Wild Paths
Creativity and imagination has been the hallmark of the event since its inception. We may not have had the comfort of the Arts Centre or the scale of St Andrews Hall, but there is something to be said for gleefully poking about in an almost entirely new set of pop up venues. Who knew there were so many new spaces to be found?
Mark Stimpson
It's been a while since I last wore out the shoeleather, wandering the streets of Norwich in search of a Wild Paths Venue. Since 2021 we've had a bijou event in 2022, and the award-winning Wild Fields last year. There was a palpable sense of expectation in the air when it was announced that Wild Paths was returning to the city, and for the most part it delivered. While this year may not have been quite so expansive as 2021 - when every nook and cranny in Norwich had Wild Paths stamped on it - this year certainly felt like a return to the creativity and imagination that has been the hallmark of the event since its inception. We may not have had the comfort of the Arts Centre or the scale of St Andrews Hall, but there is something to be said for gleefully poking about in an almost entirely new set of pop up venues. Who knew there were so many new spaces to be found?
I should just say, before we get started, that Outline was crawling all over Norwich this weekend, intent on covering as much of Wild Paths as possible. If you would like to read yet more of what went on at this multi-venue festival, then I recommend you look out for an alternative report from Mr Auckland. Such was the diversity of choices available we managed three days without crossing (wild) paths once.
Actually, just once, as along with everyone else, the main three days kicked off on Thursday with the only show in town - a delightful set from Arthur Black at the Maid's Head. This was a delightful start to the weekend. Sitting cross legged, a pixie on the box, Black's superb vocals ranged from the anguished to the heart warming as a rapt audience sat attentively on - it has to be said - the very comfy carpet of the Maid's Head's Minstrel Room. Archy & The Astronauts followed with an altogether more raucous offering, a full band in a setting that had the crowd on their collective feet. Archy did his best to get the early afternoon crowd going, but dinosaur impressions are a big ask, especially in a room you might otherwise expect to be having high tea with your aunt. That said, the woah, woah, woah won all but the grumpy over, so hats off to him for persisting. Anolah and the Bonez were the third in what amounted to an unofficial opening ceremony, but despite some nifty basslines and vocals Amy Winehouse would have endorsed, I was starting to get itchy feet. In spite of Pavlis's assurance that Daisy Cameron had a superb voice, therefore, I was off and running as other venues started to open up.
It seemed appropriate to start that exploration by visiting the only two key venues from 2021. Where else to start, when the choice is offered, than the linchpin of Wild Paths - Voodoo Daddy's? It's been downstairs next to Gonzo's for a while now, but this subterranean outpost somehow retains the ineffable charm of its previous home. It may be one of the few permanent venues on the roster but there's a pleasing grittiness that would easily fool the uninitiated. Into that arena stepped Magnolia, an uncompromising venue/act combo having come directly from the gentility of Norwich's poshest Hotel. Comparisons with the Comet is Coming are obvious with Opus Kink not far behind. There were even hints of old school Hawkwind in their more cathartic moments. I'm still not sure whether their music is barely controlled chaos or too cunningly complex for my feeble mind to compute, but it certainly made for a bracingly challenging start to the festival.
The second venue I was pleased to see back was St Laurence's Church. It was as cavernous and cold as I remembered, the peekaboo urinals favoured the brave and brazen, and the precipitous steps had me falling over myself on first entry, yet it remains one of my favourite places. It's a primitive pop up, I'll grant you, but there's something quintessentially Norwich about gigging in a church. Inside, Behind the Sun Collective delivered on that potential. There was more than just a hint of Hawkwind about them too, though the delicious noodling of Ozric Tentacles is probably closer to the mark. If you've ever seen the video where Focus play Hocus Pocus at twice the normal speed, you'll have a sense of what an evening with the Collective was like. Still not sure? Acid Mother Temple and Motorhead's Orgasmatron might help, though this largely instrumental performance included, with a guest vocalist, a cover of Children of the Revolution.
Elsewhere, Pavlis was enjoying The Rabbits' delicious harmonies at the Maid's Head, followed by Pill, mischief makers that reminded him of Riot Girl with pop sensibilities. His night closed on a performance by O. featuring an amazing baritone saxophonist, Joseph, and drummer Tash. How anyone can hit the drums so hard with so little visible effort is apparently one of life's great mysteries. I had fully intended to join him, but was drawn by the pulsing vibration of a full house at St Lawrence's to check out Getdown Services. After a barnstorming start the show did dip a little, but, my goodness, they rounded things off in style. Stripping off to the waist to reveal bodies best left uncovered, these unapologetically self-confessed weirdoes brought the church down courtesy of a backing track and guitar. Imagine a cross between the Sleaford Mods and Softplay, with good humour and a ready wit standing in for righteous indignation, and you're close to the sweaty, shouty, euphoric end with which they closed Thursday.
