Green Man 2008 15th – 17th August

Glanusk Park, Brecon Beacons

Peering apprehensively through my fingers at the weather forecast for this year's Green Man I was unsure whether the soundest investment would be a pair of stout boots or a small boat. Last year it rained. This year it drizzled, and then it poured; breaking only to relentlessly piss it down. Fortunately the crowd's appetite for those twin pillars of British society: folk music and binge drinking, meant despite conditions that begged unfavourable comparisons with the Somme,  this year's sold out festival was another roaring, ale-drinking, pie-eating, freak-dancing, beard-stroking success.

Strange things happen at festivals. An alchemical process involving daytime drinking, constant exposure to the elements and the waft of chemical toilets can radically alter your critical faculties. For example, James Yorkston and King Creosote, both artists who I've never had a particular like (or dislike) for on record provided - with their genial, good-natured pub-folk - a charismatic and hugely enjoyable soundtrack to standing in a drizzly field in South Wales.

For a man with, reportedly, a "hurricane inside" his veins and a "soul on fire", Spiritualized's Jason Pierce certainly does a good job of hiding it. Standing side on to the audience, and all but mute between songs for the duration of Friday's headlining set, it appears that his recent recovery from a near-death case of pneumonia didn't result in an injection of joie de vivre. Unfortunately, the set dragged where previous performances have euphorically soared, and this comparatively stripped-down version of Spiritualized - a five-piece band and two gospel singers - don't quite capitalise on the potential of playing their grandiose music in such a majestic setting.

Howlin' Rain (hideously appropriately named, as they had the honour of soundtracking the moment the rain went horizontal), with their grooving, wailing, 70s-influenced voodoo-rock were utterly derivative, entirely generic and unreservedly, life-affirmingly brilliant. Ethan Hawke's relentlessly enthusiastic guitar playing and gruff, soulful vocals, backed up by a tight, organ-driven band ladling out rolling, organic riffs had the crowd mocking the rain gods with a defiant display of waterproof-clad boogying and non-ironic air guitar.

At some point - whilst distracting us with stoned humour and albums named after Cardiff-based sex shops - the Super Furry Animals became a first-class festival headline act. Slyly skewed pop was the order of the day for a crowd ready to dance themselves dry as the rain finally relented, and with a stellar set it became clear that beneath the bumbling demeanour lies a glam-strutting, addictively melodic, ruthlessly-effective pop machine.

Sam Beam exuded a beatific charm during Iron and Wine's penultimate Sunday night slot on the main stage, soothing tired campers with a set of lush balladry and subtly funky, Gracelands-esque rhythms. Gentle of word and heavy of beard, Beam entranced the crowd like disciples in the company of a religious mystic, finishing with a solo acoustic number that warmed chilled bones as it drifted from the speakers like August evening sunshine.

Presiding over the line-up were two pillars of the British folk scene: Fairport Convention's Richard Thompson and a recently reformed Pentangle. Thompson's Saturday night main stage set was delivered with a pugilistic intensity, as he played the guitar and sang with a verve and commitment lacking in most performers half his age. Folk-jazz-rock innovators Pentangle's headlining Sunday night performance formed a fitting climax to the festival, as old and new experimental folk fans alike celebrated the band that started it all in the late 60s. It was hard to tell who was more in awe of whom, as a rapt audience had their perseverance rewarded with a reunion long hoped for, but never expected, and Pentangle appeared charmingly humbled by the crowds - old and new - who lined the tiered lawns to see them. The band had lost little of their dexterity in the intervening years. Danny Thompson provided a spirited bass solo on Goodbye Porkpie Hat, Jacqui McShee's voice has maintained its ethereal beauty, and Bert Jansch and John Renbourn's guitar interplay was as fluid as ever; Bert a smirking, comparatively youthful presence to fellow 64 year old John, who'd more than earned the right to wear his slippers on stage.

Oh, Green Man. You tested us - the rain, the horror! God, (Rhys Ifan's post-break-up therapy, gonzoid-rock sideshow) the Peth! But how can we stay mad at you? Once more, Green Man was a triumph of the independent spirit over the corporate festival battery farm. Excellent music, eclectic line-up and the good-natured bonhomie of a drunken village fete - barring a tsunami or nuclear fallout, next year's festival can't fail to be a similar success. Godspeed my return to this land of mist-shrouded peaks, bearded folk troubadours and ale that flows from dawn ‘til dawn!

words by Robin Wilkinson

with photography by Alan Bracey and Robin Wilkinson