Shhh! Fest

What better venue for an “all-day festival of quiet music” than the Luminaire? Famous are its painted notices to (I paraphrase) shut the fuck up or fuck the fuck off; equally famous is its ruthless enforcement. And promoter The Local’s more than proved its flawless taste in singer/songwriters of the bearded variety. But don’t reach for that woolly hat / jumper / gig buddy just yet. Shhh! Fest’s excellent line-up was hugely varied – and not all that quiet.

Denis Jones pushed it up to, if not 11, a respectable 7 to 7.5. Layered amongst an acoustic guitar and a deep, resonant voice were totally unexpected veins of sound mined from at least five decades of popular music. The sparest of slap basslines from Sly Stone-vintage funk pulsed underneath and a smattering of beatboxing (his own) draped over the top. For a few bars he’d croon the most tender of lullaby melodies. Or punctuate with some Architecture and Morality -era gliss synth fragments. Or, serious-faced, construct a ‘Day in the Life’-style sonic mash-up like the rest of us pull a block out of Jenga. Or, even, all of the above. But somehow it all came together in perfect, logical, eardrum-massaging, heart-stirring sonic harmony.

Next up was Fanni Risberg (pictured), whose vocals would be well served by words like ‘breathy’ and ‘yearning’. You couldn’t fault the tightness of the trio (she was backed by understated guitar and bass) or the lushness of her voice, but the sap didn’t rise in my veins. Cowboy Junkies played her out – an unfortunate comparison. Fanni seemed to be trying awfully hard for that timeless, sexy melancholy that came so naturally to Margo Timmins.

A feisty Madam energised the room the moment she came on. At her best she recalled Leonard Cohen, all softly intimate confessions and sunny, pure-voiced refrains; or the dreaminess of Julee Cruise on ‘Falling’. A subtle but hard-edged darkness glinted beneath, though, and kept things interesting.

The words ‘quietly’ and ‘captivating’ could have been strung together first and only, ever, for Meg Baird of Espers, who was an unbilled, unexpected delight. She came on with unassuming confidence and though the lively crowd had been boozing for the best part of day, nobody needed shushing. Her flawless, liquid-honey voice and concentrated, intense delivery gave every song, however traditional its roots, a compelling emotional immediacy. There was a small silence before final applause, as everyone in the room suddenly remembered to draw breath again.

Photo: Susie Lenette @ The Local