Emboldened by the decision to see something unfamiliar the night before, I resolved to stick with unfamiliar venues and acts on the Saturday, a promise to myself immediately broken when faced with the unimpeachable loveliness of Vanity Fairy, appearing at St Lawrence's in her sequined poncho. Has a more delightful performer ever graced the stage? I don't think so. Having eschewed her shades after the first song - they're only there, she tells us, to mask insecurity - and with her radiant smile in place, we are treated to her signature brand of electropop. Never content to stay on stage for long, and with a whole church to play in, it wasn't long before she was cavorting up the chancel like it was going out of style. Dead Or Alive or the Scissor Sisters readily spring to mind, but the music is, frankly, secondary to her infectious good humour.
In marked contrast, but no less impressive, was BODUR, a Turkish-Sri Lankan performer who played her latest album at Cinema City, accompanied by on screen visuals. Otherworldly, in both sound and visuals, this was an exciting addition to the Wild Paths tapestry and a bold inclusion by the organisers. To my mind, it didn't get nearly the audience it deserved. Whether this was due to a relatively early start or the Wild Paths audience simply didn't know what to expect, it's hard to say. Perhaps a bit of both. But fortune favours the brave so more of this, please - just turn the house lights up at the end so we can see who has been astonishing us with her haunting vocals, that had so evocatively been synced with the on screen visuals.
It was back to St Lawrence's - fast becoming the epicentre of the festival - for the coolly efficient rock machine, Picture Parlour. With intro music culled from the 70s cult classic Eraserhead, I should perhaps have guessed we'd be delivered up a retro sound. Whether Joan Jett (me) or Wet Leg gone New Wave (Pavlis) is your most illustrative reference point, there's no denying the power and clarity of Katherine Parlour's vocals, nor the unapologetic swagger with which she delivered them. I found them curiously old fashioned, but I guess what goes around comes around, and it's no bad thing to be compared to the likes of Pat Benatar.
We surely all love a bit of Nebula Sun around these parts. I've seen them countless times, as far as Wales and as close as busking in Diss High Street. And I did pop in to see them fill the tiny Space stage, performing to an equally packed audience. But here's the thing. I did much the same at my last Wild Paths, playing it safe, as it were. Consequently, I missed out on a little known soloist playing downstairs at the Karma Cafe. Take note that she didn't even have the whole cafe to herself. The artist in question, probably playing to a handful of people, was CMAT, who of course was never heard of again.
Lesson learned that one needs to branch out. I left early in favour of the Hidden Street. Drawn as much by the venue - no less than a Norwich landmark - as I was by the prospect of Zamani Fitri's performance, I left Nebula Sun early, but still found that close to the venue's capacity was already there waiting. A palpable sense of expectation preceded being led, in the words of Status Quo, down, down, deeper and down, until I found myself outside a two storey building deep in the bowels of Castle Meadow. More by luck than judgement, I had the best view of Zamani, albeit looking up his nose, as he sang his heartfelt, intimate songs inches from his audience. With Arthur Black to my right, and The Neutrinos' Karen Reilly to my left, this was clearly the hot ticket, but even at thirty, there were too many people in too small a space. Ten would have been magical, but as it was I became increasingly self conscious that half the audience could hear little and see nothing. After three songs I offered to swap places and the stark reality of being at the back was cruelly revealed. If you wanted to see the Hidden Street without paying admission then box ticked. Otherwise, this was a fun idea that didn't really work.
More disappointment followed when Eat Your Own Head - surely worth seeing for the name alone - cancelled their appearance at St Peter Parmentergate through illness. What an extraordinary building this huge church is, and worth the trek down King's Street just to see it. If I add that I'm told it's the only church in the world to have been converted into a skatepark (I'm surprised there's one, was my response) then you get a sense of its scale. Instead of EYOH we got Oi Nah, who seemed sulkily upset from the get go, perhaps due to the noticeably modest crowd. Unlike me, it seemed, most EYOH fans got the memo, while followers of Oi Nah did not. The noise was deafening and the skate slopes unscalable, so I sneaked off to St Andrews Brewhouse to check out Mom Tudie.
Meanwhile, Pavlis was enjoying the absolutely feral Piss, who he likens to a hardcore Atari Teenage Riot - imagine Penis Envy by Crass stripped of almost all of what little melody it had and played with the anger and angst cranked up a thousand-fold. I don't really understand what any of that means, but I'm glad he enjoyed them. Enjoyment he had in spades, it would seem, both with Y's sleazy punky, funky rock 'n' roll and MaidaVale's space rock leavened with Nile Rodgers style guitar.
Back at the brewhouse, an interminable and unexplained delay was putting me in a right old grump. Once he had finally started, Mom Tudie's dual drum set was intriguing and his guest vocalist accomplished, but by then I'd gone off the idea. Much is said about the disrespect audiences have for artists, and we had some of that over the weekend, but it cuts both ways. If you can't start on time then have a good reason, communicate with your audience and have the good grace to thank them for their patience.
Frankly, it was patience I didn't have, and so I moved on to the Octagon Chapel, where BINA was showing how it was done with superb vocals dovetailed faultlessly with talented musicians. With weary legs grateful for a sit down on the pews, this proved to be the perfect way to end a curate's egg of a day in what was easily the best venue of the festival.
