REVIEW: ENDORSE IT IN DORSET FESTIVAL 2011
One of the funniest things about Endorse it in Dorset (men in dresses aside) is the fact that it’s almost not actually in Dorset. Sat precariously on the Dorset/Wiltshire border (like most of my favourite festivals), EIID is at the mercy of the English weather. Back in 2008 it absolutely pissed it down and proved a bit of a wash out. But the organisers (Bournemouth cowpunk band Pronghorn) merely took this as a cue to improve the festival and over the last three years, it has gone from strength to strength. And it still comes in at under £80 a ticket. BOOM.
Gone is the open air stage, which was at the mercy of the elements, replaced with the cosy yet remarkably spacious Desmond Dekker tent. Gone are the Boomtown Fair massif with their Special K habits and propensity to lay motionless all over the site, thanks to a head to head clash with said festival. And gone are the hundreds of blaggers descending on the festival to drink, fight and rob. OK, the latter two may not be gone completely but they are few and far between.
Nowadays, EIID is populated with several thousand Westcountry-loving, cider-drinking punks, drunks and good time boys and gals. Granted, if you don’t like cider or cider-inspired music then this could well be your idea of hell on earth. The array of bands sit somewhere between The Wurzels and their cheesy singalongs and the heavier punk fare of bands a la Guns of Navarone. There is the occasional reprise with a more intelligent indie/lo-fi band but you do have to know where you’re looking for these.
We were eased in on the Friday evening with a good ole dose of Beans on Toast at the Strummerville campfire. If you’re lucky, you can squeeze a spot on a battered old sofa (we weren’t). Beans on Toast has the squeakiest gruff speaking voice I’ve ever heard, but it compliments his hilarious lyrics perfectly. Think Frank Turner battling a 20-a-day fag habit and helium addiction. Top stuff. The only other thing we caught at Strummerville over the weekend was some Libertines wannabe group of whippersnappers. They looked the part and the drums and guitars were OK but the vocals sounded like James Blunt drowning in a pool of sweat in a indie rock club. Ugh. Didn’t bother to find out their name, let’s just call them Razorshite Mark II.
Headlining the Friday night were the organisers Pronghorn. The Dorset group have spent the last couple of decades racking up a cult following, meaning many of the crowd know the words to the Westcountry tinged songs so can singalong through their wide grins. When you’ve seen a band dozens of times, things can get a bit samey but this set was a belter. Flanked by a mere two children for the most part (I’ve seen them with at least a dozen children on stage before), they undertook one of the most professional performances I’ve seen them do. Swaying in perfect sync to Mardi Gras and executing a selection of pretty tame songs, they did away with the need for the country dancing comp they’ve been rockin with in recent years.
Saturday afternoon saw a top performance from Dorset troupe Quinn’s Quinney, which also feature one of Pronghorn (these Dorset musicians are pretty flighty and will often play with more than one band). Quinn’s Quinney specialise in skiffle-style covers of popular songs, think Thrill Collins. It’s a sure fire way to win over a festival crowd, especially one such as this and they nailed it with their medely of 90s tunes. It’s a bit of a shame they were on so early as they’d have been perfect once the hangovers fucked off and the Saturday boozing was in full flow. Maybe next year. Guess they had to make way for the headliners, New Model Army. The underrated post-punk group put in a stellar performance of their powerful, girthy songs, including Vagabonds and I Love The World. Singer Justin Sullivan looks like an older Eddie Argos (Art Brut) and seems to have a separate in song persona full of gurns and wide-eyed anger to his inter-song persona where he’s just a mild mannered old rocker.
The Purple Purge Stage came through as the underdog with a couple of gigs. Run by teenagers, for teenagers (fortunately, I get ID’d all the time by pub bouncers so I had no problem here) it played host to some of the younger, cooler looking and sounding bands but without heading down the Busted/McFly route. It was here that we saw Bournemouth’s Powdered Cows. Main man Martin Roberts wears his influences on his sleeve with a set of songs which wouldn’t be out of place in the late 1990s – but that doesn’t mean they’re shit. Far from it. With vocals similar to Damon Albarns and tunes with definite sniffs of the Manic Street Preachers
The undisputed highlight on the Wildcat Stage was another Bournemouth group, Disco’s Out Murder’s In. Like Smerin’s Anti Social Club, they harness the musical talent of six plus folk and create the kind of music you have to dance to. Dem is da rules. With several multi-instrumentalists, animal outfits, balloons and some um, interesting dance moves, they put even a Flaming Lips show to shame. The frontman rocked that Rivers Cuomo (Weezer) charisma while dressed in a monkey outfit. Lovely. Other Bournemouth bands who impressed, included County Hospital, who were all aptly dressed in scrubs and were fronted by another top notch performer and the more introverted Zaardvark, whose lyricless lo-fi was spellbinding and proved that the Oxjam tent (Wig On Casino) was the place to be on Sunday. Easing us back into party mood later on was Bigface Reggae – which prompted a massive lady boy dance off. But as catchy as their tunes were, it was the frontman’s Eddie Vedder/Anthony Kiedis-esque vocals which really stole the show.
Cash Converted justified their title as the best Johnny Cash covers band in the world with an afternoon slot at the Wig On Casino. I first saw them at Endorse it in Dorset 2008 and thought they were the man himself (on the stereo like, not resurrected) and they remain the best covers band I’ve ever seen. Opening with the iconic Folsom Prison they rattle through the hits for a packed out marquee, before bringing on June Carter for some rousing renditions of Jackson and Get Rhythm. Everyone in this band earns their place with two members of Pronghorn rocking the drums and the double bass, the most mesmerising guitarist throwing some shapes, a hot to trot June Carter and of course the man in black himself. Brilliant.
Perhaps the highlight of the festival itself was a secret Skimmity Hitchers gig in the family campsite of all places. The trio commanded a makeshift-stage the size of a gazebo (cos it was a gazebo), they were surrounded by an ever growing troupe of fans who soon picked up the words to the cider singalongs…I don’t like cider, oh no, I loves it (to the tune of Dreadlock Holiday by 10CC) or a hilarious play on People Are Strange by Doors, dedicated to the motley crew of cider drinkers dancing around the gazebo. They ended with a wonderful rendition or Viva Lyme Regis. This set was repeated on Sunday afternoon by the Rock The Bus Bar, which played host to Scrumpy Sunday. Bonus.
Words and photos: Laura Williams
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