8:41pm Wednesday 7th July 2010
By Tim Hughes
IT was a surreal clash of cultures, but as a bizarre tableaux, it perfectly summed up the charm of Cornbury.
Prime Minister and local MP David Cameron, in T-shirt, was taking his kids around the festival fairground – lifting one child onto a rocket ship as a handful of polite punters looked on curiously from a respectful distance. At the same time two old-skool punk rockers strutted by, bristling with studs, leather and anarchist patches. They averted their course slightly as a woman dressed as a cheerleader skipped by in a cloud of bubbles.
Festivals are tribal events – they attract clans of metal fans, indie-kids, weekend hippies, folkies, toffs or bikers. Cornbury transcends that, pulling in music-lovers of all 57 varieties – as well as families and those who just want to chill in beautiful surroundings for a day or two.
That diversity is reflected in the music, which – it has to be said, was a right old mish-mash – from a mix of fresh names and grizzled legends, turning out everything from down-home blues to funk, soul, rock, folk and unashamed pop. There was no common theme, except quality.
Highlights predictably depended on who you spoke to. For some it was the chirpy ‘cool for cats’ pop of 80s band Squeeze, while some had come along just to see heroes like troubadour Newton Faulkner or Sunday’s headliner Jackson Browne.
Personally, the best moments came from a handful of veterans. Blues legend Buddy Guy captivating a blisteringy hot Saturday afternoon crowd with some phenomenal guitar work – including playing it with his teeth, whacking it with a towel, and wandering among the crowd – and ending with tributes to the blues greats – Hooker, Hendrix et al.
Louisiana funk-rock pianist Dr John was the best act on the second stage with a virtuoso display of ivory-tickling, which at points saw him stood up playing his grand piano – adorned with voodoo skull - and organ at the same time. This was as good as live music gets – with the king of New Orleans giving a Cajun twist to exuberant flights of fancy.
More soulful vibes came from another blast from the past Candi Staton, who served up a hit-strewn set – powering out Young Hearts Run Free and You Got the Love, simultaneously delighting soul fans, and lovers of house music – who finally got a chance to see the woman who provided the evocative vocals to those dance classics.
That mood continued with neo-soulsters Noisettes, with a gently rocking feelgood set; extravagantly coiffured frontwoman, Shingai Shoniwa on top form as she whipped up the crowd, ending with a spirited mass sing-along to hit Never Forget You.
Debate crackled about the headliners. Was David Gray punchy enough to top the bill? Was Jackson Browne famous enough to send the crowd off in a good mood? In the event both confounded sceptics by pulling off their own coups. Gray was superb – joshing the crowd and transporting us with epics Babylon, This Year’s Love, Sail Away and Please Forgive Me – extended into a dancy arms in the air anthem.
Browne seemed genuinely thrilled to be headlining and as he picked songs, admitted to struggling to gauge style of the festival “It’s not like normal festivals, is it!” he told the crowd, after calls from fans to play their favourite hits. I know what he meant. I saw hm at Glastonbury, and he was roundly ignored by all.
Two of the biggest real stars of the show were its freshest – Devon singing fiddler Seth Lakeman, who got a tired and dehydrated Sunday night crowd reeling and stomping along to his jagged and punchy West Country folk, topping off Sunday’s Oxford Folk Festival stage, and – the girl everyone was talking about this year – Imelda May.
Sexy and strident, with sharp hair and striking looks, this 35 year-old Irish girl was the star of this year’s festival – captivating us with perfect nuggets of rockabilly-pop-soul delivered with a stylish retro-twist. The crowd loved the swinging Johnny Got a Boom-Boom, Big Bad handsome Man and No Turning Back – and, just as importantly, so did she.
Imelda is actually managed by Cornbury director Hugh Phillimore. And as an artist she sums up the eccentric charm of this rock-bash-garden party-chill session.
It’s hard to pin down, and all the better for it.
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