An early shift for Pavlis sees Dog At The Opera at the Space venue judged to be decent, melancholy indie with a garage edge, slightly shambolic but in an appealing way. A quick shimmy over to Voodoo Daddies is rewarded with an audience with Amourette, a metallic, riot grrl-esque band, with occasional forays into rapped vocals. Notwithstanding the pounding drums, punchy bass, buzzsaw guitar and shouty yet melodic vocals, their most significant change is a huge growth in confidence.
Unusually, we share an audience (and I think opinion) of Snakemilk back at Space, a guitar and drums combo that mix country and garage, with hints of the distinctly British Feelgoods in the mix. And was that a Kaiser Chiefs riff I noticed in the mix? Surely not. In any event, anyone who does a stonking cover of St James Infirmary, and then uses the phrase "lower quartile" gets my vote.
Whisked away to see Birdwitch at St Peter Parmentergate by said raging brutal gothic doom/death metal fan, I think I was supposed to hate it, but actually the lead vocalist was surprisingly melodic when not screeching, while the band teetered close to Prog Rock at times. Despite all the sound and fury, and the bass player's walkabouts, the lead vocalist was, of course, like all heavy rock bands, utterly sweet in her appreciation we had turned up to listen. But why do they have to screech so, Paul? Why, Paul, why?
Parting ways, Pavlis stayed for another local band we both have a soft spot for, the notorious art/noise loveable loons Kulk, who I understand acquitted themselves well. I, on the other hand, headed off to the Octagon, seduced by the idea of a sit down, and the chance to rest my weary bones. Little did I know that my highlight of the festival, in the shape of the Astral Bakers, were waiting for me.
Heralding from Paris - they'd only turned up for the day - this French band were lucky enough to play in one of the festival's best venues, but as a consequence of its relatively obscure location, did so to a smaller audience than they deserved. That said, if I can presume to misquote Shakespeare's Henry V's Agincourt speech, we few, we happy few, we band of brothers that saw Astral Bakers, shall be my brother; and gentlemen in England watching Kulk shall think themselves accursed they were not there... or something like that anyway. Theodora, Nico Lockhart, Zoé Hochberg, and Sage are all experienced musicians but this, I understand, is a relatively new venture. Choosing to sing in English - I asked them about this afterwards and apparently it just sounds better than in French - we were treated to some heavenly harmonies that hovered somewhere between the Magic Numbers and the much missed (at least by me) Goldheart Assembly. I can't say I heard a claimed similarity to the mighty Supertramp or Nirvana, though, or even how you could be both those things.Perhaps I wasn't listening hard enough. I loved everything about them - their ability to swap instruments, their charming self deprecation, but most of all their heavenly compositions. There was one thing, though. The elephant in the room is surely that name. The explanation - I did ask - is that Astral is a corruption of the word hazard, as in random notes - and baking as in cooking up in song. That doesn't make much sense, does it, so perhaps something got lost in translation. I won't forget the name in a hurry, though.
Seduced by the atmosphere (and seats) of the Octagon Chapel I hung around for MT Jones who was just fine. With vocals that brought to mind Mick Hucknall (in a good way), a pickless guitar strum that reminded me of Wilko Johnson and deft songwriting skills, it made for an easy way to spend time recharging the batteries. Just as well, as the maniacal Dura Mater demanded every ounce of your energy and attention. How do you fit a ten piece band onto a stage the size afforded by the (ironically named) Space venue? Not easily, is the answer. Granted, the masked bongo player wasn't contributing much, and the tambourine player was a tad overshadowed, but a two man brass section, bass, drums, two guitars, keyboards, violin and cowbell added up to a gloriously chaotic cacophony that had the very foundations shaking. Frequent crowd invasions from a violinist channelling Bez, along with the Baby Driver guitarist, having handed the cowbell over to an audience member. Think Squid unhinged, with smatterings of Jazz, Funk, Prog Rock and straightforward lunacy, as the sound lurched from the Scissor Sisters to the Dead Kennedys. Lord only knows what they were banging on about most of the time, though I dare say Urinary Conversation was indicative. Absolutely marvellous stuff.
I'd been warned off J Doe as a venue too full of chatty folk drinking cocktails to bother with, but I really wanted to see Murmurations. In general, the festival had been curated with care and foresight, so let's not dwell on it too much, but getting a rowdy cocktail bar to host an acoustic set was an odd decision. It's a testament to the musical excellence of this trio that they managed to defeat the ambient noise and hold their audience's attention for a whole set. Norwich's answer to the Unthanks seems the obviouscomparison, with shades of Sam Lee thrown in for good measure.
So that just left the big ticket performance of Adult DVD at Voodoo Daddies to round things off. Having arrived in good time, imagine my frustration that having nipped out to the loo I was barred from re-entry. I suppose I could have argued my case, but it was going to be heaving in there and, as if by magic, some fellow travellers had gathered at the bar. Tales were shared of that which I had missed. Cowboy Hunters, the rave-punk vox/drums and bass/vox duo, killed it, as the crowd did the Macarena. How Scustin proved to be a cross between Irish Streets and Bob Vylan but funkier and more fun than either. Reports of Dreamwave's 60s garage/70s space rock, and Human Interest's guitar-pop, bringing to mind a heavier version of the Housemartins.
If only I had a time machine and could it all over again.
