Within seconds of arriving on the Green Man site and stepping out of the car to begin unloading, we're accosted by a monk asking for donations for a food programme. Flush with excitement at the prospect of the weekend ahead and feeling suitably generous, we duly part with some cash - and in return receive a book on the yoga of devotional mysticism entitled Easy Journey To Other Planets. It's a phrase that comes to capture our festival experience. Having travelled barely more than an hour from Cardiff, we find ourselves transported to an alternative dimension, in the company of an array of artists eager to draw us into their own unique, weird and frequently wonderful worlds.
Let's start at the beginning, shall we? In more ways than one. Green Man began life as a humble folk festival, and remains in touch with its roots through artists like Gareth Bonello aka THE GENTLE GOOD (Walled Garden, Thursday). Bonello curated the bands for the first night in the Settlers' Tent last year but missed out on enjoying the fruits of his labours after being struck down by COVID, so it's good to see him here in person rather than merely in spirit this time around, softly breathing life into the festival.
Bonello's careful finger picking, however, proves no match for that of YASMIN WILLIAMS (Mountain Stage, Saturday). Blessed with a suitably Welsh-sounding name, the Virginian virtuoso is quite simply the most accomplished musician I witness all weekend. And like all the best superheroes, she has quite an origin story, having learned to play after becoming obsessed with Guitar Hero as a 12 year old.
While Williams' songs are instrumental, those of JULIE BYRNE (Mountain Stage, Saturday) are distinguished by a voice that could stop traffic. Her stoned, soulful, heavy, understated Americana suggests that latest album The Greater Wings would be worthy of closer investigation.
But all three are trumped by buzz band du jour LANKUM (Mountain Stage, Saturday), whose LP False Lankum has been bewitching critics and fans alike. Attempting to reclaim traditional Irish song 'The Wild Rover' from raucous wedding disco shindigs was a potentially perilous undertaking, but the Dubliners have made it totally their own, possessed with a dark, droning energy that seems to tune into deeper frequencies beneath the song's surface and holds the audience firmly under its spell. If you want ditties about "why you should never go to sea with a murderous sea captain" ('The New York Trader') and talk of men fucking horses, Lankum are the folk band for you. We can consider ourselves lucky to catch them - especially so, when they subsequently cancel future tour dates on health grounds.
No strangers to drones themselves, at least in their early days, SPIRITUALIZED (Far Out, Thursday) have their own recent magnum opus to perform from, last year's Everything Was Beautiful. But it's the opening trio of oldies - the Velvet Underground melodrama of 'Hey Jane', an appropriately incandescent 'Shine A Light' and the tumultuous rock 'n' roll maximalism of 'She Kissed Me And It Felt Like A Hit' - that hit the highest heights early doors, and a set that was shaping up to be one for the ages seems to drift curiously into anti-climax.
Fear not, though. Ladies and gentlemen are once again floating in space in the same place the following evening, courtesy of the reformed and reinvigorated SLOWDIVE (Far Out, Friday). Powered by that familiar hypnotic drumbeat and accompanied by the trippiest projections of the weekend, these are the sort of transcendental meditations I can really get behind. Suddenly their influence on Mogwai - and Stuart Braithwaite's eagerness to team up with Rachel Goswell in Minor Victories - becomes crystal clear.
Unlike Slowdive, neither reformed New Yorkers THE WALKMEN (Mountain Stage, Saturday) nor reunited Scots THE DELGADOS (Mountain Stage, Friday) have any new material to share, but no one who sees them can complain that, in the words of the former's final song, "we've been had". The Walkmen are taut, tight and invigorating, sure - but The Delgados have quite simply never sounded so good. Undeterred by a pitifully small crowd due to the unrelenting downpour, they perform a greatest hits set that draws gratifyingly heavily on their two stand-out albums, 2000's The Great Eastern and 2002's Hate. 'All You Need Is Hate' is the weekend's bona fide bone-dry-witted anthem, while, of all of their pocket epics, 'The Light Before We Land' is the one that sounds most thrillingly like an orchestra commandeering a jumbo jet. "When we go back up to Glasgow, we promise to take the rain with us", laughs Emma Pollock - but I would happily stand getting soaked for another two hours of this.
