Review by The Punk Buddhist Journalist
Since 2019, Raehills Meadows, near Moffat in Dumfries and Galloway, has been the site of Eden Festival, an independent, not-for-profit celebration of music, arts, and culture.
‘Showcasing both internationally acclaimed artists as well as local up-and-coming acts, from Folk, Soul and Electronica to Jazz, Rockabilly, World and everything in between. With more than 250 acts over 10 stages.’
Jude Norton-Smith at Rabbie’s Tavern is my first port of call. As I walk towards the entrance, a delicate, tender, nurturing music hastens me in.
Jude’s recent EP, “I’ve Seen a Many Strange Things”, played in full, works as an enchanting, enriching overture for the many strange and wonderful things one can and may hope to encounter at this now 18-year-old festival.
“I’d describe my music as alt-folk. It’s tender music, full of love and light and mischief while also occasionally swelling into a beautiful chaotic racket.
“We’ve now got this beautiful strange elastic band, and I think we’re all pretty logged onto this shared folkish musical world.
“We’re all using the language and sounds of folk music to give it this really live and embodied feeling – it feels very human and joyous. I’m inspired by nature and the natural world, but recently I’ve found the music I’ve written has had this extra layer of memory on top. like remembering the memory of remembering nature.”
It’s 4:15pm, I sit upon the Good ship Cheesecake that overlooks the cycle-powered Reaction Stage. Newly pressed boot prints lay upon the expectantly muddy footpath and stage front. Sherlock finishes their set; relaxing lo-fi rap beats soothe the transition from reality into the sacred festival site.
You slink along to the Bodega, a hypnotic bar within a permanent wooden structure.
Old-time swing music plays subtly in the background. I feel a swell of nostalgia for a time period outwith my own.
My inner Holden Caulfield is awakened as I sit at the back and survey the scene. The prices are reasonable… if you’re rich, which I’m not. I’m not complaining, there will be someone who can afford the drinks at festivals, but it’s not me. A wall-mounted arrow points towards a DJ booth with a neon “Desiato” above it. The arrow proclaims, “Make a jazz noise here”.
The Bodega hosts talks, workshops, and in the evening, it becomes an alluring neo-nightclub, like dancing between dreams inside an ultraviolet mood lamp. I remember completely missing this space the first time I came to Eden and stumbling upon it at 1am on my first night of my second time with my friend. We felt like we’d stumbled upon a hidden room in a labyrinth we thought we’d mastered.
Hypnotised by the room, we catch each other’s eyes.
“…I don’t remember this space?”
“Me neither.”
“How could we have missed this?”
“I don’t know.”
“…Is this actually here?”
“I don’t know.”
We looked at the room in silent bewilderment, caught each other’s eyes once more, nodded and left.
Never to speak upon what had changed.
I can now confirm, one year on, that the room is indeed both there and real.
Reality is not all it’s cracked up to be, kids!
I make my way to the main stretch of the land, and I stumble upon the Banana People. Upon graciously receiving a banana, I speak to Captain Banana, Euan. He tells me the founder of the Banana People, Richard Barrett, passed away in 2020 of Motor Neurone Disease and Eden Festival is always an emotional time as it’s the first festival Richard ever handed out bananas.
What more wholesome and delicious gift could a person receive than human generosity and a banana during a weekend of partying?
So now the Banana People raise money and awareness of Motor Neurone Disease whilst delivering banana-y goodness.
I’ve now used the word banana 9 times in this paragraph, here’s another to make it a round 10: banana.
After my banana (that’s 11 times now), I meet old friends and sit by the Garden Bandstand for our annual catch-up.
Since first going to Eden in 2022, it has been a site of meeting friends old and new. Festivals are the perfect place to meet sandcastle friends (whole, complete friendships formed in brief moments, sharing our hearts one to another, before the tide comes in, the weekend ends, and what once seemed corporeal melts as breath into the wind).
These are my favourite moments. I love the music and the atmosphere, but it’s the quiet conversations, the people, and the openness found in these moments that reinvigorate my soul.
I even once met Jesus here…nice guy.
