Festival Review: Y Not Festival // July 2023
Y Not Festival continues to mass its fervent followers each year, and despite the bank-breaking meal deals and toilet queues longer than traffic jams, it has become a neighbourly, cohesive community of music-lovers.
My festival experience commenced on Thursday at midday with the indie pop singer Ellie Dixon, who bounded on stage with an awkward quirkiness yet demanding stage presence. Her set was devoid of pretence or perverted pop gimmicks, simply centred around her eccentric instrumentalism and inspirational-quote lyrics. Her punctuating performance, the song ‘Big Lizard Energy’ (co-sang by the audience), was a production and manifestation of Dixon's previously suppressed anxiety. The backing music was composed of distorted conga drum beats, giving it a reggae undertone.
For Dixon's song 'Bounce', which was released only a week earlier, she elegantly slipped on a cowboy hat. She informed us that the baseline was created from twanging a ruler against a table, reconfirming my initial suspicions that Dixon's creativity and craftsmanship are unparalleled. At the peak of the song, Dixon erupted into spontaneous and unrehearsed choreography, engaging the audience effortlessly. It was the song that did indeed get the crowds bouncing. The performance of her final song ‘Biscuit’ quite surreally ended in her propelling Oreos into an eager crowd, leaving them jostling for stale biscuit crumbs like bridesmaids battling for a wedding bouquet.
Shortly after, it was time for Circa Waves – a band which held my attention hostage from the very moment they stormed into view. By the opening song ‘Do You Wanna Talk’ the mosh pit was already going in full 90s rave style. Despite the limited lyrics, consisting predominantly of one vague, eponymous question, Circa Waves performed with such vibrancy and explosive, contagious confidence in a way that was almost entrancing to behold. Kieran Shudall engaged in a quaint Talking Heads leg sway, with songs of The Kooks emulated in his vocals. At this point the field was ablaze with failed crowd surfs and epilepsy-triggering light flourishes, feeding off of the band’s slick, unblemished energy. Each song was rocking, raving, and rioting, greeted with a sea of welcome applause.
Friday swiftly approached, and first up were the honied ballads of Tilly Louise. The stage of The Giant Squid offered a warming intimacy that melted into Louise’s sultry vocals. Clad in psychedelic orange-pink, she lullabied her first song ‘Own Worst Critic’ off of her latest EP ‘Join the Club’ to the metronome of clapping hands. With her evident 70s facade you would have expected her to hold the harsh intensity of Carly Simon, but her voice embraced a more angelically lucid quality. The true highlights were the heavy, erratic guitar solos and Louise's Stephen Tyler kicks, mellowed by solemnity and the crispness of 90s Madonna.
Next, on the main stage (The Big Gin) was Rose Gray. Her entourage initially strided forth looking like an East 17 tribute act (their attire being a splash of white), however, after the first few songs it became clear that Rose Gray is more indebted to the works of Kate Bush through her bare feet prancing and expressive dance. Her poised, swayful bouts of choreography were oozing with undiluted energy. Gray’s slick, 90s semblance of stone-washed denim and wet red hair mirrored the influences of her music. Her song ‘Ecstasy’ shared stark similarities with the electronic pop hit ‘Let Me Be Your Fantasy’ by Baby D. When the chorus struck, Gray suddenly started pelting a synthesised drum in exaggerated flurries. The entirety of her set was uniquely mystifying and mediating, soothing the tender souls who were still scorned by Thursday night alcopops.
The Reytons were a band that had piqued my interest for a while now. Their local stance, spontaneous sky rocket to number one, and the lead guitarist’s fellow attendance to Hive South Yorkshire had spawned my pro-longed desire to witness them live. Jonny Yerrell’s northern charm and obvious threads of Alex Turner made for a distinctly personalised performance. Excluding the grey, spitting rain and almost Arctic temperatures, their songs instantly got the crowds chanting like beer-fuelled football fans. They explained their noble ascension through the ranks at Y Not over the past few years, starting simply in a small, limited tent, before rising to The Quarry and then of course, The Big Gin. It was inspiring not just to the listening crowd, but to the emerging artists who have similarly endured the smaller stages and massing exposure. The Reytons went onto play ‘Red Smoke’ and ‘Cash in Hand & Fake IDs’, their foregrounded working class roots shining blindingly throughout the set, as an intimate love letter to their Rotherham youth.
At The Giant Squid were Kid Kapichi, a band I’d never heard uttered before. But after seeing their set, I’ve probably mentioned them to every person I’ve come into contact with since (including postmen, newsagents, general passerbys etc). A personal favourite was the song ‘Party at Number Ten’, which narrated the social drama of privileged politicians and persistent Covid rule breaks. I applaud any band who is willing to expel some form of opinion in these days of deluded wokeness. Although Kid Kapichi were relentlessly let down by uncontrollable technical faults, leaving their set at ear-drum-blundering volume, the atmosphere was electrically palpable, with everyone from hormone-infested teenagers to borderline pensioners dancing carelessly.
Early Saturday morning, everyone leaked out of their tents as if they’d just scraped to survive a night of nuclear attack. The icy winds had pierced through the thin fabric of every inexperienced camper’s tent, and now people sat slurping coffees at 5am with death in their eyes.
First up on The Giant Squid stage was Calum Bowie, who philosophied on the importance of inner gratitude, his beatific songs washing a smile over everyone’s face (even though, by this point, everyone was still nursing a head full of beer and only twenty minutes sleep). He was like Lewis Capaldi on prozac, except his songs were refreshingly not about heartbreak. Bowie’s set concluded with the song ‘Dancing in The Sun’, and an audible gasp struck the tent as the sun ironically enough spilled into light. He was the perfect cure for the Saturday hangover blues.
