In July, the Guardian published an eye-opening article about the struggles, stresses and strains of putting on a major music festival. Why on earth, Dorian Lynskey finally pondered, do people like Fiona Stewart - owner and managing director of Green Man - put themselves through it year after year? "There is a moment before the festival opens when it's like the whole world is holding its breath", she replied. "Everything's done, everything's beautiful, everyone's ready. It's such a magical moment. I'll never, ever get bored of it."
Likewise, I can't imagine I'll ever get bored of arriving on site at the Glanusk Estate, full of anticipation for the weekend ahead. Magical moments? Quite simply, they're Green Man's stock-in-trade.
The festival's stock-in-trade used to be folk and Americana, and this year the likes of ELLIE O'NEILL (Walled Garden, Sunday) and BROWN HORSE (Walled Garden, Sunday) ensure that it remains true to its roots. But thankfully Green Man has also long catered for those of us seeking something a little bit more exciting and arresting than another flimsy acoustic ballad or accordion solo.
Such as a vein-popping drill sergeant in a tizzy turning the air a deep shade of blue, barking about Ena Sharples and Ray Reardon, and throwing in the odd "Shabba!" for good measure, while his formerly stationary companion breaks character and bounds about at the back of the stage. SLEAFORD MODS (Far Out, Thursday) have their fair share of detractors, but remain an improbably thrilling live proposition. Furious anti-keyboard warrior track 'Stick In A Five And Go' has me once again questioning the wisdom of ever daring to upset Jason Williamson online, while the cover of 'West End Girls' is worth it just to hear his Notts pronunciation of "Finland Station".
The following evening sees fellow Idles haters FAT WHITE FAMILY (Far Out, Friday) advance their case for being one of the strangest, most dissolute and arguably best bands in the UK. The wrong 'uns feature a guitarist who looks like a drunk fisherman, while Lias Saoudi is dressed like a colonial character from a Graham Greene novel - sweaty, feverish and feral in a safari suit. 'Hot Wet Beef' and 'Touch The Leather' are sleazy, a clammy paw groping your inner thigh, and 'Feet' is like disco-flavoured milk left out in the sun to go off. Who else would take the time to endorse Chicken Run, perform a song about involuntary circumcision containing the line "Who goes book shopping in convoy?" or think that a fitting way to conclude a rock show would involve a man in a beret playing a flute?
Hellraisers LAMBRINI GIRLS (Far Out, Sunday) go for a more conventional climax: singer Phoebe Lunny scaling the tent pole with scant regard for personal safety. These nouveau riot grrrrls could start a scrap in a shoebox, while Lunny, with her artfully smeared lipstick, looks like she's been feasting on the blood of her enemies - and she's got a few: TERFs, toxic men, the police, the far right. I join in the "Fuck fascists" chant, applaud a fan called Edie being plucked out of the crowd to play guitar and chuckle at the Craig David namecheck. But the blunt-force lectures between every painfully one-dimensional issue-focused song grow tiresome and ultimately Lambrini Girls are so unsubtly and clunkily heavy handed as to make Idles look like inscrutable sophisticates.
More fun - and perhaps the most talked-about act of the weekend - are MERMAID CHUNKY (Mountain Stage, Friday). The duo, improbably signed to DFA, really are unfathomably, gloriously odd - a bizarre performance art headfuck, from lyrics about Curly Wurlys and hallucinatory narratives about "staring deep into a hyena's eyes" to flitting between electro, pop and a kind of reggae and creating a symphony out of a looped recorder line. And that's not to mention the dancing owl and sheep that will be confusing the hell out of anyone on an early-afternoon mushroom trip. As Moina Moin told Crack, "With Mermaid Chunky, you have to relish the unknown" - and we certainly do.
And they're not done - there's a late-night/early-morning DJ set too (Round The Twist, Saturday), during which they display an intuitive ability to manipulate a crowd. Our puppet masters command us to "sweat more", and then to crouch down - a challenge for the few of us who've left our 20s long behind. With the tent full of youngsters and cigarette smoke, it feels like gatecrashing a wild house party 20 years ago, and the 3am curfew comes and goes without any halt to proceedings - everyone's having too much fun.
Previous recipients of some serious Green Man loving BLACK COUNTRY, NEW ROAD (Mountain Stage, Sunday) practically owned the festival in 2022 with an utterly magnificent Far Out set of all-new material. But it turns out that hopes are too high and on this occasion the sextet are somewhat muted, upstaged not only by the stunning backdrop but also by upstart Mini-Mes THE ORCHESTRA (FOR NOW) (Mountain Stage, Friday), an ever-shifting sound engineer's nightmare who go big early and deliver the sort of incandescent drama we've come to expect from their seniors.
