It’s our final morning at Black Deer Festival, a three-day celebration of Americana and Country Music held at Kent’s Eridge Park. The sun this weekend has been unrelenting and as the sound of the Powerhouse Gospel Choir fills the campsite, I find myself a tad misty-eyed surveying the patchwork of tents slowly being disassembled. We’re about to cross back out those gates and everything is about to lose a little of its countrified charm.
Having bagged the ‘Best New Festival on the Block’ award at last year’s Independent Festival Awards, despite curating a bill that boasts Grammy Award winners, film stars, protest icons and a cross-section of some of the scene’s biggest names, what immediately stands Black Deer apart from other medium-sized festivals is its overall attention to detail. From the custom chrome choppers over at The Roadhouse to the rugged, tin-shack decor of Haley’s Bar, down to the mutton chops on the gent who serves me in front of a framed photo of ‘The King’ – they’ve got this whole Western aesthetic nailed.
“Who plays guitar here?” asks compere Steve Arlene on the Sunday, looking out now at a sea of raised hands, “I’ve seen more Martin D-28s this weekend than I ever have in my life”. From denim dungarees to matching father-and-daughter Stetsons, Black Deer seems to offer something for families, Country aficionados, weekenders and bikers alike (whilst also playing it’s part to help educate disadvantaged and vulnerable young adults about music over on the Supajam stage). Before an impassioned acapella rendition of The Auld Triangle over on the main stage, Irish Mythen announces, “This festival is only in its second year. It deserves to be celebrating its hundred-and-second year!”
Although we sadly miss Mythen’s full set and performances from the likes of Yola, Neko Case, Billy Bragg and Ethan Johns & The Black Eyed Dogs, we still manage to cram an awful lot into our seventy hours or so onsite. What follows is a low down of our eight favourite acts from across the weekend.
Kris Kristofferson and The Strangers
Excitement seems to be rising in anticipation of outlaw Country royalty, Kris Kristofferson’s appearance over at The Ridge stage. Join by celebrated sideman Scott Joss and the late Merle Haggard’s backing band, The Strangers, our silver fox soon takes centre stage and slides into Merle classic That’s The Way Love Goes. At 83 years of age Captain Kris still exudes the same charisma that helped make him a Hollywood star.
Me & Bobby McGee appears early on to rapturous applause, the chorus bolstered by the collective boom of the tent. “Feeling good was good enough for me. Good enough for me & Bobby McGee” grins Kristofferson, visibly moved by his audience’s adoration. Gig-goers around me hold back happy-tears and hang on his every word, erupting into frequent supportive whoops (especially after any drinking reference).
Okie From Muskogee, Daddy Frank and Sing Me Back Home Before I Die keep the Haggard legacy alive, with Joss heading up the latter, the control of his deep croon reminiscent of Merle’s. He closes out with a wild fiddle solo, bucking beside Kris with a wide Cheshire cat smile, spurred on by his deft supporting players.
The last call barroom blues of Casey’s Last Ride is another peak, which eases into the empty streets aftermath of Sunday Morning Come Down. “This could be our last goodnight together, we may never pass this way again. Just let me enjoy ’till it’s over,” sings Kristofferson on Please Don’t Tell Me How The Story Ends, pulling the curtain on a set of bittersweet bliss.
John Butler Trio
Cut adrift, somewhere around the middle section of Ocean, I find my whole body gripped by a tearful tremor. It’s happened before and it will likely happen again…
Evidently, I’m not alone. A bearded gent off to the left of me droops, his head now heavily clasped in his hand. A couple closer the lip of the stage rock in a swayed embrace, one forehead lovingly rested against the other. There’s a Mexican wave of heads shook in utter disbelief.
Ocean, is John Butler’s life work. Awe-inspiring and ever-evolving, the set piece is an acoustic masterclass, which consistently pushes an onlookers expectation of what is conceivably possible on an open-tuned 11-string. It made Butler a YouTube sensation (and rightly so) and secured his reputation as one of the most talented string-slingers out there. Unfolding with the doubled pulse drive of foot percussion, it climes to a climactic high, and like much of the Band of Horses set, I’m struck by pangs of blurry-eyed nostalgia.
