The last weekend of August is my favourite of the year. That’s when I pootle down to Cranborne Chase to the loveliest, most thoughtful festival in the UK. End of the Road is a festival for those who look at TV coverage of Glastonbury and see only the size and the heaving crowds and come out in a cold sweat.
It’s lovely because it’s small – around 15,000 people. You can walk from the furthest campsite to the furthest part of the festival area in 25 minutes or so. If you’re not enjoying what you’re watching, you’ll be able to find something else within five minutes’ walk, via an array of bars without punishing queues. If you don’t want music on one of the five stages, there’s a talking stage with authors and comedians (Stewart Lee and Harriet Kemsley among them this year), a cinema tent, sundry lesser activities, and a set of beautifully decorated paths through the woods that become rather magical after dark.
And because it’s small, you aren’t trapped there. In the rain of Saturday afternoon, I popped over to Salisbury to take a look at the Magna Carta (I had no idea it covered widows’ debts to Jews, or under what circumstances women could be forced to marry). I went from tent to town in 45 minutes – rather less time than it takes to get out of a Glastonbury car park.
And then there’s the music. It was good to see so many of the acts championed in this column winning over bigger crowds – Dove Ellis, Good Looks, Scott Lavene, Tyler Ballgame, Personal Trainer, Katy J. Pearson. The second-stage headliners on Saturday night were Viagra Boys, from Sweden, reviewed here when they were playing grotty little boxes in Hackney. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the air of menace they had when they were still playing the toilet circuit, but Sebastian Murphy remains a desperately charismatic frontman, and the band still sound like a filthy churn, all fuzzed bass and squawking sax.
They were up against Self Esteem on the main stage, who showed that her theatre shows could be scaled up magnificently. And Sharon Van Etten, who headlined the opening night with her current band the Attachment Theory, was magnificent. I had been very unconvinced when I saw their UK debut in a little show at the 100 Club. But Van Etten has gone gothy and synthy – her masterpiece ‘Seventeen’ was rearranged without the guitars – and through a big PA, it worked as bothson et lumière.
And then there were the bands new to me. Westside Cowboy, who I adored, play a fuzzy, melodic indie that is elevated by a quite brilliant drummer inserting Keith Moon fills where indie bands usually fear to tread. Ryan Davis & the Roadhouse Band, from Kentucky, meanwhile, offered mournful, lyrical country-rock, long songs spinning tangled narratives.
I went from tent to town in rather less time than it takes to get out of a Glastonbury car park
From Australia, Floodlights were dynamic – sharp, taut and powered by guitars and trumpet. And C.O.F.F.I.N (Children of Norway Fighting in Finland) were magnificently ridiculous. They come from a particularly Australian musical tradition, going back to AC/DC and before, of very tough music played with very good humour and no concern for niceties, usually a mixture of punk and hard rock and bar-band music. C.O.F.F.I.N were at the punkier end and apologised to the crowd for being a bit heavy for the festival, before launching into a joyous cover of AC/DC’s ‘Riff Raff’.
There are some issues: the Garden Stage is now so populated by people who think the name is a request to bring garden furniture that it is all but impossible to see anything unless you turn up at noon and settle in for the day. But otherwise, what a joy it all was.
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