Review: Standon Calling 2010

When: 6-9th August 2010

Reviewed by: Daniel Burt

The golden, almost fluorescent, rolling landscapes of Hertfordshire's farm country is seemingly the ideal location to house the wilfully quixotic Standon Calling festival. I arrived with no pre-conceptions as, quite literally, I'd never heard of Standon Calling or the majority of the acts playing there. However, whilst hardly ubiquitous, initial impressions were positive; the rustic charm of the area compounded with the sight of the well groomed field and the security guards who actually looked pleased to see festival goers (as opposed to the L--ds festival heavies, who, from personal experience, looked far more likely to cover their security I.D and panel anyone smaller than themselves) all boded very well.

Straight away it became apparent that one of the festival's resounding strengths is its size and vaguely implied exclusivity. After assembling the tent in the family area (only seven minutes walk from the parking field!) we proceeded to the festival outright (only three minutes from the family area). We found Toxic Funkberry, one of numerous warm-up acts on the Thursday night, who were competing for a chance to play at the festival outright the following day. The singer continually reiterated the band's name, interspersing the constant salutations with squelching electro-rock. The tunes had all the falls and euphoric rises youd expect from an electro-rock band called Toxic Funkberry; excellent sci-fi funk, very much in the vein of the Chemical Brothers' Surrender album.

After that we left the Twisted Licks tent (one of the three main music venues at this refreshingly compact festival) to speak to some festival goers. The majority admitted that they'd not previously heard of the festival, some couldn't recount how they got here or where they were (it was 11pm at this point, fool season at festivals). However, I did come away with some recommendations, there was a fully fleshed out murder mystery plot taking place over the course of the weekend with a large cast and numerous props and venues across the festival. Also, I was told to watch Benoit and His Orchestra on the Saturday. Armed with this knowledge and warm Vodka and Orange, I traversed the relatively unpopulated camping area for a doze.

These old, cracked bones of mine can't really relax in a field surrounded by partially dressed young people. Fortunately, this seemed a more highbrow affair, no-one was shrieking Bollocks, a festival mainstay and no-one collapsed into or pissed onto my tent. Waking the following day I took the facilities for a spin, the eco-toilets (a scoop of sawdust for each discharge) functioned perfectly and really helped shake the feeling that you were just shitting in a hole. For those willing to queue there were 5 showers (between thousands of revellers) - for everyone else there were plenty of water taps around.

Just after midday there were signs of the festival coming to life and we caught Klezma Villanova who provided a pleasing calliope/punk fusion, like the Coral at their psychedelic rockiest. The frontman spits his delivery with gusto and the whole thing felt like the Doors but more focused and, inevitably, less lionised. Stumbling out into the baking sun I proceeded to the Crooked House stage (a charming tent decked out in arch, turn of the century Victorian high-society décor) to be received by Annie Dell who takes to the stage unaccompanied delivering a strong rendition of Black and Gold. Her set is initially plagued with sound problems and her a backing band who, during the more upbeat second song, sound more a distraction from Dells vocals though with the next song Summer Boy show they are adept at providing a more laid-back MOR accompaniment.

It's a few hours into the festival before the main stage opens for business, possibly due to the relative lack of celebrity contained in the festival throughout. Whilst the Twisted Licks stage seems to be doing terrific business, Anna Culvi is left to play to a much depleted crowd. It's a shame - her set opens with reverb soaked blues phrases which give way to almost ethereal wails that are lyrically impenetrable, though still quite affecting. With a few more people to soak up the sound she might have come through clearer in the mix. Whilst her mousy stage presence seems at odds with the fuzzy chords, spiked percussion and her alternatively deep and wailing voice, she's still somehow endearing.

After Culvi's set, my near constant intake of a potent unbranded energy drink/vodka combination meant I really just needed some solids to pass my lips. The food on offer, although limited to one area of the festival was reasonably varied, there were no faceless chain-shops staffed by bitter old men silently cursing the young. Instead local food was represented (well, local beef), along with Italian, a Japanese cuisine (with actual Japanese people!) and a couple of others. The portions were reasonable and, whilst not cheap, the prices weren't outlandish.

Refreshed, I took in El Guincho who initially struggled to compete with the pulsing bass apocalypse coming from the Twisted Licks tent (dont know who that was, never want to know) though, with their infectious Latin grooves, finally won over a modest crowd. They also encouraged some astounding (shocking even) white middle class dancing; whilst a little repetitive, these guys would fucking rock in a club, though the towering main stage seems a little too imposing for them.