Following four weeks of rehearsals, this is the John Butler Quartet’s (doesn’t quite have the same ring to it) first live performance and the energy onstage is staggering. From the banjo hammering lead of Better Than to the infectious in the pocket-groove of Funky Tonight, the band’s symbiotic tightness is best displayed during their spinout improv jams, as the many-limbed beast, caged behind the kit grapples his way closer towards the spotlight. It’s an uplifting set of extreme fingerwork that plays perfectly to the needs of this festival crowd.
Jessie Buckley
Shep, Saturday’s main stage compere (who appears dressed in what looks like a dapper white rhinestone suit) comments that next up we have another rising star in the fine tradition of singing actors, introducing Wild Rose lead, Jesse Buckley.
Reprising her role as ‘Rose-Lynn Harlan’ she works her way through many of the films hits (Outlaw State Of Mind, Angel From Montgomery) her huge voice topping out with a Joplin-esque grit and snarl at the very limits of her range. Her manner is excitable and endearing, perched on a high stool there’s a false start for a slow-burn rendition of Dylan’s Simple Twist Of Fate.
Driven by Buckley’s strong and sensitive delivery, the soundtrack cuts are heavy with melancholy, as is the Country fashion. “It takes a whole lot of medicine to make me feel good about myself” she sighs on Randy Newman highlight Guilty, squeezing the heart on her wine-stained sleeve tight as a sponge, extracting every last aching drop from Newman’s tremendous lyrics.
Under the open blue above and blazing afternoon sun, Buckley sings “Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?” on a Stevie rivalling rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide. As the audience picks up the gorgeous chorus refrain she whispers, “I can hear you”, beaming back at them.
John Smith
Similar to John Butler, there are some guitarists out there whose effortless fingerwork has to simply be absorbed in silent appreciation as a listener. John Smith is just such a player.
Joined by Ben Nicholls – having cloned himself an equally beardy double bassist; “We’re John Smith”, he jokes – Smith has a voice equal parts syrup and sandpaper, with a gruff looseness, which recalls ex-touring partner John Martyn. The tall Oregon pines of Joanna open to the broad water of the Great Lakes, a slightly older cut with a tender hook, which stands up there with some of his best songwriting to date.
Nicholls exits the stage and Smith takes a seat for Winter. Placing his guitar across his lap he pours down like calculated rainfall over his fretboard, striking harmonics and checking his watch between chord changes, astounding his audience with the ease at which he handles his instrument.
As the roving miles of Town to Town suggest Smith has seen his fair share of places, in fact, he’s not long back from Joshua Tree (due to the heat the redhead only just made it out alive… apparently) and despite that he appears totally taken aback by the scenes at Black Deer. He salutes the festival staff and hangs up his boots with the tender melody of the penultimate number, Save My Life. We hear you John.
The Staves
The Staves and First Aid Kit’s rendition of Runs In The Family might be quickly becoming my favourite cover. The way the harmonies cascade and the two separate bands of siblings handle the song’s cloudy subject matter is breathtaking. Tonight we may not have any Roches in the set, and no fourth and fifth harmony courtesy of the Söderberg sisters, but that doesn’t make The Staves performance any less spellbinding.
As the sun banks behind the main stage and each member in their flowing white dress, is cast in evening light, you could be forgiven for thinking them ‘angelic’. The sublime lapsing of their voices might certainly support the notion too. But this judgement alone leads to seriously underestimating the power of the Staveley-Taylors, who are so much more than simply ‘sweet sounding’.
The baited snarl of an electric hollowbody tears a hole in gutsier cut Tired As Fuck, which opens up for an outro that recalls a rabid version of Iron & Wine’s Teeth In The Grass. It seems to stand out when bookended by fan-favourites Wisely & Slow and In The Long Run, pulled from their debut, Dead & Born & Grown.
The best kind of covers are those that reveal a whole new side to a song you felt you already intimately knew. The otherworldly air The Staves have brought to past classics by Dolly Parton, Sufjan Stevens and traditionals (such as Silver Dagger) is heard in full effect here as each sister exquisitely lifts a verse from the narrative of Springsteen’s I’m On Fire. It’s a real slow-burner topped only by closing highlight, The Waterboys’ Whole Of The Moon, which finds Camilla’s fine-spun vocals buoyed by the swelling blend of Jessica and Emily paired voices.
