Forncett Festival
Forncett Festival is a reminder of what these small, self-contained cultural gatherings do so well. They turn unusual spaces into shared ones, blur the line between audience and performer, and create a sense of communit
East Anglia has a noble history of small, independent festivals, often happening in the strangest of places. It’s a tradition that can be traced to the Albion fayres of the late 70s, but more recently, there was the Burston based WOW festival, limiting its numbers to only five hundred, while Norwich's Wild Paths revolved around a decommissioned shoe factory. Both were exemplars of how self-defining a festival can be, no matter how small or how oddly situated.
Forncett Festival took that flexible definition last weekend and ran with it. With a maximum capacity of one hundred and fifty, and hosted within a museum celebrating the age of industrial steam, this was by far the smallest, and the most uniquely situated festival I've had the pleasure of visiting. Attendees were finishing off their lunch when I arrived. Rather than have food vendors on site, lunch was provided centrally, and from what I could see, looked delicious. Spiced Moroccan Tagine might not be to everyone's taste, but what an inspired way for a small festival to manage demand.
"You've arrived at just the right time," Taryn Everdeen, the festival’s director, assured me when I got there. "The opening ceremony is about to start."
On cue, Beat Railz started hammering out a rhythm on four oil drums set up on what was generously christened the Plinth Stage (actually a concrete slab adjacent to the main building). Led by Nicki Francis - more about him later - they built up an emphatic, pulsing beat, heralding a torchbearer (admittedly sans flame in these troubled times) and a top-hatted, steampunk industrialist, marching to the rhythm of steam power. Boiler lit, the drumming returned to the Plinth Stage, with folk joining in with whatever bangable object came to hand. Drumsticks were employed, but so were bits of wood, as the cacophony reached fever pitch. A young couple were gleefully knocking seven bells out of an upturned wheelbarrow, someone else had found a ceramic frog to work their magic on, an oil can was attacked from all sides, while others were content to spin with the abandon of a whirling dervish.
Well, this is different, I thought.
By way of extreme contrast, once the excitement had settled down, Kieran LH discreetly set up at the water's edge of a pond so absurdly picturesque the gathering crowd felt like an intrusion. His unique style of guitar playing meant that the instrument lay across his lap, his ten fingers free to skitter across the fret with bewildering dexterity. Delicate, complex melodies drifted up and away, punctuated only by the occasional, hesitant "thank you" as the gathering crowd showed their appreciation. Dubbed the Frog Stage, his platform had him awkwardly looking out towards the pond where his audience should be, while we had to be content to peek over the surrounding bindweed and loosestrife hiding him from view. This was a shame as it was a lovely setting. I'd have been inclined to mow down those weeds, have him turn around, and enjoy the well-deserved applause he received. Perhaps then we could have enjoyed more performers in that idyllic setting.
Not Naima, though, whose range of instruments and effects required the space offered by the Steam Café. With the extraordinary backdrop of a rocking beam and flywheel teasingly stationary, her elfin voice may have been at odds with her setting, but nestled among the café crowd, this was an arresting performance. Her scene-stealing dog chose to nap at her feet, as the sound of her violin looped around, as did then her voice. This was a haunting, almost ethereal opening to the café's offering.
Lyla Foy followed with an altogether more grounded, yet winningly engaging, performance. Her toddler set the relaxed tone from the outset by setting her effects pedal to a flurb setting - which I've since looked up and remarkably is a thing. It combines reverb with a flanger-like effect, producing a swirling, unusual sound, apparently. So now you know. It didn't seem to adversely affect her sweetly simple songs of love, loss and remembrance. These were songs committed to - in her words - less metaphor and more honesty. She was assisted first by Jo on violin - more about her later - and then by Dan, both performers adding to an already engaging set that culminated in the impossibility of conquering a very particular type of addiction.
A trio of café performers was rounded off by Joey Herzfeld, ably supported by Gem Ash, making first use of the drum kit, situated high up on a gantry surrounding the aforementioned beam. It made for an odd setup, something only added to by Herzfeld's opening number, about a man at the bottom of the garden. Throw in an unmic'ed song about Edinburgh's Maggie Dickson on an accordian, and a ukulele contribution from Gem Ash (who had happily left the drum kit behind, where "it feels and smells like a sauna up here") and we had the makings of an eccentric by entertaining half hour. Some of his hinted at Bertolt Brecht, but were ultimately far closer to a performer I struggled to pin down, until I spoke to Herzfeld later, who then shared his admiration for Randy Newman.