Over at The Quarry was Sheffield band Frankie Beetlestone, who briskly proved that not every band to come out of Sheffield is an off-the-estate Arctic Monkeys clone. Their song ‘My House’ metaphorised the assaultive and crowded nature of the mind, while ‘I’m Sober Again’ instantly got the audience involved in an obligatory hand sway. A high-pitched keyboard scale came clinking in the chorus, almost like a glockenspiel, giving it a more ethereal undercurrent. We’ll never forget the immortal promise ‘Next year, we’re taking the main stage'.
Over at The Big Gin, the blaring of Roy Orbison’s ‘Pretty Woman’ signified the forthcoming appearance of The Lathums, urging everyone to start cheering supportively (I think I even heard an ‘I love you’). ‘From Nothing To A Little Bit More’ was taped precariously in cardboard across their bass drum – the poignant title of their more recent, most critically-acclaimed album. It is every artist's obligation to leave an indelible mark on society – this album is certainly The Lathums’ mark. They went on to showcase a catalogue of featured songs from that album including ‘Lucky Bean’ and ‘The Great Escape’, which opened with a Johnny Marr guitar riff. The Lathums have no lyrics clouded with curses or overly-harmonised back up singers; no fame complex or self-imposed image. They are stripped back, dedicated musicians who have cult clans of followers at their disposal.
By 20:15 on Saturday night, James were back with their trademark high-pitched hurls. Tim Booth was dressed in ageless baggy jeans, a grey fur hoodie and an oversized beanie – the epitome of 90s culture (he may as well have been wearing a smiley face bucket hat and a girl power t-shirt). Booth sang ‘Come Home’ from the comfort of his fan’s clawing arms, before bravely surfing into the depths of the crowd. James then played ‘All the Colours of You’, which was originally written in Lockdown about the undisputed racism and fascism in America. The song was much more politically outgoing than their usual anthemic croons of American Pie tunes. They continued to play carefree crowd-ravers ‘Sometimes’ and ‘Sit Down’, but kept the audience waiting for their much-loved, instant party pleaser ‘Laid’ (which is rumoured to be about a girl from Sheffield). Their songs were bubbling with 90s buoyancy and fizzing vitality.
On Sunday, the final day of the festival, BBC Music introduced Girlband at The Quarry. The title of the band itself piqued my interest, how it was so generic yet so enigmatic, like ‘The Smiths’ – it can be assigned to nothing and everything all at once. I soon found that the performance was equally as intriguing. I was speechless when the band announced that they had only been together for a solitary year, considering what a unified, solidified trio they were, with no member redundant. The song ‘Not Like The Rest’ was a celebration of gay pride and identity, its message pounding you right in the gut like a motivational speech. The stage was swathed in ironic pink light, and the band frequently swigged bellyfulls of beer mid-song to the climax of drums – a truly rock and roll performance.
Over at The Allotment, The Sway headed straight in with a racy plunge of an intro, and a Cast meets Reef song list. The band surprisingly alternated singers each track, reminiscent of The Beatles, the predominant vocalist being a Liam-Gallagher-pure keyboard player that glowed with charming clarity.
Just as everyone made their way out of the heated comfort of their tents to watch The Charlatans, rain conveniently started to rattle down, crushing everyone’s initial outfit plan of crop tops and ripped shorts. The Charlatans walked out to a writhing ocean of bucket hats and rain-soaked ponchos, their audience’s faces unfashionably concealed in plastic. However, the rain didn’t fault Tim Burgess, his voice shining and unwavering as if no time had passed. He intermittently pointed at selected members of the crowd in that slightly random yet iconic 90s way, fitting for his sky-blue raincoat and bleached mop of hair. They played The Only One I Know and One To Another back-to-back, hardly giving the audience enough time to breathe in all of the delicious nostalgia and the epochal splashes of their guitars.
Dawning the stage of The Quarry next were Crawlers, with their sharply clear and directive image of jet-black silk and bleached hair. It soon became apparent that the band are crawling with insatiable confidence and showmanship, as they made a dramatic entrance into a mist of crimson smoke. The song ‘Come Over (Again)’ confirmed that they have no rigidity of precision – their music melts into itself, unstructured and unrestricted. Half way through the track, fuschia beads of light started to float across the ceiling like shooting stars. To conclude the set, Holly Minto stiffly swirled a gay pride flag through the air before modelling it as a makeshift cloak. Crawlers are eagerly and successfully dragging gothic punk-rock back into fashion.
The final act at The Big Gin, and the headliner everyone had been zealously anticipating, was the mighty Paul Weller, universally known as ‘The Modfather’. He ambled in with the same conviction and casual charisma that he had forty years ago. As a devout Weller-ite, I had already assembled a soundtrack of songs I wished him to perform, and luckily enough I was able to tick off each one throughout the show. Weller’s festivalised rendition of ‘My Ever Changing Moods’ was as sweet and soulful as ever, and ‘You Do Something To Me’ roused couples old and young to start swaying knowingly. At the single, isolated pluck of ‘That’s Entertainment’, the crowd was already hazed in a nostalgia-induced field of passion, singing lyrics they didn’t even know they knew. Weller barely stopped for breath, racing between a band of guitars, a piano and dispersed microphones – I’m surprised he didn’t pull out an inhaler half way through the show. He certainly proved that in the corniest of senses ‘he’s still got it’.
Y Not Festival is inclusivity at its richest and most devoted. Whether you’re a profound poet seeking solace in The Smiths’ karaoke tent, or a gang of old friends moshing the pain away at the main stage, this festival exhilarates and exemplifies.
I eagerly await the unveiling of next year’s line up, and am excited for what Y Not 2024 has to offer!
Words by Charlie Jolley
Photography by Izzy Clayton