This year's festival isn't only about old hands returning to action, though - the newer generation of what us fogies persist in calling "indie" also get a look-in. Take THE ORIELLES (Far Out, Friday), for instance - on this evidence, Halifax's answer to Warpaint (albeit with weak vocals). Or THE BUG CLUB (Walled Garden, Thursday), from nearby Caldicot, who receive a hero's welcome and then proceed to prove that it's thoroughly merited with a set of smart, savvy, rambunctious songs that leave you with earworms in your head and a grin on your face.
Perhaps, however, 2023 is chiefly notable as the year that pop truly arrives at Green Man - and it does so in style. Rebecca Lucy Taylor aka SELF-ESTEEM (Mountain Stage, Saturday) has spent the past two years prioritising our pleasure, so it's about time for a well-earned rest and recharge - but not before a truly triumphant headline show. It's a slick, impeccably choreographed visual spectacle, but also one that is never vacuous. 'I Do This All The Time' - guaranteed to bring a lump to the throat in any circumstances - is all the more powerful and poignant for being performed on a stage of this size.
At the opposite end of the scale, Tor Maries aka BILLY NOMATES (Far Out, Sunday) prefers a minimalist approach for her own brand of fierce, defiant, post-punk inflected pop: just herself, a cymbal and a backing track - no band or projections. It's a courageous set-up that risks leaving her nakedly exposed, and her televised Glastonbury performance was the subject of cruel trolling by keyboard warriors. But Maries evidently puts absolutely everything into what she does, the rapturous response from a partisan crowd - perhaps the warmest of the weekend - is richly deserved, and Billy Nomates departs the stage having made plenty of new friends.
For the most adventurous, inventive takes on pop, we're kept waiting until nearly the end. Brittney Denise Parks aka SUDAN ARCHIVES (Far Out, Sunday) - her hair styled like a giant pretzel - is a whirling dervish, a blur of energy, and almost as uncategorisable as the act that follows, YOUNG FATHERS (Far Out, Sunday), whose fractured, experimental gospel-infused R&B is as potent and mesmerising live as I'd been led to believe. Few artists win the Mercury Prize with their debut album, and even fewer go on to make significantly better ones.
So much for the pop of the present and indeed future - what of the pop of the past? MICHAEL CRAGG (Babbling Tongues, Saturday) is on hand to talk with Eamonn Forde about his book Reach For The Stars, an oral history that treats the supposedly disposable pop of the post-Spice Girls decade as worthy of serious reflection and sociocultural analysis. Proudly sporting his Girls Aloud T-shirt, Cragg touches on everything from artists' gruelling workloads, racism within the industry and the lack of consideration for physical or mental health, to cynical marketing and commercialism and the significance of a changing retail and media landscape. Heavy topics, for sure, but leavened with a wealth of 24-carat anecdotes: Mutya of Sugababes' habit of going straight from clubs to breakfast TV appearances, Martine McCutcheon insisting she would only do what Barbra Streisand would do, Lee Ryan's infamous loose-cannon comments about 9/11 and elephants inducing record labels to insist on media training for their charges. Cragg laments that he couldn't get Simon Cowell to talk, but Louis Walsh did give a terse ten minutes of his time, during which he donated the book's best pull-quote: "Nobody buys books. No one's going to read this." I'll happily prove you wrong, Louis.
But enough of the chat - back to the music. JOCKSTRAP (Far Out, Friday) are a mystifying conundrum who start out well, pivot into tedious acoustic singer-songwriter nonsense mid-set, before then thankfully veering back to the bangers for the conclusion. Even more of an enigma are SORRY (Far Out, Friday): undefinable sound, random bursts of noise, repurposed Tears For Fears lyrics, a bassist dressed like a monk, and branded umbrellas. Make of that what you will.
In the battle of the after-hours party starters, DANIEL AVERY (Far Out, Friday) is very much the purists' choice, serving up a great light show and predictably dropping 'Drone Logic' at the death. But it's a bit too stop-start, a bit too glitchy for those who - at this time of night - simply want an opportunity to throw their arms in the air. Which means that CONFIDENCE MAN (Far Out, Saturday) - who would in almost any other context leave me stone cold - contrive to steal the crown, the Aussies presiding over an old-school rave-up that has a tent full of night owls losing their minds.
Taking a more oblique, leftfield approach to the dancefloor, SPECIAL INTEREST (Walled Garden, Sunday) deliver pulsating queer punk disco. A faulty mic prompts vocalist Alli Logout to throw a hissy fit, but all seems to have been forgotten by the time they're tearing down the helter skelter later. Better by some distance are SQUID (Far Out, Friday), who have evolved into a far superior band than the one that pitched up in the Walled Garden four years ago. Their protean, elasticated, rhythmically complex, Neu!-inspired songs would be remarkable enough even if they hadn't found a role on guitar for (if my eyes don't deceive me - and they probably do, after a few pints) Neil from The Inbetweeners.
