yorkshire sons Wild Beasts might be preaching to the converted but
their sermons are increasingly impressive. Through a back catalogue of
awesomely brooding new (‘Bed of Nails’) and awkwardly catchy old (‘The Devil’s
Crayon’) classics the crowd shout along, especially and comically on ‘All The
Kings Men’, with Hayden Thorpe’s soaring falsetto (“watch me! watch me!”) and
Tom Fleming’s warming baritone (“girls from Shipley”).
Sunday arrives with the patter of rain on tent and it
seems many remain hidden under canvas until their Pearson Sound induced
comedown capitulates. We finally brave the mud for marvellous tea, vintage
clothes, tiny golf, bouncy slides, more ale and The Wave Pictures. Perfect 60s
sunshine pop somehow fits the falling weather and cheers up a large crowd
bopping to infectious off-kilter tunes (‘I Love You Like A Madman’) who now
want more! More comes more in tune with the conditions as Leeds’ Hookworms
lock-in, groove-out and hypnotise a pleasingly huge head-nodding audience with
their thunderous, passionate, repetitive drone and love.
Flagging, an admirable veg curry provides a second wind
(so to speak) and we’re off again. Willy Mason is a big draw and reminds us
that he remains a big talent oozing authenticity. He delights with audience
singalongs (‘Save Myself’) and original classics (‘Oxygen’). Now fully into a
relaxed Sunday session, post-rock newcomers Tall Ships get us dancing to wonky
electronic riffs (‘T=0’) and roaring organic choruses (‘Gallop’) to create an immediate
and lasting impression.
But the end is nigh. Patrick Wolf, Felice Brothers, Cloud
Nothings and, of course, Toots & the Maytals await my happy ears but a
stinking carriage awaits my knackered body. There has since been much praise
but also various criticisms of Beacons; unacceptable toilets, minimal
additional activities, unfortunate t-shirts, over/under(?)-zealous security,
not what it said on the tin… some valid, all minor. I expect these will be
better next year. I expect Beacons will be great next year. It was pretty damn
good this year.
