Monday, July 23, 2007
As most of the country gradually foundered beneath the waves, West Country folkies showed they were made of sterner stuff than those fey indie-festival types, and with beards bristling and tankards aloft (and that's just the women) squelched throught the sodden fields to the 34th Trowbridge Village Pump.
Here you can see a Steward watching a small girl sink slowly into the morass... ignoring her pitiful cries, he wandered off in the direction of the bar. As did I. I'm almost sure she got out, though...
Highlights for me on the Friday night were The Cedar, a terrific band doing some really haunting original stuff, and The Rhythm-ites, who now seem to be fronted by the rather grumpy bloke who sings (or rather mutters in a terse monotone) for RDF. Jolly good, though.
Our spot was at 5.30 on the Saturday, and it went off rather splendidly, all things considered, despite a few sartorial challenges; I had to forsake my usual silver Cuban heels for a pair of stout wellies, and Chris couldn't get the pilot-light on his flame-throwing codpiece to stay lit (maybe next time). Ruth wore a pink cowboy hat. No-one knows why.
Barring a couple of minor technical disasters of the 'walking across the stage & pulling the guitar-lead out' variety, probably our best gig of the year so far - no small thanks to the large (and very vocal!) Trowbridge contingent - cheers, peeps!