It’s 7:15pm and Glasgow rockers Telekinephews take the pagoda-shaped Garden Bandstand. With two tracks featured on BBC Introducing, the most recent of which springs forward from the stage with such infectious energy, we cannot help but ponder upon the immortal question posed by singer Joe Miskimmins: “Can you drink 45 pints of fortified wine?”
No sir, I do not believe so, but damn it, I feel an almost patriotic duty to try!
Joe tells me he’s playing again at the Woodland’s Bandstand Stage tomorrow and he’s also helping run the stage with his friend Cal, using and donating their own sound system for the weekend:
“These small stages are important for grassroots artists without funding.
“I was brought in as an artist with Telekinephews but, through the spirit of DIY culture, we brought the P.A. and had a bigger role in sound engineering and booking the bands.
“Festivals are a place of discovery. We want to think of these stages as being a mine for hidden gems and creating ‘if you were there, you were there’ moments (the musical equivalent of my sandcastle friends).
“It’s important to nourish artists. I guess very quickly Telekinephews understood the need for DIY culture, to promote honesty, integrity and give a platform; so, we developed Big Nephew events to promote those sorts of events.”
Joe talks with such passion about music and making music happen it’s infectious. As are Telekinephews on both performances, as the sense of care and enthusiasm Joe has for music is transfused through him and the rest of the band.
I’m Holden Caulfield again as I go to get a programme for stage times to properly plan the weekend. What really knocks me out is £6 for a programme! I don’t know what festival etiquette is, but to not offer the information of who is playing what stage and at what time is the equivalent of going to the cinema, buying a ticket and not telling you what time the film starts or what screen it’s on.
To be fair, you could walk round each stage and take a picture of each chalkboard by the stages, but there was not, as far as I could see, one at the main stage.
So, here’s a few pictures of what some poor sucker had to pay £6 for.
Tucked away from the main walkway is the Woodland Bandstand (the very same one mentioned by Joe), and Makongo takes to the stage.
Singer Ngana takes a step toward the audience, wearing shades and a Scott McTominay overhead kick T-shirt, and asks us: “Are you ready for the Revolution!?”
! Listen, pal!
We the people are stronger united.
We the people are better together.
I want you to have a better life.
I am just here to make my life better.
I am not the problem.
The problem is not me.
Not me, not me.
I am just the scapegoat!
Described as blending traditions from across the globe, music rooted in hip-hop yet reaching far beyond it, fusing cultures, stories, and experiences that celebrate collaboration and resilience.
Ngana tells us before his next song that the best dancer gets a passport! He’s not joking. It’s one of the best pieces of promotion/merch I’ve seen. Each band member is inside, along with the story of the band and the lyrics.
Makongo finishes up and a Scottish festival tradition begins.
It starts to rain.
I retreat to the sacred, hallowed ground of my one-man tent. It’s the sophomore slump of the day as the afternoon coffee en route has long since left the system…
It’s Saturday.
I awake from my beauty sleep feeling less rested than before I slept, the wonders of camping! My neck and back want to speak to the manager. But if you want to make a festival-y omelette, you’ve got to break a few spinal column-y eggs.
I stumble forth and sit with my fellow weary travellers; a communal Kraft macaroni is cooked and handed out. Mankind has peaked with macaroni for breakfast.
At 2am Scotland will play their first World Cup game in 28 years, and Rabbie’s Tavern stage will be showing it live. I’m as excited as can be and can’t think of a better way to take it in than in the middle of a field in Dumfries and Galloway. Armed in my new Scotland shirt (fakey, of course, I’m not made of money, you know. £75 for a top at retail! The biggest rip-off since Programme Gate!), I make my way in.
Midday, Rabbie’s Tavern, and Vibrant Rebels open the Saturday stage. Two days running I’ve stumbled into this venue to start the day. I count nine members, the sound as full and whole as you’d imagine. It’s a decent crowd for what followed an undoubtedly heavy night for a good portion of the attendees; hangovers hover softly in the morning air.
The crowd is sprinkled with children and families, some of which are possibly attending their first festivals together. You can see early memories being formed. Having families and kids at festivals helps keep you grounded, bringing forth an automatic level of care and responsibility we’d hope others would show if we had young kids of our own there.
That is another thing I like about field festivals. It comes with a sense of communal care and a genuine sense of wanting to make sure everyone around you is safe which, sadly, can feel somewhat lacking living within the hustle and bustle of city life. For me at least, I come with the intention and notion of supporting the communal atmosphere and respecting the land.
