Laugharne Weekend. It’s a festival Jim, but not as we know it
The Laugharne Weekend is a festival held in town that isn’t really suitable to hold a festival in. Just one of many little quirks that makes Laugharne what it is. Perfect.
The term ‘town’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting in Laugharne. It sits on the A4066, a winding country road that follows the coast between St Clears and Pendine, Pembrokeshire. I say ‘follows the coast’, but when the tide is right, it becomes part of the coast. The estuary is very flat, so when the tide is out the water is three miles away. When the tide is in, at certain times of year, the water floods the car park at The Gryst, wanders over to the beer garden of The Fountain Inn, and occasionally pops in for a pint. Or at least it would if the spoil sports didn’t have flood barriers at the ready.
This eccentric town is probably most famous for being the home of Dylan Thomas, and was the inspiration for Under Milk Wood. So it is only fitting that it has been home to a literature festival for the last nineteen years. I say ‘literature festival’ in the loosest of terms. There are lots of books, and authors talking about books, but the focus of the festival definitely leans towards music, politics and Alternative Comedy. You’re more likely to bump into Alexi Sayle than Jeffrey Archer.
When I say it is an inappropriate location, I’m referring to accommodation. It’s an urban festival, rather than an outdoor festival. You have to sort yourself a hotel, Air Bnb or friend’s couch to stay in/on. And there are not a lot of them about in the town itself. And those that are available in the town have a tendency to operate ‘dynamic pricing’. This year is the second time we have been like greyhounds out of a trap and booked accommodation within five minutes of the festival date being announced, only for the host to get in touch an hour later, having woken up to the realisation it’s the festival weekend, and either doubled the price, or as is the case this year, suddenly become unavailable.
Greyhound racing, of course, has recently been banned in Wales so we will have to find a new metaphor for next year.
There have been several years when we have had to make do with a hotel in a different town altogether and either drive or get a taxi/bus. Public transport and taxis around this neck of the woods are not in abundance, so there have been a number of times we have had to walk out half way through a show to get the last available transport. Sometimes it is like the scene from the US Embassy in Vietnam when the last helicopter is leaving .
After being gazumpped this year we managed to secure a room in The Carpenters Arms, a pub just outside the town limits, but close enough to walk.
As the day arrived, the sun was shining and Spring was in the air. We took a leisurely drive west, making an obligatory stop off at Tangled Parrot, a contender for the best record shop in Wales. I picked up copies of 4+1/2 by Stephen Wilson and No Picture by The Pink Fairies.
After sitting in rush hour roadworks traffic for half an hour, we were soon pulling up the handbrake and checking-in to the Carpenters. After a swift pint we took a leisurely stroll down the hill to The Fountain Inn. This is where all the late night shenanigans, skullduggery and moral turpitude goes on but, for now, it is the calm before the storm.
Mark Steel and Nick Revel pop in the chip shop next door. I mention this not to name-drop (well, maybe a little bit) but to highlight the fact that Laugharne is a great leveller. It’s almost punk rock in terms of the lack of barriers between audience and performers. Everyone is equal and just mingle. And with the exception of people like me getting excited about Mark Steel eating fish and chips without his hat on, nobody bats an eyelid. No crowds of autograph and selfie hunters (unless of course they are sat at a table autographing their new book).
*As I am writing this, I’m actually wondering if Mark Steel and Nick Revel get recognised in their own town, let alone chased by autograph hunters.
Eventually we head up to the Millennium Hall to listen to Nicky Wire and Jeremy Deller talking about The Manic Street Preachers and general music obsession. Also to plug a new book, 168 Songs, which sort of chronicles the story of the band through, erm, 168 of their songs.
I take my hat off to the Manics. Being a Blackwood boy myself, I give them credit for proving that it is possible to ‘make it big’, without having to decamp to a big city. I don’t recall many other bands from the valleys doing that before them. I liked their early material but never became a big superfan. I think the last time I saw them live would be when they played Cardiff Students Union, roughly around the time Mowtown Junk was released. Although I did work behind the bar for their Millennium Eve gig in Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium.
They are certainly a band that inspired a whole generation of passionate fans that followed them everywhere, grabbed all their merchandise and created their own tributes. The band that launched a thousand fanzines, as it were.
Nicky gets that. He is a passionate music lover himself and we hear tales of his huge collection of memorabilia from his own band and others. We here how darts legend Jockey Wilson went up in his estimation when he told a young autograph hunting Nicky Wire to fuck off.
Jeremy Deller is more than just a fan, he has contributed to their live performances and hosted art exhibitions dedicated to the band. Including an exhibition that made no reference whatsoever to the band, but simply exhibited art that had influenced the band, their lyrics and album covers.
It was a pleasant hour listening to two people who are passionate about art, in all it’s forms, talking passionately about art. In all it’s forms.
Next up was Stewart Lee in conversation with Armundo Iannucci for the Radio Four podcast, Strong Message Here.
We were asked to write questions on paper in advance, so i did.
The main thrust of the conversation was the pros and cons of Artificial Intelligence. A quite philosophical discussion between two people whose minds tend to wander at the best of times. Those mental meandering were on times hysterical.
Then they discussed political language, deconstrucing terms that politicians throw about willy nilly. Suggestions were contributed by the audience – but my written question was never asked. Bastards.
It was a little disjointed and meandering at times, but that’s the way with radio show recordings. I’m sure it will be seamless when it eventually goes out, half the length, on Radio Four.
We head down to the Fountain to end the night off, because that’s where people go to end the night. And it is on the way back to The Carpenters.
The ever present DJ Eugene ‘Uncle Funk’ is on the wheels of steel, spinning slabs of Funk to get the day’s survivors throwing shapes. Frivolity is had.
We only stay for an hour, conscious of the hill back up to the Carpenters. It’s not a problem coming down, but it’s like the north face of Twmbarwm Tump on the way back up.
We have stayed at the Carpenters before. It’s one of those pubs that is defying commercial reality and staying open against its own better judgement. We are pleasantly surprised, therefore, to find a Celtic folk quartet sat in the corner with bodran, fiddles and shit. They provide the soundtrack to our nightcap before we head for our room, drunk on culture, if not Jägerbombs.