You catch me mid-contemplation. Successful gigs don’t happen by accident. It takes an awful lot of preparation on the part of the artist and the promoter to get it right; to bring a responsive audience into the venue, to set the right atmosphere, to take the crowd on a journey that they’ll continue to savour as they flood back out into the night. Once we afford ourselves time to look back on a gig, it tends to be individual moments of magic that stand out and make the occasion memorable.
So, should this article celebrate the whole gig or the parts that make the whole? That’s my current quandary. And I think I’ve plumped for the latter, mainly because those moments tend to showcase what makes each performer special.
Before we get stuck into this list, it’s probably worth reminding ourselves that such a thing is incredibly subjective. For a start, I can only really write about moments that stuck out for me at gigs that I attended in person. If none of these chime with you (or, indeed, if you remember them, too), please feel free to add your thoughts in the comments below.
In no particular order, then…
- Tamsin Elliott, Tarek Elhazary & Rowan Elliott
- Frankie Archer
- The Eliza Carthy Trio
- Faustus & Sam Sweeney
- Wizz Jones
- Sam Grassie
- Filkins Ensemble
- Sam Baxter
- Angeline Morrison and Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne
- Amit Dattani
- Bonfire Radicals
- Martin Carthy
- George Sansome
- Jim Moray
- Jennifer Reid
- Nick Hart
- Martin Simpson
- Holly Clarke
Tamsin Elliott, Tarek Elhazary & Rowan Elliott – Sidmouth Folk Festival
Such is their musicianship that they brought the bustling streets of a Cairene souk – to the Sidmouth seafront.
The Cellarful of Folkadelia at Sidmouth’s Kennaway House seemed like an odd place for Tamsin, Tarek and Rowan to pitch up. Theirs is an earthy, organic music, seemingly better suited to a billowing tent on an Arabian beach than a subterranean box on the edge of a manicured, English lawn. Such is their musicianship, however, that they brought the beach – or in the case of ‘El Hara’, the bustling streets of a Cairene souk – to the Sidmouth seafront. I was lucky enough to catch the soundcheck as well as the performance itself, and I remember gazing out the door, across the mini golf course, over the Chit Rocks and on to a dripping seascape, the sun smeared across the sky like melted butter. I traveled at speed and found myself, for no more than five blissful minutes, back on the streets of Cairo where I once spent a thrilling week in the final days before the Arab Spring uprising. And then I was back in the room, marveling at the transcendence that these three masterful musicians can transmit from their souls to their fingers. Music this powerful can do that to a person.
Frankie Archer – The Jim Moray Festival, Cecil Sharp House, London
As far as the next generation is concerned, Frankie Archer is where it’s at.
This was the moment I caught a glimpse of the future. I was sitting on the raised wall-seats that line Kennedy Hall. It was one of the hottest days of the year, and Cecil Sharp House seemed to have formed its own weather system, sucking in all the humidity from the North London area and concentrating it on its largest room. I was there with two 14-year-olds, my daughter and her friend, and Frankie Archer was doing her very best to keep the room from slumbering in the intense heat. She launched into ‘Alone Maids Do Stray’, a steely-eyed song that states its political position without blinking, and one that the artist introduces with a verbal version of those advisary warning labels that used to adorn CDs. I glanced over at the two teenagers. Not only were they awake (which is more than I could’ve hoped for in that infernal heat), they were transfixed. As the song came to an end, they both pulled their phones from their pockets and started scrolling through TikTok and Spotify. “Followed”, said one to the other, receiving a slow but unequivocal nod in agreement. No other performer that day was awarded quite the same approval. As far as the next generation is concerned, Frankie Archer is where it’s at.
The Eliza Carthy Trio – Sidmouth Folk Festival
Carthy demonstrated – once again – how rare it is to be able to own a stage quite like she can.
This one is bitter-sweet. I can’t be the only person who finds it incredibly frustrating that one of the finest English folk trios we’ve seen in years formed, recorded an exemplary album, played desperately few gigs, and then vanished again just as quickly. The whole of their mid-afternoon Ham gig at Sidmouth Folk Festival (and its subsequent standing ovation) was good enough reason to start the campaign for more right here. The lingering memory for this writer was the tune set, ‘Pecket’s Black Mary/ Love Lane’, in which Eliza Carthy demonstrated – once again – how rare it is to be able to own a stage quite like she can, not to mention the uncanny musical intuition she has with Dave Delarre and Saul Rose. As hot as the Ham can get, the three somehow managed to turn up the temperature, risking a rupturing of the humongous tent’s moorings and a hot-air balloon incident the likes of which the Jurassic Coast has yet to witness.