A thumping rendition of “Feel Good Inc” by Gorillaz bursts forth and the early crowd erupts. The saxophone player jumps from the stage to dance and play with the audience, the slick guitar riff piercing through the early-day grog and blaring like an alarm clock for the recently awoken.
It’s across to the Vishnu Lounge, where Fettle, a two-handed folk duo, offer a softer, soothing alternative to the start of the day… the start of the day for me at least. Because from 10am on
Friday till 4am Monday morning, the Vishnu Lounge is constantly open and hosting performers or playing music. That’s crazy!
Two wooden structures with hanging hammocks both in front of and behind the performers, where a row of bathtubs (unfilled) work as seated additions. Surprisingly comfortable, tricky to get out of, or maybe that’s just me after a night of camping. Like a fading action star, every year after the first night of camping I slowly rise, I look upon the site, body aching, slowly inhaling and exhaling a cigarette, and say, “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Flanked by leather sofas and a hanging teepee-like structure, this is the kind of place you could sit and become absorbed by the sounds and welcoming atmosphere. Hours could go by without noticing. Often these are my favourite moments, when the rules and concept of time no longer apply.
I sit in the bathtub and talk to the kilted man beside me. He tells me he’s worn his kilt for four straight days. He puts my Scottishness to shame but bestows upon me a pink flowery wreath I promise to wear for the rest of the day and return to him at the Scotland game (I’m so sorry, Nadean, I couldn’t find you and still have it at home! Hit me up, bro!).
I meet another friend from Glasgow. We sit and roll a cigarette, her voice rough and coarse. She played the Cabaret Bar last night but, upon going up, her technician had vanished, so just belted her songs out acoustic. This is somehow more rock and roll than if her set had gone to plan, art from adversity.
She says, “Right, shall we mosey on up to purgatory?” and so we do.
Polar Bears in Purgatory, described as: “An energetic, melodic punk trio whose down-to-earth humour and catchy hooks are unparalleled.” What’s not to like?
I’ve seen them before, but there’s an extra member this time on keys and trumpet.
I ask him, “Are you a new polar bear?”
“Ehh… I’d say half polar bear.”
No matter the percentage ratio of polar bear to man, he’s a welcome addition to Purgatory.
The songs are fast and frenetic. This sort of music reminds me of the early 2000s, sitting and scrolling between the two music channels we had at home, sitting in hope more than expectation to catch a video or song I liked.
They play a song, “How Hard Is It Not To Be A Dick?” — another pertinent question. I think about how profound some of the questions have been this weekend. Can I drink 45 pints of fortified wine? Am I ready for the revolution?
Before the next song starts, the singer states: “This next one’s not a song; it’s a recipe for chips.“
Wow! Soul-searching and cooking instructions!
It’s the Main Stage for Colonel Mustard and the Dijon 5. It’s as busy as I’ve seen so far. The front of the stage is a muddy marshland, but the dancers seem undeterred, dancing with the same bombastic energy that comes with this huge-sounding 11-piece band!
“Ok, the front is really marshy, is there a space in the middle we can make a little dancing amphitheatre?”
Despite being Glasgow and festival stalwarts, this is somehow, and rather criminally, the first time I’ve seen them! I’ve been missing out. How could you possibly not be in a good mood while listening to Colonel Mustard?
It’s the sort of feel-good music festivals were born for.
“We’re gonna try a new one and it’s called ‘In the Moment’, which is the only place to be.”
It feels like the feel-good hit of the summer…well if that wasn’t already a song by Queens of the Stone Age.
“So just live in the moment… and behave yourself.”
I catch stray lines as I write, something about “a taxi driver with flatulence” and something about drinking Buckfast. I ponder if the good Colonel has ever considered if he himself could drink 45 pints of said beverage?
A selection of beach balls lay in the marshy stage front. There are kids in wellies and families kicking them about and enjoying it with equal pleasure, as if they were at the beach. One of them comes my way and I pass it back. A wee boy passes it to me again, which I return in kind. I find myself in a passing drill, which moves on to him taking shots at me as a goalkeeper.
