Live Review

Wickerman Festival – East Kirkcarswell Farm, Near Kirkcudbright, Scotland

• 27th Jul 2010

The Wickerman is feels small on the outside, yet you can easily lose yourself in the vast space looking from the Dumfries & Galloway vista as it is neatly tucked into the hills and valleys with rivers gently trickling by.

“T in the Park is too commercial for my liking” is the main sentiment. Something that is reflected in the artists chosen and there is something for everyone, be it main stage headliners like The Charlatans and Ocean Colour Scene, mountain bike tricks casting a spell on the inspired plethora, acoustic intimacy, poetic justice, blasts from the past in the shape of ageing punks, expanding waistlines or just a rip roaring couple days of sheer unadulterated hedonism. All these ingredients with warm water boiled on camping stoves, it is easy why you might think this is actually a bubbling cauldron of magic. The Children’s tent is the only place for innocence to wander without fear and care.

Dr. Huxtable’s Axis Soundsystem is the earthly cure for the travel sick and weary. Playing, all the way through the festival from gate opening to the wee small hours, with love filled bass oozing from the giant stack of speakers to seduce the curious like a pied piper. The selectors stirring emotions from the dark and deep of life’s fables of the Kebra Nagast and other soul influenced texts.

An international field of hell, tied down by tent guy ropes, flagpoles and windsocks there is a pyrotechnic display of colour from the tortoise shell shaped homes. The wind flows over with the spirit of Cupid’s arrows from the protective bow of The Wickerman standing guard and looking proud of his achievement as the sun beats down, there has been no need to make a sacrifice yet, or if there has it is seen as worthy price for Gods with no name.

The Raw Kings giving the world their unique flavour from the lips and the blow of a Glasgow kiss. Prophesising about their next album in the coming months, they take their hats off to younger wannabe troubadours as they recant about how “We ain’t sober yet”. The Counterfeit Clash packing a double barrel shotgun of a set, The Buzzcocks “playing like they did in the 1970s” and The Charlatans shine and form part a of the first set of sacrificial lambs are taken up and then down. At all of these there are an uncountable ques with many having to leave with a sense of dejection. Ravenously chewed up and swallowed with no regret others hail Tony Christie as the King among Princes at a banquet of music. With everyone enjoying their fill there is not even room for snacks provoked by munchies. The great pretenders found out and shamed by Jane Overton’s socially minded satire.

During this night there is much discussion of the tactics of the security guards and they are about as liked as generals in unpopular armies in the many European wars, but like those, there is a need to let go. This is done by diverting the attention back to the real reason why festivals like this are so successful , the music and the fans. Without this there would be nothing.

After yesterday’s white riot, there is no-one who can take Sgt. Howie’s place as a virgin to be sacrificed. Instead there is a thick mist shrouding the bowl of glee in a deeper mystery than someone speaking in the tongues of angels. Of course today is not as good as the weariness takes its toll, this after all, is a morning after the night before. A lot of those angels have taken human form by descending in the guises of The Geese playing an acoustic version of Psycho Killer with backing vocals from the audience. Many others get a whole choir of thousands, but they remain special in their Mongolian tent stage. The more mainstream become a torrent of joy as Esperanza, The Futureheads, The Undertones, The Hip Parade, Ocean Colour Scene and 808 State. Sodden ghosts are now lifted to a better plane, one high above the wet and dishevelled grass is the comedy of Jay Laverty, the lady squire of Greenock. Her mantra is of family, Facebook and sex, staying here she has to forgo at least one of those.

Of course this is where the film is originally filmed and why the location is chiefly chosen. The end of this carnival of paganism ends in the same vain. With the beat of a solitary drum neck hairs stand on end fully aware of the tension tangible as the impending doom of inanimate objects. The Wickerman is burnt to the glow of red and yellow, fusing a barrage of fireworks sounding like an ancient war scene. No chance of a remake it disappears as quickly as it takes someone to jump over a small dry stone wall.

These are all experiences that the family can come together with, especially if you are a child in an adult’s body. It is not perfect as there is a large degree to which keeping something like this is a labour of love. This festival has caused many sleepless nights before. Something that founders Sid and Caroline have experienced with the festival for twenty five years, ever since its inception as a boyhood dream. Long may that dream continue.