Ramblin’ Man Fair
Mote Park, Maidstone, Kent
Great line-up, good vibes... A classic rock lover’s happy place.
SaTurday
The sun is burning, and Gun are blazing. The great weather has put everyone in a very positive mood, and the veteran Scottish rockers take full advantage as they prove to be excellent festival openers. Drawing on material from both their past and present, Gun get people moving and grooving to Word Up, Better Days, Favourite Pleasures and a cover of (You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party!). Irresistible.
In a tent full of straw hats and sensible shoes, Gorilla riot look cool as fuck – all shades, arms coated in tattoos and hot young rock-star chic. Arjun Bhishma’s gravelly vocals lend a subtly grungy edge to their sharp, swaggering brand of cocksure rock, and they carry themselves like a much bigger band than they actually are (without being arseholes).
“We play bittersweet alternative rock with a Liam Neeson accent,” says Therapy?’s Andy Cairns by way of an introduction. The band are peripheral to this festival, but that doesn’t bother the trio at all, sweeping all before them with a finely honed, confidently energetic set. Cairns even tells us that it’s drummer Neil Cooper’s birthday, and we should take him out to get pissed. Oddly, he said the same thing the previous night, when Therapy? headlined the Maidstone Leisure Centre…
You can’t deny that Henry’s Funeral Shoe are an agitating duo, with a lusty blues style. But while they get everyone’s attention, what the pair never do is convert this interest into songs that stay in the mind. If they’re to get any success, they have to write much better material, making use of their undoubted thrust and burst.
On the main stage, flanked by an amp stack the size of a small house, countrified trio The Cadillac Three remind us that they’re as well schooled in Metallica as they are in Hank Williams. “Can I get a hayell yeah?!” singer Jaren Johnston hollers after a deliciously deep’n’dirty Peace Love & Dixie. Their show packs a metallic crunch and personality that sets them apart from many of their Nashville contemporaries, offset by the cockle-warming sweetness of Hank & Jesus.
Armed only with acoustic axes, and mixing solo, Alter Bridge and Slash material (plus a brilliantly unlikely Johnny Cash-style take on Iron Maiden’s The Trooper),
Myles Kennedy reminds us of what a killer guitarist he is – a fact sometimes overshadowed by That Voice. “It’s a celebration, of anxiety!” he declares sweetly, introducing dark, rootsy highlight
Haunted By Design. Indeed, he’s so sweet that even Robert Johnson’s lascivious refrain ‘you can squeeze my lemon’ sounds somewhat polite in his hands. Not that it matters – it’s a class set from a class act.
The dust Coda have been whipping up a buzz for a little time, but on the evidence here, it’s hard to understand why.
Weakness is a decent tune, and the band are a tightly wound blues/soul foursome.
Yet today they lack the cutting edge to grab hold of the decently sized crowd and make a significant impact. The Coda need to break out of the shackles and be more spontaneous.
Okay, Steel Panther in the post-#MeToo climate… If you thought the 80s-parodying troupe of former session pros would tone down their cabaret of tits, anal and
STDs, you’d be wrong. After a joyful romp through Eyes Of A Panther and Goin’ In The Backdoor, Satchell fires out rampantly lewd gags about
Ian Hunter’s girlfriend, a German
Shepherd and Playboy bunnies with the efficiency of a well-trained sniper. Some of their schtick works
(dancing around in spandex, Michael
Starr’s hilarious Ozzy impersonation), some of it doesn’t (a fairly crass Rick
Allen impression, the girl and the inflatable cock on stage). Still, it’s a well-timed gear change from the softer jams elsewhere.
The rising Souls know how to get into a groove with their blues-dosed hard rock. But while this is admirable, and they’ve clearly got the potential to develop into a more than useful band, what they don’t offer is any individuality. You get the feeling you’ve heard this all before, and while these Soul mates do it with zest, what they never do is escape from their influences. As every song comes and fades away, you’re left breathlessly waiting for something that separates them from the pack – and it never comes. Yes, they’re proficient and enthusiastic, but they need to be much more.
For Steve Earle & The dukes, this is all about celebrating the 30th anniversary of Copperhead Road, one of the most iconic albums of the 80s. Earle and his band faithfully play every song in sequence, with the man himself liberally sprinkling personal stories from that period throughout the set. It’s mesmerising and compulsive as his country outlaw tunes flow. At once you’re transfixed by the brilliance of the music and also the personality of the performance, with Earle et al adding a fresh twist to these masterful tracks.
It’s not just about the main man, though, because the musicians Earle has with him – especially fiddle player Eleanor Whitmore – are truly special, ensuring there’s a multi-dimensional aspect to the entire set.
Mott The Hoople are simply brilliant. Yet despite delivering an absolutely spellbinding set to prove their timeless mastery, the band get a lacklustre reaction. This writer has never seen a festival headliner perform so magnificently and get so little in return. The problem is that most people here only know three Mott The Hoople songs: Roll Away The Stone, All The Way From Memphis and All The Young Dudes. And when these are performed, the throng do get enthusiastic, but this never lasts even into the next tune.
The three members from the glory days of the 70s – Ian Hunter, Ariel Bender and Morgan Fisher – couldn’t do any more to get everyone moving. Their
energy, passion and obvious skills are a joy to behold. However, the gulf between band and crowd is massive, and an insult to the former, who deserve much more than the polite response they get for monumental moments like Sweet Jane, Honaloochie Boogie and epic encore Saturday Gigs. A travesty for a band at the top of their game.
