REVIEWS
Ramblin’ Man Fair
Maidstone Mote Park
Roll up, roll up, for this year’s instalment of what has become Britain’s best and most enjoyable broad-reach rock festival.
FRIDAY
★ It’s grey and drizzling overhead but the ale is flowing, the fairground swings are lit, everyone’s being terribly nice to each other, and our mate’s just squeaked: “I’ve got an espresso martini!” This year’s Ramblin’ Man – the ultimate annual classic rock mini-break – hath begunneth.
Aussie shitkickers The Lazys open the festival with Thin Lizzy-via-AC/DC (Bon Scott era) rock’n’roll, delivered with tearaway gusto. The Kris Barras Band bring a welcome combination of blues, soul and hard rock. Led by Barras, who’s now a guitarist and vocalist with an increasingly individual style, they catch the imagination of a sizeable crowd. This band have energy and passion, and now look like they’ll make significant strides.
FM bring class to the proceedings. Steve Overland’s vocals blossom and flower, while never showing even a hint of age catching up, and the rest of the band have a polished tone that successfully avoids sacrificing dynamics. Make no mistake, FM still have fire in their collective belly. They also have masterful songs such as That Girl and Bad Luck Finding A Lover. It adds up to a triumphant performance.
We run into bassist Danny McCormack backstage minutes before The Wildhearts’ set, to find he’s literally just got a tattoo across his chest reading ‘One foot in the grave’ (“To go with this!” he beams, tapping his false lower leg). On stage, however, the band are all about their new lease of life, as epitomised by this year’s cracking ‘comeback’ Renaissance Men. They burn at both ends irresistibly, with the incendiary pummell of Dislocated and the fizzling likes of Caffeine Bomb, and Ginger looks really happy as the audience whoop in delight – genuinely touching to see in such a tortured soul. “We’re gonna play a song from Endless, Nameless, which is universally hated, it’s really noisy…” he chatters, before the band thrash out Urge. I dunno, Ginger, sounds pretty good to us. And isn’t that what the Wildhearts do best? Raw fury and some of the sweetest tunes you’ve ever heard? Fucking brilliant.
Initially sound worryingly thin, with opener not punching out with the volume and balls you’d expect. Thankfully this is quickly sorted, as the hard hitters come thick and fast, Justin Hawkins leaping around with athletic aplomb, like the karate kid in white with a black headband. His banter is gloriously weird (at one point he offers a piece of, his frustration seems fair. But then they play and… well, it’s a lot to live up to. Not that anyone’s complaining; by the time they leave the stage we all have enormous grins across our faces.