Talking of passable impressions, Dara Kiely of GILLA BAND (Far Out, Sunday) is one of the many contemporary vocalists doing his level best to keep the spirit of Mark E Smith alive, but on this occasion his barked absurdisms are rather lost beneath the terrifying/terrific din kicked out by his Fontaines-gone-feral accomplices. When Alan Duggan starts playing his guitar into his amp, I know I'm in the right place. All they need is Jonathan Ross announcing that they're available for children's birthday parties and bar mitzvahs.
Even more unhinged are one of their former support acts, MANDY, INDIANA (Rising, Saturday), who don't so much embrace chaos as give it a great big bear hug. A guitarist wearing only one shoe (Scott Fair), a synth player who looks like he's fallen through a wormhole from a prog-metal band (Simon Catling), a freewheeling French vocalist (Valentine Caulfield) and a drummer trying and barely succeeding to hold it all together (Alex Macdougall). Total carnage. If it gets Big Jeff's seal of approval, then it certainly gets mine too. It's saying something when GOAT (Far Out, Saturday) - in other circumstances a psych rock fever dream, complete with headdresses - are soothing sonic balm.
But, as it turns out, no one - no one - can compete with LES SAVY FAV (Far Out, Sunday), who prove that punk doesn't have to be po-faced in the most spectacular fashion possible. The four musicians on stage are consummate professionals, coolly carrying on no matter what Tim Harrington gets up to. Dying your hair and beard fluorescent orange and wearing hi vis and multi-coloured feathers is one way to make an entrance, and the frontman proceeds to strip down to his pants, shower himself in punters' beer and wine, lick mud off his feet, enjoy a cuddle from Gindrinker guitarist Graf and attempt to incite the crowd to topple the nearby ferris wheel. At one point he borrows an unsuspecting kid from his dad's shoulders and then barrels around the crowd with the bewildered lad aloft like some kind of crazed child catcher. (I'd still trust him more as a babysitter than the dad I saw earlier run over his own son with a pushchair, mind.) "We were there when the world got grey and we helped make it that way", sings Harrington towards the end. Don't believe him. The world will never go grey on Les Savy Fav's watch.
AMYL & THE SNIFFERS (Mountain Stage, Sunday) have the snotty, irreverent attitude ("Gimme some sugar, cunts!") and scuzzy, rabble-rousing, redneck gutter punk to stir up a moshpit of teens and set headliners First Aid Kit up for a fall - but they pale in comparison to what we've recently witnessed.
And even then they're not the best punk(ish) band to grace the main stage. Two nights earlier, DEVO (Mountain Stage, Friday) rattle through the semi-hits, dishing out 'Girl U Want' and 'Whip It' early on and pulling off the feat of being stylistically and politically subversive, experimental and enormous fun all at the same time. Their cover of '(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction' remains sacrilegious certifiable genius and the synchronised jogging and ripping off of each other's outfits suggests that 'Jocko Homo' is right and they are indeed not merely men. Time is catching up with them, though, and 2023 is to be the year they finally hang up their ziggurat hats - which makes the muted reception from a well-doused crowd doubly disappointing.
You could have put money on the veteran new wavers having the most popular, covetable or distinctive headgear of the festival - but they don't. And neither do Sorry's Asha Lorenz (mirrorball cowboy hat) or Slowdive's Rachel Goswell (what seems to be a mourning veil, with coins attached). No, Green Man 2023 is all about the Jolly Baskets baseball cap, advertising the fictional Welsh supermarket dreamt up by MELIN MELYN (Mountain Stage, Friday). "Timmy Mallett meets the Super Furries", ventures a friend, and while all the inflatable props and zaniness sound off-putting on paper, it turns out that, in the flesh, yellow fever is actually highly contagious. Credit to them too for attempting to influence the elements with a hopeful but ultimately futile rendition of ELO's 'Mr Blue Sky'. The Green Man organisers have copped flak in the past for not doing enough to showcase Welsh-language music, especially on the Mountain Stage, but Melin Melyn seize their opportunity and can fully expect to get the call again.