SuNday
Sunday brings the prevailing likelihood of sunburn, and a sizeable crowd for blues guitarslinger/MMA fighter Kris Barras. Sounding like a more menacing Bon Jovi but with the chops of a serious bluesman, he’s got the tunes, but we long for him to loosen up a little. Happily, this is rectified by a looser, juicier second half, including some tasty slide/ cigar box guitar action.
More dependably good blues fretwork comes from Laurence Jones. It pales a little on such a strong bill, but his blend of classic licks, smoothly sunny moments and stompy wah-wah flourishes goes down well, especially on a spirited cover of All Along The Watchtower, enjoyed with cold cider (it’s basically fruit juice, right?).
Tyler Bryant & The Shakedown shake up the main stage with a performance that makes you feel they’ll be headlining such events very soon. Bryant himself has charisma and soul, and with songs like Ramblin’ Bones, he has the material to bend this crowd to his will too. It’s an extraordinary 40 minutes from a band who have the knack of capturing and holding your attention.
Forget about the supergroup tag, Sons Of apollo are a genuine band: four virtuoso musicians fused together by frontman Jeff Scott Soto, a man who understands when to duck out and leave the other four to create musical marvels, and when to rein it all in. Sublime and enticing, these Sons might be progressively inclined, but they have a powerful punch.
In a tent full of far-off sounds and batshit time signatures (aka the Prog In The Park stage), the
Von Hertzen Brothers dive into oddball anthems with rock-star aplomb. Statuesque frontman Mikko commands the crowd like a Nordic lumberjack in civvies as strapping highlights from latest album War Is Over mix with prog-tastic earlier material, peaking with a faster, snarlier You Don’t Know My Name. They seem more comfortable than ever in their own progmeets-chunky-rock skin, and are clearly loving it.
You have to hand it to Jim Jones and The righteous Mind. Faced with a modest audience of people who haven’t gone to watch Blackberry Smoke, they absolutely nail it. Coolly resembling an angry goth Beatles, they tear into a filthy, decadent set of swampy yet hooky garage blues and psychobilly vibes. “Fuck the fascists! Fuck the racists! Fuck ’em!” Jim roars, his birds’-nest hair virtually exploding out of his black polo neck as he leans into the crowd.
It must be said, however, that this festival, especially with this weather, was practically tailor-made for southern rockers Blackberry Smoke. They draw one of the biggest crowds of the weekend, and throughout their sun-kissed, career-spanning set – from partay stompers like Six Ways To Sunday to the Allmans-esque jam of Sleeping Dogs
– everything just works. “It kinda looks like we’re in the Georgia mountains,” Charlie Starr grins. “Let’s get some good Protestant clapping goin’!” And as they close with a rousing Ain’t Much Left Of Me, the world’s problems melt away for a few minutes.
Mostly autumn’s brand of folk-tinged symphonic prog is often decried, but in their own understated yet musically exhaustive manner, they’re one of the best bands of the
weekend. Guitarist and leader Bryan Josh guides them through such weighty moments as Evergreen and Mother Nature, while vocalist Olivia Sparnenn has an engaging voice that weaves in and out of these musical tapestries.
The sweet summer breeze, the hippie-ish good vibes, the… oh my God it’s Halestorm, and they sound livid. Spitting venom like the love child of James Hetfield and Joan Jett, Lzzy Hale commands the stage like a classic rock heroine, but she roars like a hardcore vocalist. The likes of Mayhem are jagged but brutally heavy, while Love Bites should’ve been renamed Love Bites Your Face Off And Eats It. Drummer Arejay does a gleefully mental drum solo, and though one could be sniffy at such showboating, that would be churlish. The standard this weekend has been high, but for pure fuck-off rock flair, Halestorm are unbeatable.
By contrast, over at the blues stage, people are literally sleeping on the grass as the sun sets over Gov’t Mule. In another setting this might be a terrible sign, but here it works – provided you like long blues jams with jazzy keys and 70s southern riffage, led by an ex-Allmans guitarist. Whitesnake’s Bernie Marsden joins for an encore (suddenly the punters in Jurassic Park T-shirts reading ‘Ramblin’ Man: Where Dinosaurs Still Roar’ seem affectionately appropriate), and a cover of Ain’t No Love In The Heart Of The City leaves a pretty final impression.
Fish has to cut down his headlining set on the Prog stage. A massive overrun earlier in the day leaves no option. Understandably, he’s not happy, and nor are the crowd tightly packed into the tent. It denies us the full majesty of a performance that underscores the big man’s enduring capacity to perform songs from his time in Marillion and put these firmly in his own pocket. The core of the set is the material from 1987’s Clutching At Straws, at once a nostalgic trip while also offering a fresh route on well-trodden tracks. Evocative, yet all too short.
Depending on what frontman Ian Astbury had for breakfast this morning, The Cult could be a brilliant headliner or a questionable one. Thankfully they play safe with a set drawing heavily from their 80s heyday, when they seemed poised to become proper rock gods and had the tunes to prove it. So we get the likes of Lil’ Devil, Sweet Soul Sister and a superb Fire Woman, and guitarist Billy Duffy in particular kills it.
The set isn’t without problems. Astbury is pitchy at times, and wavering all over the place by closer She Sells Sanctuary (not that we really mind by that point), and his slightly snarky jibes at the flagging but happy crowd seem a little unnecessary – dude, we get it, we’re a bit knackered and it’s not just your party.
He does make nice in the end though, saying how amazing we and the festival are. “Whether you believe it or not, this means a lot to us,” he says, looking sincere, even emotional. So maybe the good karma of the weekend did impact him after all, as it did us.