Basking in the warmth of an adoring crowd, BDRRM (Far Out, Saturday) are clearly pumped for what is the biggest show of their lives. The tracks aired from most recent LP I Don't Know reveal them to be shoegazers who've not only enrolled at but graduated from the School of Rock, striding with ease out of the bedroom (and away from brilliant debut Bedroom) and onto the metaphorical stadium stage. Ryan Smith seems unable to quite take it all in, and when we chat to him and his bandmates at the signing tent later (until someone asks them to sign a shoe), they've still not come down from the high. As my companion notes, sometimes there's nothing more wholesome than seeing a bunch of mates absolutely nail it.
Just as bedazzled by the affection emanating stagewards from the audience is Adrienne Lenker. Green Man has taken BIG THIEF (Mountain Stage, Saturday) to its heart, as evidenced by the largest crowd of the weekend - and the feeling's evidently mutual. The band take the opportunity to share a host of new songs in what is a very safe space, including sublime closer 'Incomprehensible'.
On the subject of the sublime, JULIA HOLTER (Far Out, Friday) is one of the principal reasons I was desperate for a ticket. The avant-pop composer with the divine voice generously offers up what amounts to a greatest hits set (especially for an artist often perceived as obtuse), and 'Betsy On The Roof' in particular is stoned genius. But I'm left with the nagging feeling that she would have been better suited to a Mountain Stage slot, and richly deserving of wider appreciation it would have brought.
BLONDSHELL (Mountain Stage, Sunday) is granted that opportunity, and grabs it with both hands. The clarity of Sabrina Mae Teitelbaum's vocals betray her past as an aspiring Swift-esque pop star, but this project finds her squarely in indie rock territory, breezing through Best Coast/Snail Mail-style songs about horniness, confusion and settling for shitty men. The sun shines, the new material dazzles and "I think my kink is when you tell me that you think I'm pretty" (from 'Kiss City') is the best lyric of the weekend.
Best cover? Possibly Queens Of The Stone Age's 'Song For The Dead', performed by JJUUJJUU (Far Out, Saturday). Which brings me neatly on to METZ (Far Out, Thursday), whose whole set is effectively a tribute to the dearly departed Steve Albini. The engineering maestro may only have recorded the Canadian's third album, 2017's Strange Peace, but his mucky fingerprints are all over the trio's sound. Up On Gravity Hill largely retains the intensity and volume of yore, but 'Long Way Home' in particular finds them pushing into new, more melodic territory rather than merely into the red.
JOHN (Far Out, Friday) offer few surprises - just a reliably bracing thrashy blast and No Age pummel that on this occasion is deadened slightly by blurred dynamics. But the garage-punk-with-its-mind-expanded of OSEES (Far Out, Saturday) - who are also engaged in a race against the schedule and who have never truly clicked with me either on record or live (a very late-night ATP set springs to mind) - finally works its way under my skin and into my heart. Credit to the Californians' twin drummers Paul Quattrone and Dan Rincon rather than yelping main man John Dwyer for sealing the deal.
Talking of double acts, Jim and William Reid of THE JESUS & MARY CHAIN (Talking Shop, Friday) are an absolute hoot in conversation with Ben Thompson, the man who helped to pull together the recent oral history of the band, Never Understood. Speaking frankly and with deadpan humour, the unlikely raconteurs touch on everything from musicians who refuse to retire, whether Miles Davis was a sex pest, clamming up in the presence of the Cramps, the difficulty of disciplining your kids when you've got a reputation for excessive consumption of intoxicants, Blur's ingratitude for the fact that the legendary Rollercoaster Tour in 1992 revived their ailing career, and the time that they met Shane MacGowan in the Good Mixer and he asked for a quadruple vodka "to catch up" (the night ended with sick being poked down the sink).
They're not quite as consistently entertaining on the Far Out later in the evening, and disappointingly taciturn given their earlier volubility (albeit back in character). One song is abandoned after three false starts, and the crowd slowly starts to thin like the hairlines of those present. But 'Just Like Honey', 'Inside My Hole', 'Sidewalking' and the finale 'Reverence' are splendid, 'Nine Million Rainy Days' is a reminder that Darklands is hardly a poor relation to Psychocandy, and hearing 'Some Candy Talking' live is like seeing God.