"I swear if we're invited back, there won't be a single 'fuck' or 'shit'." So promises the amusingly potty-mouthed Lindsey Jordan aka SNAIL MAIL (Far Out, Saturday). Gabbling animatedly and largely incomprehensibly in between songs, it's hard to tell whether she's actually trashed or just caught up in the moment. Either way, a delightfully scrappy set that suits her indie-rock-par-excellence songs perfectly wins this fan of Lush around into giving its follow-up Valentine another try.
For once, THE WEDDING PRESENT (Far Out, Saturday) were actually invited from the start. "The stage manager said 'What are we going to do if someone pulls out?'" laughs David Gedge, but it wouldn't be Green Man without them. The self-proclaimed "semi-legendary" perennial stand-ins and coda kings treat us to the controlled, chest-rattling aggression of 'Brassneck' and 'Kennedy', a gruff cover of 'Make Me Smile (Come Up And See Me)' and the brilliantly titled 'I'm Not Going To Fall In Love With You'.
BOB VYLAN (Far Out, Saturday), meanwhile, are fighters not lovers and come out swinging with the likes of 'Pretty Songs'. One minute they're taking aim at the police, the next frontman Bobby's reporting that there's been a trouser malfunction backstage, the duo are wearing each other's joggers and he's sharing out drummer Bobbie's "pocket scone" like it's communion at a National Trust property. That they come across as a little flat and jaded by their usual standards is excusable given that this is their third of three consecutive gigs in three different countries.
What's not excusable at Green Man is failing to explore and dip into as much as possible. You can pre-plan your movements, sure, but sometimes serendipity comes up trumps and you stumble across something (often literally) that would otherwise have passed you by. The aforementioned Yasmin Williams is this year's prime example, but a close second are JULIE (Far Out, Sunday) - a very sullen, very youthful trio with zero chat but the violent clang and coo of Sonic Youth covering My Bloody Valentine. Special mention, too, for HIGH FADE (Chai Wallahs, Thursday) and their sensational bassist.
There are disappointments, of course. It's been a few years since England football misery tainted my festival experience, but fair play to the Lionesses for distracting me from the opportunity to renew acquaintances with Drahla. (On the subject of football, what's with this youth fashion for wearing random vintage football shirts? It's no help at all when a chap just wants to know what the Man City v Newcastle score was. The rabbit-in-the-headlights look of the lad in the '98 coat-tailed Toon strip suggests he might still be traumatised at being accosted by a desperate fan in his mid-40s with no phone reception and a bellyful of beer.)
A few things I would happily never see again: BRAD STANK (Walled Garden, Friday) - hipster Mac DeMarco streaks of piss doing Barry White in the drizzle; COURTNEY MARIE ANDREWS (Mountain Stage, Saturday) - this year's wafty, non-descript Americana; JAMES ELLIS FORD (Mountain Stage, Friday) - who, my friend points out, appears to have stolen a melody from the Neighbours theme tune; OBONGJAYAR (Mountain Stage, Saturday) - who manage the impressive feat of being much better in soundcheck, before the show-off singer rocks up; and SARAH JAROSZ (Mountain Stage, Sunday) - who has me running for the hills with the announcement "Now it really IS banjo time".
It's enough to drive you to drink. Speaking of which, the weekend's tipple of choice turns out to be Do The Fandango, a Monnow Valley cider that's so dry it makes you feel like your face is folding in on itself.
But man cannot survive on booze alone (though it's fair to say I make a valiant attempt). This year, each meal turns out to be better than the last. Initially, the bar is set relatively low (a tray of stodgy paella to soak up the previous night's sauce), but what follows is a gradual escalation in quality. A lamb harissa wrap. A mezze box from Cardiff refugee charity Oasis. A masala dosa with dips and (most importantly) humungous onion bhaji. And finally, the crowning glory: a Raj Burger from Keralan Karavan, whose spiced pulled chicken has me practically weeping with joy. (Though that may be because it's Sunday night and I'm a wreck.)
As the Green Man goes up in flames and the firework display is accompanied by sarcastic oohs and ahhs, I rue an all-too-brief glimpse of CORY HANSON (Walled Garden, Sunday) kicking out the jams with his band, and catching only 30 seconds of CROWS (Far Out, Saturday) and their supercharged post-punk. I regret missing The Comet Is Coming (weather), clipping. (clashes), The Last Dinner Party (crowd size) and Water From Your Eyes (fucking terrible name that had me making negative assumptions).
But it's time to swap gong baths for real baths, and nights under canvas for home comforts. Same time again next year, though?
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