Band Of Horses
“There was country music playing but he don’t like it all,” sings Band of Horses frontman Ben Bridwell (interviewed here) on opening track Great Salt Lake, which given the setting, might be a bit of a hard-push for this lot to imagine. This is the rockiest set-up I’ve seen Bridwell with and the energy of the four-gang vocals across the front really drives home the anthemic nature of his hook-heavy songwriting.
Battling gnarly cold Bridwell powers through, calling on fans to help reach those high notes (of which, being BOH, there are quite a few) not allowing it any point to dampen spirits. The crowd clearly onside belt back the melodic climb of Is There A Ghost and The Funeral, the latter, a folk-rock tour de force, is as tear-jerking as ever.
“It’s looking like a limb torn off or all together just taken apart,” laments Bridwell, cast in a rosy hue during the first verse of No One’s Gonna Love You. The notes float feather-light as the lyrical heartache lands hard. They truly seem their strongest when Bridwell and his right-hand man on keys, Ryan Monroe are locked in tussling harmony, as seen during the rallying tambo-crack and honky-tonk last hurrah of The General Specific. Strike off another notch for Southern Rock’s big-hitters.
The Trials Of Cato
Festivalgoers slowly filter into the Supajam tipi for The Trials Of Cato, where Will Addison, Robin Jones and Tomos Williams have not long landed after tearing it over from Beardy Folk Festival. With an unbroken string of summer dates scheduled, this is no unusual feat for the band who are rapidly becoming a name to watch out for on the live touring circuit.
Opening with set staple, Graham Moore’s Tom Paine’s Bones, the trio are quick to win over onlookers. Addison appears hunched over his bouzouki, foot percussion propelling the song forward, each limb engaged in subtle rhythmical concurrence, whilst Robin’s lead mandolin weaves its way towards another stirring chorus. It’s not uncommon to hear a two or three piece described as having a ‘fullness of sound that belies their set up’, but the overall richness, tightness and the rousing impact that these guys display really does separate them from the rabble entirely.
Haf is a wee slice of sunshine for any Welsh speakers out there, which whisks away any lingering Sunday hangovers. Whereas the banjo-led Black Sheep tune set unfolds in a more bold and broody manner, each smooth segue, stab and dynamic drop provoking an eager “hup!” from Jones, Williams all the while makes brisk, rippleless chord changes at his side.
“And there were those who saw beyond the dress” later sings Addison on the shiver-inducing Gloria; the song, much like the band, is a real standout in progressive modern folk music. With the tent now pushed to capacity, filled with the furore of applause and encore calls, I drink in the speechless faces of Cato converts all around me.
Jerron ‘Blind Boy’ Paxton
If anyone’s fit to go head-to-head with the old-time swagger of The Dead South over on the main stage, it’s Jerron ‘Blind Boy’ Paxton. Multi-instrumentalist Paxton was raised on a fine diet of Southern roots, bygone Blues, Jazz and Cajun music from an early age (as well as some of that strong rye whisky, a little later in life) and he’s just about as authentic as they come.
Striking up with Alabama Bound, it’s impossible not to be charmed by his broad toothy grin, tenacious wit and effortless musicianship. A demon with the banjo, he motions to pick up his fiddle before faltering, “now if I play the fiddle we start drinking”, he opts for the acoustic instead and launches into the 20s canter of Candyman. Pulling a harmonica from his overalls he erupts into a locomotive melody, between hiss-and-parp-and-deep-inhale, he hammers the harp and suddenly lets out a beastly holler, “Beef steak! That don’t belong on the track”.
“I want to play you some soft, sad, tender music but that is going to be fucking impossible” he winks, mock-scowling at the Roadhouse stage. After supping from a sizeable hip flask he introduces If The River Was Whiskey, which he learnt from Leadbelly and then produces a pair of bones again from his top pocket for a Zydeco harmonica tune.
During set high point Michigan Water Blues – “Michigan water taste like cherry wine, mean, cherry wine. Oh, but the Mississippi water taste like turpentine” – he rattles off one-liners and before his next tune, he giggles, “Y’know I like the freaks” – “Welcome to Sussex” calls back one audience member in response.
https://blackdeerfestival.com/
Photo Credits:
Jessie Buckley/Band of Horses/Jerron ‘Blind Boy’ Paxton – James Kay
Kris Kristofferson – Louise Roberts