More about: End of the Road Festival

The apprehension prior to arrival at the festival was that End of the Road would be a shadow of its former self, the end of the road in a darker sense: a Corona legacy, whereby it would be peopled solely by the under eighteens like the Spanish village in '70s cult horror classic ‘Who Can Kill A Child? ’in which all the adults have been bumped off by their offspring. It’s true that the Stool Bus seemed to come round less often to suction the toilets habitable and there was so much condensation on the ceiling of the shower trucks you received a second shower as you were putting your clothes back on. The habitual neon sign at the festival’s epicentre even seemed designed this year to throw us off balance. ‘Of The End Road’ it read.

And the pandemic had clearly had an impact on the scheduling. Sleaford Mods perhaps promoted to top billing on the Saturday night because acts like The Pixies were forced to drop out. The Nottz duo manfully strutted the acres of the Woods stage with their modest, DIY bedroom beats and pugilistic despair, when better suited to the enclosure of the Big Top. The absence of BBC Late Junction global imports to the Tipi tent, no doubt due to travel restrictions, was also keenly felt.

But these are mere quibbletal bagatelles. The traditional village fete-like set up was there in its entirety, from the rat run of fabulous catering options to the woodland art trails and all the generations plentifully present. Alongside the affable peacocks, the site’s resident macaws were also regularly spotted. Reassuringly, the disco at the cider bus rendezvous point still pumped out vintage funk and rock ‘n’ roll, post-gig revellers shakin’ all over, and not from Covid. In fact, it was impossible not to feel a joyous shiver of gratitude down the backbone for simply being in the throng once again and enormous credit must go to the organising crew for pulling the festival off in trying times with its eclectic spirit intact. End of the Road never gets too big for its boots and continues to wear many styles.

No travel meant no Americana for the first time in living memory. But there were stalwart returners such as the Mark E Smith-inspired Squid. Oldboy were the best of the raucous punk proliferating in the Big Top, sending a pneumatic drill to the stomach on a Saturday afternoon swamped with grungy noise: the whirring of the Jodrell Bank-sized fan delivering more melody than some of its acts. However End of the Road seemed genuinely keen to stoke a dance party this year as crackling veterans Hot Chip upstaged a colourless set from Damon Albarn on Friday night. SIPHO, who describes himself as a ‘songwriter, artist and overall nuisance’ gave the Big Top crowd a treat with some excellent RnB, and Little Simz, who should have been the Saturday night headliner, flamboyantly leapt round the stage to sow wild ecstasy, in a costume reminiscent of a Chinese circus lion, her band moving seamlessly between rap, funk, afrobeat, soul and jazz.

Of the other headliners John Grant and Arlo Parks were successfully serene and poignant, but in spite of the pedigree of his film soundtracks, the string set of Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood never caught fire. Shabaka Hutchings added his weaving saxophone to the experimental fusion of The Comet Is Coming without being able to lift it out of a dirge.  Instead daytime Jane Weaver wooed the Garden stage crowd with her dreamy, psychedelic pop, especially the transcendental ‘I Wish’ and Charlie Cunningham’s pristine voice and cajon-infused acoustic melodies were exquisite.

The Tipi tent still threw out some gems. Most memorably Wales’ Melin Melyn with their Talking Heads-esque jerky riffs and the touched Eve Owen, who was moved to tears by the collective audience swoon at her tender, folk ballads. There were a few lead and drum White Stripes imitators this year...Tiberius B could be the one to watch for.

The joy of a festival like End of The Road is stumbling across these smaller, boutique acts and one of the standouts was three piece Pozi in the midday sun. Early Joy Division basslines, snappy drums and off kilter violin in the place of lead guitar, creating thrilling musical jeopardy. Sunday, being the last night, still packed and exuberant, also fields a melancholic air, as realisation sinks in that the fun is coming to an end. But Big Joanie weren’t going to let that deter them. Three Black women departing from afro culture’s more well-trodden laylines to serve up some old school indie with fire, verve and charm. 

The weather gloriously held out. Larmer Tree has, at other times, felt twinned with the Shetland Isles. If the last eighteen months had seemed like being Billy Nomates, this EOTR restored us to fully functioning social animals again.  Perhaps the final word should rest with the Bournemouth heir to Kae Tempest, the Sleafords’ livewire sidekick in pointed commentary and working class sprechgesang ("No I won’t shave it off. I’m not twelve") who gave us a danceable, memorable set. "Let’s not make this awkward. Thanks very much. Bye!"

EOTR ‘21, all too brief, but likely to linger in the memory.

More about: End of the Road Festival