One of the joys of the festival is that is does seem like a self-contained microcosm, seemingly there's always something going on that, due to the relatively small size of the festival, everyone can feel a part of. There's the costume trailer that ensured anyone who wanted to could look quite the dapper gent, or quite the prat; the murder mystery was starting to unfold through open air performances and a widely circulated newsletter (this sailed by the majority of drunks wandering the festival, but it was compelling all the same).

However, it was A Hawk and a Hacksaw drew the night to a close for me (Mercury nominated The Liars were on the Main stage but I think this is a festival that really belongs the unknowns, thanks, in no small part to the astute sensibility and ear to the ground bookings of the organisers). The hawks were a raggedy outfit of talented musicians playing an oblique and wonderful set of instruments. The cossack hoe-downs and gypsy spiced folk (influenced cited on Myspace: Romica Puceanu, Alexandru Titrus, Derroll Adams, the Gore Brothers, Black Sabbath, Instanbul Oriental Ensemble, Jaki Leibezeit, Marin Mexicanu  - all the greats) even got this dessicated correspondent shaking a leg, they were, in short, terrific. The singer stopped midway through and asked the audience if they had any questions. I'm not sure what he was hoping for, but he seemed disappointed with the slurred interrogatives the audience shouted back. Nonetheless, they were terrific.

On the way back to the tent I was asked to help eat 1600 feet of baguette at a charity tent (wasn't hungry) and stopped by the poetry tent and overheard Amber Marx (Howard's daughter) give a reasonably gripping reading on her trip to a police conference on dog sniffers and the science of smell. Tragically the next reader gave an eloquent though stomach turning evocation on the perils of masturbation in the 15 seconds it took me stand up and get the hell out.

The Saturday saw Violet May rudely awaken us; they alternate between flat out driving bass rock and the trad-rock of Oasis.  It's the former that is most successful,  with the guitarist too often aping Noel Gallagher guitar licks. The singer's voice wasnt a thing of abject beauty though he did attempt to compensate with sheer motion. At the polar opposite end of the musical spectrum lay Arthurs and Marthas, the very definition of amiable; all smiles and accordions and folkish harmonies youd have to have a rationalisation, an explanation, dammit a reason for not liking them!

Fearing anal meltdown I risk the toilets again and whilst I would describe the scene as heaped, 3 days in the cubicle smell wasnt overbearing. Pausing only to observe a man playing a bike mounted, mobile piano cycling by, I proceeded to watch Swimming who were midway through their set. A pleasing Eno-esque slice of swirling, reverbed rock. The singer, with his 80s new romantic, emasculated delivery, highlighted all that was great about 80s synth-rock, one of the highlights of my festival - great, great hair!

Fortunately at this moment the sun broke out in time for Scottish up-and-comers Sparrow and the Workshop. Jill O'Sullivan's voice is deceptively powerful and, when backed with choppy, distorted bass, really helps fill out the band's sound. Hardly groundbreaking though with some sterling backing vocals and a well rounded set they're a reasonably successful marriage of loud-quiet rock conventions and folk. They were followed by Dry the River, an incredibly polite group of Americans whose Shins inspired sound took a diversion through Sigur Ros territory with gradual building, well structured songs. Coupled with some seriously uplifting performances they probably deserve more than mere comparisons but meh.

Our neighbours in the camping area had previously advised us to see the Casiokids (they also lent their toothpaste and wine, it's truly a different class of campers here, I don't think I even saw a single chav) but with two hours until their set we decided to watch Benoit and his Orchestra. Benoit, a wispy voiced Frenchman, was a purveyor of 1930s European flavoured hot jazz, and thank Christ for that. Benoit received by far the best reception of the festival all blaring clarinets, muting trumpets and swinging drum solos. I saw crowds dance the jitterbug, do the hop and even jazz hand their way through a re-imagined cover of King of the Swingers. Anything after that would seem somewhat anti-climatic though CasioKids did bring my festival to a close with some style, the Norwegians purveying a sense of simplicity, a dancey feel-good vibe that spread through the audience, there was something appropriately summery in their music; an eclectic mix of electro pop, guitars and Afrobeat.

With that, it was time to leave.

Quote of the festival: "Fucking Hell Bring your own beer! You'd save a fortune." Classic.

Find more information on Standon Calling here.