I wish I could say I was letting the shots in, but honestly this kid, at five, is better at shooting than I am with an actual ball.
His mum comes over and we chat about how a “beat the goalkeeper” with a set of goals would have gone down really well. An opportunity missed, perhaps.
I refrain from my Gianluigi Buffon duties to acquire strong coffee number two of the day before returning for She Drew the Gun.
She Drew the Gun, fronted by Louisa Roach, are described as entering a “musical world informed by influences ranging from 80s electronica, hip-hop, political poetry, and cosmic Scouse psychedelia”.
I’ve often found it hard to describe music, ironic, I know, as I sit trying to do just that. I have a very strong musical sense and intuition, but trying to define or pigeonhole a genre of music almost feels like it does the music itself a disservice.
Seeing as that’s why I’m here though… The set reminds me of something between Billy Nomates and Kae Tempest.
In particular, “Became” is a standout. I personally like music with that slight darker edge and this one drips in it.
“And it’s for Land money power
And that’s the truest why
And every second minute hour
Will never satisfy
The black hearts of the war men
As they launder genocide
And the weak hearts of the law men
With power on their side”
It’s a great set and I promise myself I won’t write anything silly or cliched like “She Drew the Gun and blew me away”… I suppose I just did, dammit.
One final return to the Woodland Bandstand for another hidden gem and potentially my highlight of the festival: Sloblins.
Described as: “Scottish Budget Slob Rock. The simplicity of a nursery rhyme, the smell of a nappy crime.”
This is like if The Grinch Who Stole Christmas formed a punk band.
Fully kitted in all goblin attire, songs abruptly stop so Mr Sloblin can attempt a handstand and cartwheel and, of course, songs about finding it hard to pee and poo.
Now, depending on your taste, this may sound absolutely awful or absolutely amazing. Honestly, there will exist bands where the goblin aspect is a gimmick to disguise the music not being very good. But honestly, these guys are excellent.
Don’t be fooled by the foolishness.
Or maybe do be fooled by the foolishness!
If Dick and Dom had pursued punk music instead of kids’ TV, it would be this.
Just before approaching the Main Stage, to the right is The Melodrome, tucked in beside the beautiful old-fashioned ferris wheel. Some form of child-like wonder pulls you towards it like a moth to a flame, and I find myself throughout the day just sitting by it and watching it go round.
Another activity that can make time dissolve.
The Melodrome resembles an old Punch and Judy-style stage, with curtains that both cover and reveal the bands.
It’s here I’m seeing Maz and the Phantoms (with the added bonus of Jude Norton-Smith also being the bass player, does their talent know no end!?)
Described as: “A kaleidoscopic fusion of genres that incorporates surf guitars, catchy sing-along hooks, dance-inducing breaks, and an unparalleled electric intensity.”
It’s a powerhouse performance, full of energy, enthusiasm and connection with fans new and old.
Having played the Main Stage the day before, they now play a packed Melodrome as the sun sets and the colours become richer. A beaming yellow light from the ferris wheel and the rich stage lights combine to create some of my favourite photos from the weekend.
The audience dance along to their latest single, “Pigeon Song”, with Jude dutifully demonstrating the moves to be followed along with.
As a pigeon lover, I can’t express the joy of seeing a crowd full of people mimicking the world’s best bird! Pigeon lovers of the world, unite!
Rabbie’s Tavern, 1:30am.
I’m there early, of course I am, both me and Scotland have waited long enough for this moment!
Have Mercy Las Vegas finish their set with renditions of “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie” and “We’ll Be Coming Down the Road”.
The place is absolutely bouncing. I subsequently find out the band are responsible for arranging the stream and the game being shown at the festival, so hats off to you. I hope Las Vegas does indeed show you mercy.
As they finish, I make my way to the front and see if any help is needed in the set-up.
The anticipation is building.
The plan is to stream it from a laptop through the projector onto a screen. Perfect, though it’s 1:55am and the kick-off is at 2am.
I strike up a conversation with the person next to me. I say, “I’m really excited but I’d also be more calm if the projection was on within 5 minutes of kick-off.”
“…his laptop has just started updating.”
With the bizarre kick-off time of 2am, I’d imagine that’s when the computer may automatically set itself to update.
Another slightly worried-looking guy comes over asking if it’s working yet.