Other old hands on the bill include THE NIGHTINGALES (Far Out, Saturday), whose non-stop post-punk pub rock/rockabilly is a rousing wake-up call for the bleary and vacant. Drummer Fliss Kitson dazzles, while Rob Lloyd displays his credentials as a trashcan Sinatra, crooning about fag machines, meat madras and boiled rice before whipping out a kazoo. Stewart Lee's film about Lloyd, King Rocker, was screened in the Cinedrome last night, and Lee is here, drawn like a moth to a flame, having dragged Rosie Holt along for the ride.
BLONDE REDHEAD (Far Out, Sunday), by contrast, bring a pronounced froideur, sharper and moodier than they were in their early days as Sonic Youth clones. The veteran New Yorkers' set would be more rewarding if I hadn't allowed my interest to lapse somewhat after 2000's Melody Of Certain Damaged Lemons, but they're not a band I ever thought I'd see - so praise be to Green Man for getting them here. Cut from a similar cloth, BAR ITALIA (Far Out, Sunday) are suffocated by their own arty pretensions on record but somewhat unexpectedly play at being a bona fide rock band live.
Playing at being an elegantly wasted Warpaint are LIME GARDEN (Far Out, Friday), whose grungy, barbed 'Nepotism (Baby)' finds Chloe Howard wishing she was Kate Moss' daughter. Howard's T-shirt declares "I'M A POP STAR*" - dress for the job you want, and all that, but in fairness the asterisk could probably be dropped.
Further fresh-faced talent can be found in the form of MAN/WOMAN/CHAINSAW (Rising, Friday) and SLATE (Rising, Saturday), both of whom bear witness to the influence of Black Country, New Road as well as more orthodox post-punkers like The Murder Capital. Meanwhile, RACHAEL LAVELLE (Walled Garden, Saturday) serves up serene electro and heartbeat bass, and her conversion of 'Lay All Your Love On Me' into a torch song in particular soothes frazzled senses into submission.
On the first night, the Walled Garden is given over to showcasing Welsh national treasures including Islet, HMS Morris and headliners Das Koolies, but arguably the most influential contemporary figure in the realm of Welsh music isn't a musician at all. HUW STEPHENS (Talking Shop, Saturday) chats to fellow ambassador for Welsh music Jude Rogers about his new book Wales: 100 Records, which covers a jumble of genres and features a number of unashamedly personal picks. We learn that the birthplace of techno is twinned with Machynlleth (a fact that inspired Ffrancon to create the album Gwalaxia: Belleville 1315/Machynlleth 1404), that at the height of Cool Cymru Robbie Williams popped into Spillers to pick up copies of Stereophonics and Super Furries albums, and that Stephens' cousin only realised that Jools Hollands' Hootenanny was pre-recorded when he was in the City Arms on New Year's Eve watching Catatonia's studio performance while the band themselves were stood smoking beneath the TV.
But that's enough of sitting around - back to acts whose modus operandi is to get you onto your feet. A little less conversation, a little more action, you might say.
The appeal of OMAR SOULEYMAN (Mountain Stage, Sunday) - a wedding singer walking around clapping along to HI-NRG Middle Eastern disco - continues to escape me, while TINARIWEN (Mountain Stage, Saturday), afforded a prime slot, never get much above a slow simmer with their mellow, Krautrocky desert blues. By comparison, KOKOKO (Far Out, Thursday) are percussion-heavy party-starters, compelling movement and reaching a cacophonous climax.
Up against conspiracy theorist King Creosote - presumably named after how interesting he is to watch - are IBIBIO SOUND MACHINE (Far Out, Saturday). Joy incarnate, basically, who garner an incredible hands-aloft reaction from start to end and front to back. 'All I Want' is pure 80s soul, while 'Give Me A Reason' gives us all a reason to grin. More cowbell? Impossible.
EZRA COLLECTIVE (Mountain Stage, Sunday) are, if anything, even more upbeat, taking the energy levels up several notches after that relatively sedate, soporific Black Country, New Road set. Their new album may be called Dance, No One's Watching but everyone is - and everyone's dancing. The whole field bouncing in unison is - as Jude Rogers subsequently notes - one of the highlights of the weekend. Remarkable to think that their love affair with Wales began with a Megabus journey from London to play at Gwdihw (RIP).
This feels like the year I finally experience some kind of epiphany as regards dance music. SHERELLE (Far Out, Friday) delivers an old-school rave-up, while HANNAH HOLLAND (Far Out, Friday) does her best to keep the crowd warm as the weather turns and the post-midnight chill sets in.