Faustus & Sam Sweeney – Sidmouth
The death of Paul Sartin took with it the opportunity to see the esteemed fiddle player, Saul Rose and Benji Kirkpatrick in full flow – a highlight of anyone’s festival calendar for many years. What a joy, then, to hear the two remaining members take flight once more at this year’s Paul Sartin Tribute Concert, where they were joined by Sam Sweeney. The tune-set ‘Next Stop: Grimsby/ The Three Rascals/ Aunt Crisps’ simultaneously lifted the whole crowd to its feet while reminding everyone exactly what they were missing. While it can never be the original three again, the chance to hear these tunes again at some point in the future would be a real treat indeed. Just sayin’, fellas…
Wizz Jones – Broadside Hacks Folk Club, Moth Club, London
Jones left the stage to a standing ovation, demands for selfies, and a slightly astounded look on his face.
I’ve been a fan of Wizz Jones for years, but I’ve never had the good fortune to see him live. In October this year, Campbell Baum of the Broadside Hacks invited me to compere a Bert Jansch tribute night at Moth Club in Hackney, featuring Wizz and Jacqui McShee. Before the show, I introduced myself to the legendary guitar slinger and asked him what he’d been up to recently. “Not much,” he told me, “I’m pretty much retired now.” When I probed further he told me nobody was interested in, “the kind of thing I do anymore”. Cue 150 people, mostly below the age of 30, streaming into the Moth Club to get a glimpse of “the kind of thing I do”. Wizz regaled the rapt audience with memories of 50s and 60s Soho, Bert and other highlights from his extraordinary time in music. He closed by coaxing McShee into a singalong of the Jansch classic, ‘Strolling Down the Highway’, and left the stage to a standing ovation, demands for selfies, and a slightly astounded look on his face. Hopefully, even at 84 years old, his retirement will be short-lived.
Sam Grassie – Broadside Hacks Folk Club, Moth Club, London
Jaws slackened, pin-drops could be heard, and then the audience erupted. Sam Grassie is a special player.
Same gig, different guitar slinger. The Bert Jansch tribute evening at Moth Club opened with an almost impromptu rendition of ‘Angi’, performed by one of my favourite young guitarists, Sam Grassie. Seconds before we took the stage, I asked him if he’d mind giving it a go. “Sure,” he shrugged, mumbling something about not really having warmed up. As most folk-minded guitarists would tell you, playing ‘Angi’ at the drop of a hat is one thing, but doing it to open a show infront of 150 very eager Bert fans… well, that’s quite a tall order. But Sam is the very definition of a cool cat, and he knocked it out as though he’d been practising it for 12 hours straight, bending his fingers around an interpretation that was as much his as it was Bert’s (or Davey Graham’s, for that matter). Jaws slackened, pin-drops could be heard, and then the audience erupted. Sam Grassie is a special player.
Filkins Ensemble – FolkEast (particularly the Squash Court Sessions)
Grins light their faces as they realise they’re onto something, and by the end, vocalist Ellie Gowers seems to be having the time of her life.
I’ve heard it said in recent months that traditional English folk bands with the clout and energy to headline festivals are in short supply these days. If it’s energy and oomph you’re looking for, you’ll want to keep an eye on Filkins Ensemble. On a sunny afternoon in August, they crammed onto FolkEast’s largest stage and could subsequently be heard in most corners of East Anglia. However, it was a brief moment in a neighbouring squash court that took my breath away. We brought a few of them from the stage to a small, live session for the Tradfolk cameras, and they ran through a few takes of ‘Wind and Rain’ [Roud 8]. Midway through their final attempt, something happened – that sprinkle of fairydust that turns a good performance into a memorable one – and you can see it right there in the video. At around the two-minute mark, Seth Bye hits a few strident runs on his fiddle and the other players start to respond. Grins light their faces as they realise they’re onto something, and by the end, vocalist Ellie Gowers seems to be having the time of her life. Not the most public performance, sure, but as live music goes, it was hard to top, and certainly suggests that Filkins Ensemble have something that festival organisers may well be searching for.
Sam Baxter – FolkEast
He ambled on with a small amplifier, a Gibson SG, and a voice that could scalp mountains.
One of those musicians that, offstage, seems like an amiable, almost bumbling fellow, but onstage is utterly electrifying. I booked Sam Baxter to play the Tradfolk Stage at FolkEast, knowing that I liked what I’d seen pre-pandemic when he played the youth stage at Sidmouth. I didn’t expect to sit through his whole set (I had a lot of running about to do backstage), but I was bewitched. He ambled on with a small amplifier, a Gibson SG, and a voice that could scalp mountains. By the time he sang ‘Did You See My Man’ [Roud 2105], a song Sam claimed he didn’t really know what to do with, I had to scoop myself off the floor. I remember sprinting out the back of the tent and calling my pal, Jon Nice, who was filming the Tradfolk sessions down in the squash court and was about to close up for the weekend. “If you stay open for 30 mins more, can I send you this musician I’ve just seen? You won’t regret it.” Sam quickly became Jon’s FolkEast highlight, too.