A welcome change of scene followed, and something of a handbrake turn outside on the Plinth, where the vocalist and keyboard duo Wrong Number and Saving Felix entertained an intimate but committed audience dancing away to soulful singing from Felix, backed by pleasingly retro electro pop synths from Wrong Number. As the wind picked up and the air cooled, this Paris-based duo combined atmospheric electronic sounds with tuneful indie-pop as the foundation to Felix's distinctive vocals that teetered close to rap, yet held on to the melody in a set that offered a welcome sorbet, before returning to the café. There, previously previewed Josephworks was setting out her stall, performing cross-legged with instruments strewn about the rug as the returning Nicki Francis tapped a rhythm. She reflected on why this world was not enough for you with songs about stone hand warmers, the earth and, most tellingly, you. I got the sense that Nicki's contribution morphed her songs into something distinct and different, not just in sound, but in tone, their improvised collaboration a surprise and, judging by her smile, a delight to both of them.
The ubiquitous Nicki Francis was back on stage, this time outside, immediately afterwards, performing the first of the big ticket acts of the day. As he and his fellows from Goldheart Assembly set up, having shifted the oil cans, I had time to reflect on Glastonbury 2010. If you'll excuse the personal anecdote, I speculatively wandered into the Avalon in the afternoon that year, only to be spellbound by the harmonies of the band's two frontmen, delivering a set that remains - because it so took me by surprise - one of many highlights of the twenty years I've been attending the festival. Sixteen years later and I've finally caught up with them for a second hearing, having now learned the album I bought shortly after was recorded at this very place.
I was concerned that the, dare I say, basic setup of the Plinth might compromise the experience. I need not have worried. Whoever was doing the sound - and I'm cross with myself for not finding out - did a brilliant job, as they had all day, providing a platform for the band to showcase their considerable talents. Along the way we got a B-side (kids, ask your Dad) and a cover of Tom Waits's "Clap Hands", but otherwise mined their two early albums. James Dale and John Herbert looked in remarkably good form - I'd hate to think what the portraits in the attic look like - and sang flawlessly. When "King of Rome" inevitably came around, I felt Herbert's self-deprecation did the band no favours. "This is the one you've turned up for," he said, seemingly unaware of the extraordinary dancing - who knew you could dance to Goldheart Assembly? - going on all about them for the entire set. It was a set that was criminally short, and though I did get to hear my favourite - "So Long St. Christopher" - it felt like it was over far, far too quickly. How were headliners Floral Image going to follow that?
Fortunately, they were more than up to the task, helped in no small part by the transformative hum of Victorian engineering, teetering on the edge of coming to life. There's now been a distinct shift in audience demographic, an up-for-it crowd almost part of the performance, not least when we take a break to sing happy birthday to Sue, a mum who looks simultaneously proud of her son's band and acutely embarrassed.
Floral Image's mix of psychedelia and driving rock seems perfectly suited to the industrial backdrop the museum café provides, the band split over two levels. Had this been a grandiose stadium stage set, it would have been worth the price of admission alone - instead it's a curiously intimate affair, as whooping synths, galloping railroad drumming and skidding guitars are barely disturbed by subtle, intangible vocals. The wibbly-wobbly noises bring an inevitable comparison with space rock giants Hawkwind, but there are hints of Kula Shaker in there too. As the set becomes more emphatic, I'm reminded of analogue champions Holy Fuck, right up until a transcendent wall of sound takes us into Spiritualized territory. It's an august roll call of influences and who knows how many the band would acknowledge. I dare say they'd prefer to be noted for their own sound anyway, as best illustrated by their final, glorious freak-out as the beam and wheel moves gracefully behind them, the kraken finally waking, the café consumed by steam.
The day having come to such a dramatic conclusion, the deathly quiet walk to the car, parked some distance away, seemed a curious way to skulk off, the after party presumably still in full swing. I felt a pang of jealousy at the sprinkling of campers that would be enjoying more of the same on Sunday. I was reliably informed that Eliza Delf had been captivating on the Friday evening as well. Best to celebrate what I saw, though, rather than lament that which I missed. The day was a delight from start to finish - a perfect microcosm of what folk get up to when they want nothing more than good music and the pleasure of each other's company
Forncett Festival is a reminder of what these small, self-contained cultural gatherings do so well. They turn unusual spaces into shared ones, blur the line between audience and performer, and create a sense of community that is increasingly rare in larger, more commercial settings. In repurposing industrial heritage and rural quiet alike, they actively reshape how music is experienced, proving that scale shouldn’t be a barrier to ambition, and that an intimate setting can still host a spectacle.
Maybe next year I should bring my tent.
