Welcome to Summerhall’s courtyard in festival mode. There is an easy atmosphere around here today, it’s a warm, bright June afternoon. The stage is set, there’s a smoking sweetmeat shack, cinema screen, alfresco alehouse, and a pair of peripheral pavilions; perfectly poised for the proliferation of the perspicacious peoples. So it begins, bringing a benevolent breed of bipedal beasts to bask in the sound as it summons a steady stream of sanguine spectators.
The sound is that of RM Hubbert, a performer who clearly needs no introduction, a slew of self made monikers and Hubbert-esque spoonerisms aught to do it. The assembled audience enjoy the beautiful percussive guitar style, emotive singing, sledgehammer wit, and songs that are truly relate-able. Songs about depression, heartbreak, suicidal stalkers, breaking into an ex’s home; to nose around and check whether they’ve been pumping anybody. Common human experiences, laid bare as a key to our connection, rallying points for success as a social species.
The dark wine calls the spirits, intercourse is imbibed in the interim. Indigo Velvet tune up and carry the flag, fun filled funky fervour flows through the frolickers. A sickly sweet strut and sway stimulating the subconscious. Their obvious enjoyment is infectious, the epitome of an era of erudition, they move as one.
First from fourth, or a few from fifth at the festival we find Ela Orleans’s set. It is in essence an audio visual exploration of ethereal effervescence, solidly sculpted sights and soundscapes, sonorous and salient in their syncopation.
The sun is diminishing, the continued augmentation of the evening builds to SAY Award winning Sacred Paws. A brilliant bombastic and bounteous bravura, bringing a rightfully raucous reaction of rhumba and roar from the revellers.
In the wake of a wonderfully worthwhile experience, dusk reaches its zenith. Places are taken, the anthropoids arrange themselves around the courtyard, carrying cushions, consuming combustibles, brandishing beers, and bearing blankets. The event culminating in a public screening, an outdoor showing of arguably the greatest concert film ever made.
Talking Heads – Stop Making Sense is an iconic work of art , yet another masterpiece by director Jonathan Demme. David Byrne is the linchpin of this amazing feat of stagecraft and musicianship, everyone plays their part to perfection in the production. This film is sure to inspire even the most conservative to capitulate and cavort, tonight is no exception as the enraptured onlookers begin to shimmy onto the sidelines. The en-mass migration to the dance floor and subsequent happening happens in a snap at the opening roll of Burning Down The House, and now they’re moving forward and back, they’re moving backwards and front, and they’re enjoying themselves, moving in every direction.
This was a great idea, the cathartic combination of an inner city music festival and an outdoor screening of Stop Making Sense. what a fantastic evening, they should do this every year!
For more on Nothing Ever Happens Here’s programme in conjunction with Summerhall click here.