Angeline Morrison and Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne – FolkEast
For nearly four minutes, the duo turned that tent into a kind of travelling-circus-cum-art-experiment.
We could’ve filled the tent three times over for Angeline Morrison’s Tradfolk Stage appearance. In one of those moments that make FolkEast the most magical of the folk festivals, I went out to the front of the stage to try and grab a photo of the crowd, only to find that it had spilled out across the woods, mingling beneath the fairylights in the Sunday evening gloaming. Morrison was, as ever, mesmerising, but the special moment (for me, at least) was the introduction of Cohen Braithwaite-Kilcoyne, increasingly her go-to musical lieutenant, for a couple of songs, including a rendition of ‘The Beautiful Spotted Black Boy’. The composition displays Morrison’s knack for musical sleight-of-hand: the tale of George Alexander Gratton (1808-1813), an African child with vitiligo who was paraded in cages at sideshows across the country until he died somewhere between the ages of four and eight. Unsuspecting listeners nod along and smile at the nostalgic steam-engine tune, performed with the kind of feeling and dexterity that makes Braithwaite-Kilcoyne one of England’s finest folk musicians, as the singer narrates Gratton’s pain. For nearly four minutes, the duo turned that tent into a kind of travelling-circus-cum-art-experiment, the audience not sure whether to delight in the music or reel away in horror. Politically-charged folk music at its most powerful.
Amit Dattani – Warwick Folk Festival
Amit Dattani has taken that Jackson C Frank, psychfolk sound and made it his own.
I hadn’t come across Amit Dattani before, and given that I was performing immediately after him, I didn’t expect to be in the mood to sit and watch a whole show. On the advice of a friend, I decided to try and catch the opening couple of songs… and then found I couldn’t leave. You see, I’m a sucker for anything that sounds like it might have emanated from mid-60s Soho. I was born far too late to have been anywhere near the notorious Les Cousins nightclub, and so was Amit Dattani, but he seems to have taken that Jackson C Frank, psychfolk sound and made it his own. And what a storyteller, too. His own song, ‘Nightingale’, took me so far back (into a past that isn’t mine) that I entirely forgot I had a show to do of my own. I’ll be looking out for more gigs in 2024.
Bonfire Radicals – Folkeast
‘Spaghetti Junction’ seemed to be one-part music to two-parts clarinet vs recorder battle… on high heels. Don’t ask.
Every scene needs its own Crazy Gang, and Birmingham’s Bonfire Radicals has filled the contemporary vacancy with aplomb. Once again, it happened on the Stage in the Woods – that magical encampment that sits like a motte to the rest of FolkEast’s bailey, sending out the vibes (for want of a much better word) that charge the rest of the festival. It was Friday night and, having had a very long day, I was about to retire for the night. Only, I found I couldn’t. Something was going on in those woods and I was being lured towards it. Venturing into the large tent at the top of the hill, I found myself transported from rural East Anglia to what appeared to be a Birmingham warehouse party where the DJ had been bound and gagged and the stage had been infiltrated by a mad disco-klezmer outfit. It’s hard to say where the highlight arrived, but I do remember throwing shapes to something called ‘Spaghetti Junction’, which seemed to be one-part music to two-parts clarinet vs recorder battle… on high heels. Don’t ask. Just make sure you see them next time they set the night on fire.
Martin Carthy – Kings Place
I remember sitting there thinking, “Cripes… where do we go from here?”
Let’s just say I saw a lot of Martin Carthy shows in 2023, mostly from the prime position of the interviewer’s seat on stage next to him. The first half of each night kept to a fairly strict format – we’d talk about the 1950s and 60s and his early career, and he would play ‘High Germany’ [Roud 904] and ‘Scarborough Fair’ [Roud 12]. The second half, however, was always something of a free-for-all. I generally had no idea of which songs he fancied playing or talking about, and on a number of occasions he’d whip out something completely unexpected. The Kings Place show in December was the best conversation so far (and one that, fortunately, we made a high-quality recording of), but the highlight for me came when Martin salied forth on a monologue about the way in which folk songs demonstrate how little we change as a species, and how much we have yet to learn. He highlighted it with an impromptu performance of ‘Hard Times of Old England’ [Roud 1206], which shook the room to its core. I remember sitting there thinking, “Cripes… where do we go from here?” As I recall, there wasn’t much left to say. The show finished shortly afterwards with a standing ovation. Nicely done, Mr Carthy. Forget Springsteen; this guy’s the Boss.
George Sansome – Cecil Sharp House
Small room, small audience, huge talent.
