Cheltenham Musings 1

The Virgin Cross Country Train arrived at Cheltenham on time and I was grateful for the fact that Richard Branson’s trains blew up less frequently than his rockets. Steve came up from Reading and we met on the platform. We were staying at Clematis B&B. I told Steve that I had misheard when he had told me the name of the B&B on the phone and told him what I thought he had said. “No,” he replied, “If it had been called that, as blokes, we never would have found it.”

We were staying about a twenty minute walk into the town centre and we set off for Montpellier where most of the action, jazz wise, appeared to be, stopping off at the Town Hall on the way to get our bearings for tonight’s gig. The Main Festival site is a big village in a park in the middle of town. Rain had made the going soft, but sturdy shoes saw us alright.

The Free Stage Tent and bar Tent were just inside the gate and the order of service across the weekend showed a couple of Tomorrow's Warriors' groups and several school orchestras. I was a little cynical about how many kids playing Birdland, Wade In The Water and Watermelon Man we could take across the weekend but, in fact the worst ones were good and most were better than that. I think this is an investment as those kids will be at least the audiences  for future festivals and some, if they accept a life of near penury, will become the artists we will be paying to see in years to come.

Wandering around the food area I noticed Gregory Porter chatting to a few people so I went over to say hello. As BSH’s leading investigative reporter I thought I’d try and uncover the true man beneath the warm, genial, friendly persona that Mr Porter puts into the public eye. Chatting to him for only as long as it took to get a selfie it became clear that, in fact, he is an absolutely lovely man and is exactly as you might hope he would be.

Saturday was pretty sunny all day and many families had brought children who were running around and falling over themselves and each other, and there were picnic blankets to waltz between on the way to the bar. 

By now we were starting to take in the vibesmosphere of the place. Unlike other outdoor festivals with bits of indistinct music coming across the field the rhythms varied from the usual 4 beats to the floor thump, thump as bassists and drummers (and tuba players*) take the time for a ride around. Occasionally, everything met in the middle and a bit of a battle ensued. Maybe they should all have got together and saw what evolved.

More musings and reviews to follow. Dave Sayer

*There is a case, in the interests of world peace, for tubas to be beaten into ploughshares.