I say to the guy: “Why don’t you go to the sound desk and get the radio commentary ready and we can play it over the speakers?”
A genius idea, I thought. He hurries away.
2 mins to kick-off. Squeaky bum time.
The crowd, being incredibly patient and trusting, breaks out into ‘Flower of Scotland’. I’m suddenly transported from being anxious for the stream; this alone is just fantastic.
And just as the room finishes its rendition, the live feed works, the projector is on and Scotland at the World Cup is up on the screen!
The cheer that erupts is equal to that of having scored.
It’s jubilant, it’s wild.
“No Scotland, no party, baby!”
…and then the football starts.
Boy, oh boy, Scotland are a tough watch.
I pity the football neutral tuning in for patriotic curiosity only to watch this dire, dire style of football play out.
But at the end of the day, it’s all about the result and, despite playing fairly uninspiring football, this Scotland national team is the most successful in my lifetime.
Scotland go on to beat Haiti 1–0.
Apparently, the national anthem in the stadium was the loudest noise recorded at a World Cup game, but Rabbie’s Tavern upon the final whistle can’t be far off.
Terrible, terrible football!
Brilliant, brilliant result!
By the time we stumble out it’s 4:30am and its essentially daylight, so we go in with dark skies, Scotland wins, and beautiful blue skies shine upon the land of the free… (the land of the free, who voted against our own independence…)
I decide to go for a walk around the empty stages.
I love empty spaces after big events have occurred. It’s got a haunting quality, like the memory and energy of the event still linger in the air for a while after. The ghost of events past, present and yet to come.
There is an almost mist-like fog that hangs in the air, and through the fog appears… a bottle of fortified wine?
“Is this a Buckie bottle which I see before me?
The handle towards my hand.
Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal Buckie, as sensible to feeling as to sight?
Or art thou but a Buckie of the mind, a false creation.
Proceeding from a Buckie-oppressed brain?”
As the time of night/morning finally catches up with me, I follow the air-drawn Buckfast towards my tent and into slumber.
It’s Sunday.
I find myself at the Main Stage for the first performance of the day.
Niamh Corkey plays, lullaby-esque, to the early-day risers. It’s perfect Sunday music.
Mid-song, the stage generator suddenly goes out. Without missing a beat, Niamh and her band come to the front of the stage, climbing down onto the speakers so they are right at the front and continue playing acoustic, a cappella style.
This is met in kind by the audience, who all move forward and congregate around the stage front. This offers a wonderful intimate, interactive performance for the rest of the set, just like one of Joe Miskimmins’ “if you were there, you were there” moments.
Honestly, it couldn’t have gone better had things gone to plan. Once again, art from adversity.
To top it off, the warm sun has begun pushing through the clouds and arching just over the top of the stage.
I’m back in the bathtub, where to the rather shall his day’s hard journey soundly invite him?
A lilting, ethereal music drifts from the stage.
Half-conscious couples sway from hammocks, lulled by the soothing sounds, sleep-deprived and spent but finding simple comfort and solace in one another’s arms.
Warm bodies, warm souls.
My friend Claire tells me she’s just spent the last 10 minutes gently rocking Bob from Telekinephews in one of the hammocks like a baby while he lay dreaming.
Ah yes, sleep. Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.
And it makes me reflect upon the weekend.
Am I ready for the revolution? How hard is it not to be a dick? Can I drink 45 pints of fortified wine?
I realise every single one of the musicians who have played here this weekend will no doubt have dreamed of doing so at one point. Every single great band and moment of time started with a dream, a notion, and over the course of the weekend, as lack of sleep leads to waking dream, dreams and reality intertwine and become one beautiful dancer.
So literally anything you can hope to achieve is possible. Anything that can be conceived sitting in a bathtub in the middle of Dumfries and Galloway can be accomplished.
So, I make the decision to visit the wishing tree. A table with material strips and marker pens lies vacant. The universe, like a genie, at this moment offers me the chance to make one wish. One wish to make my dreams come true.
I pick up the pen. Ponder briefly. And then write what my heart desires.
I place the pen back down and tie it to the tree. I take in my masterpiece. Thank the tree. And then walk away.
Knowing with this request in the hands of the universe, everything’s going to be alright…