Both are upstaged by JON HOPKINS (Mountain Stage, Friday), whose late arrival (due to a fault with the pre-programmed screens, we gather later) doesn't remotely detract from the performance. Fuck reflective pontificating or chin stroking - this is a procession of ecstatic thumpers resonating down the valley, a genuine first for Green Man and (you'd imagine now) a blueprint for festival Fridays to come.
Even better, especially in my spangled state, is MAX COOPER (Far Out, Saturday), who somehow incorporates spoken-word poetry into his set without upsetting the tempo. The wonderful visuals, augmenting the experience tenfold rather than merely a deliberate distraction from a man twiddling knobs in the dark, have me engrossed and gawping. Any last vestiges of personal dignity are cast aside in my attempt to dance, and the disappointment of Sofia Kourtesis' no-show is soon forgotten.
At Green Man, dance only tends to take over after darkness falls, but there is plenty of darkness on stage earlier in the day. ONE LEG ONE EYE (Walled Garden, Friday) - the side project of Lankum's Ian Lynch - suffer from too much down time between songs. More impactful is fellow Irishman JOHN FRANCIS FLYNN (Walled Garden, Sunday), a towering figure in the fog, singing bleak murder ballads and about drinking blood like wine - though he does lighten the mood somewhat with a tale about writing a cheery letter to Shane MacGowan.
Bathed in a seedy red light, NADINE SHAH (Far Out, Saturday) is seething - about this being "the only festival that would book us" and about the Palestinian genocide. She's also raw, this being the anniversary of her mother's death. Freed from playing guitar, she paces about the stage, punching the air to new songs, one of which sounds like Nine Inch Nails. The performance is incredibly intense - uncomfortably so, at times. I start to wonder whether exposing herself in this way may be compounding her well-publicised troubles rather than exorcising them.
Geoff Barrow of BEAK> (Far Out, Friday), meanwhile, grumbles about being the centre of attention: "Can we get rid of the spotlight on me? I feel like Judy fucking Garland." I don't catch any of the weekend's stand-up sets, but it seems doubtful that anyone serving up a tight 15 in the Last Laugh could conceivably be as funny as these three stooges, whether they're insulting each other or their decidedly 6 Music cycling dad audience ("It's like a fucking Strava festival in here"). And, when they get into their stoned motorik groove, on nodding terms with Can and even (on one song) LCD Soundsystem, they're the festival's biggest revelation, personally speaking.
If BEAK> give you the munchies, then there are countless onsite options to satiate that hunger. A hot dog from Frank's proves infuriatingly challenging to eat, with sauce and crispy onions adhering to the serviette; Fire & Flank, whose Bay outlet has been talked up by Cardiff foodies, promise much with garlic cheese mash, steak slices and chimichurri, but the result is slapdash and far too expensive; and my traditional Sunday evening tartiflette and sausage blow-out feast doesn't taste so good when I overhear the grouchy stall owner being rude to staff.
On the flip side, though, Taste Of Tibet's chicken curry with rice and daal is strongly recommended; a double cheeseburger and chips from Grazing Shed boasts restorative powers; Oasis' Global Eats mezze box - hummus and falafel pimped with chillis, sun-dried tomatoes, peppers and more - is a fresh, virtuous delight; and Keralan Caravan's imperious Raj Burger simply cannot be topped.
Neither can the drier-than-Stewart-Lee's-wit St Teilo cider - if your objective is to go from mildly hungover to mangled in what feels like a flash. One minute you're purchasing your first pint of 7.4% for a slow early-afternoon sup, and the next you're four pints down and your companion is talking animatedly at Huw Stephens about how Welsh rapper Tystion introduced him to Rage Against The Machine. We should have taken the bar staff's amused "Back again, lads?" as a warning.
One group of lads who are always welcome back at Green Man are EXPLOSIONS IN THE SKY (Far Out, Sunday) - and that's where we end, with the fireworks before the fireworks. I must confess I'd largely lost interest, writing them off as the most conservative of post-rock's Big Four (with Mogwai, Godspeed! and Sigur Ros), but an apology is due. Tonight's festival finale is a reminder that the Texans should be credited as more than merely crude build-and-release merchants; on the contrary, they're adept at constructing a set of complex dynamics and power. Oh to be the guy coming up on whatever he was hoovering up his nose when the biggest bang hits.
Green Man 2024, then: proof that (as Explosions In The Sky would have it) the earth is not a cold, dead place. Thank you for keeping the magic alive.
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