I’m a huge fan of George Sansome’s guitar style. The word ‘underrated’ springs to mind whenever I see him, and I always rush home wanting to improve my own playing as a result. As I happened to be near Camden in February of this year, I popped in to see his solo gig in Cecil Sharp House’s Storrow Hall. Small room, small audience, huge talent on stage. His touch on that guitar is to die for, and his repertoire is always intriguing. I knew ‘Bonaparte’s Dream of St Helena’ [Roud 349] before that gig, having heard a stellar version on Jim Moray’s 2019 album, The Outlander, but I left Camden that evening mildly obsessed with it. Thanks for inspiration, George.
Jim Moray – Cecil Sharp House
If you’ve sent even one person out into the night smiling and singing, you’ve done a good thing indeed.
Speaking of Jim Moray (illustrious winner of our Best Folk Album of the Year, 2023), his set at the aforementioned ‘JimFest’ back in June contained countless highlights (as any set containing ‘Sounds of Earth’, ‘Lord Douglas’ and ‘Fair Margaret and Sweet William’ would), but the big moment for me came, once again, from my vantage point on stage. I had been asked to step in on bass for the band section of the show and rehearsals had led me to rediscover the beauty of Jim’s arrangement of ‘Sweet England’ [Roud 272], with its heart-rending guitar lines and keening vocal. I’d not heard it in a long time, and took great joy in helping him to bring it to life once again. As we played it at Cecil Sharp House that evening, I recall seeing Sam Sweeney at the back of the hall, singing along with sheer delight on his face, suddenly being pulled away to get a lift back to his home in Stroud, desperate not to leave. I’m not sure if Jim saw that – he was probably lost in the song – but I hope he did. If you’ve sent even one person out into the night smiling and singing, you’ve done a good thing indeed.
Jennifer Reid – FolkEast
Jennifer Reid felt like the underground highlight of the entire festival.
Some might think that Jennifer Reid hit the Tradfolk Stage at FolkEast at precisely the wrong time, just as The Young’uns took the main stage at the bottom of the hill. But full-scale competiton seems to be exactly what Jenn thrives on. For 45 minutes she roamed on and off mic, barking her beloved broadside ballads at such a volume that The Young’uns may have had a run for their money. As she closed the set on a rowdy singalong of ‘Pomona’ [Roud 16636], the 20-or-so people in the tent agreed that they had made the right decision, coming to see what felt like the underground highlight of the entire festival.
Nick Hart – The Guildford Institute
When he’s lost in song and he’s pulling the audience in… there’s really no-one better.
I saw Nick Hart three times this year, and I’m tempted to say that his finest moment was on the Stage in the Woods at FolkEast, where he took on the might of full-volume Lindisfarne and won his audience over entirely. But the truth is, Nick Hart needs to be heard, for it’s when he’s at his most tender that he really blows the competition away. If you ever get a chance to hear him singing ‘Jack Hall’ [Roud 369] live, take it. And if you ever get to see him doing it unplugged, as he did on this balmy September night in Guildford, sell limbs for a ticket. Sure, he’s got the gift of the gab and you’ll leave most of his gigs feeling like you’ve had a night out with a very funny mate, but when he’s lost in song and he’s pulling the audience in so that they can hear him, there’s really no-one better.
Martin Simpson – FolkEast
To play this little masterpiece in front of a packed out Moot Hall without any hint of difficulty – I take my hat off to Maestro Simpson every single time.
Again, I could pick from a number of Simpson performances I’ve seen this year, and every one of them would feature ‘Alan Tyne of Harrow’ [Roud 1553] as my personal highlight. I’m choosing this one simply because it shows his dexterity and his command over his instrument. As a finger-picking guitarist myself, I know how hard it can be to get yourself sufficiently ‘in the zone’ in front of a live audience as you stand there and offer up a prayer that your fingers will free themselves enough from the disabling electricity of adrenaline and anxiety to do what you’re begging them to do. But to play this little masterpiece in front of a packed out Moot Hall without any hint of difficulty – I take my hat off to Maestro Simpson every single time.
Holly Clarke – St Andrew’s Church, Sheffield
Martin Carthy sits in the wings, shaking his head, muttering, “Man, she can sing.”
Backstage, Holly Clarke was nervous. You would be, too, if you were a huge Martin Carthy fan and you were about to play support at his last gig of the year. What you probably wouldn’t do, being a sensible person, is step onto the stage and play your version of ‘John Barleycorn’ [Roud 164], a song almost as synonymous with Carthy as ‘Scarborough Fair’, knowing that he’s in the audience. What you definitely wouldn’t do is knock it out of the park with such aplomb that Carthy himself sits in the wings, shaking his head, muttering, “Man, she can sing.” True story. Holly Clarke is one to watch.
