It’ll come as no surprise that politics runs through Beautiful Days like a stick of rock. The Levellers – who founded the festival, and happen to be from Brighton – take their name from a radical 17th-century political movement. Revolution, it’s fair to say, is their entire vibe.
That politics comes in several different flavours. Billy Bragg, the old lion, holds court at a rammed main stage on Friday night. Hate to be negative, but Billy Bragg leaves me cold. “One thing I’ve found, after 40 years of doing this,” he says. “Is that music won’t change the world.” Nice one. “It’s up to the people.” Alright? Yet here he is, prosperous as a dentist in his crisp suit and Audi driver specs, pontificating on the ills of society . Maybe go back to arguing the toss with JK Rowling on Twitter, mate.
Far more interesting fare is on offer elsewhere. Steve White & The Protest Family at the Rebel Tent, bracing, rough-and-ready punk tackling the cost of living from a gang of lads who look like they understand the parlous state of modern Britain all too well. “Evidence-based punk rock” they call it, what’s not to like? Their new national anthem is well worth a spin, check ‘em out.
I must confess I had low expectations for Bar Stool Preachers – the name, the logo kerning. How wrong I was. Raucous balls-out frontman energy from Tom McFaull, barnstorming tunes and a plausibly plainspoken message of solidarity that goes down like a crisp cold cider with this baking Saturday lunchtime crowd.
Similarly upbeat, Skinny Lister’s infectious brand of piratical punk, and gypsy-coded heavy artillery from Gogol Bordello has us all up as the sun dips below Escot House.
I very much enjoy Lisa O’Neill, a reminder of the deep folk roots of this scene. Her Irish accent is thick as fog, her melodies ancient as granite boulders – and all around her swirls a danse macabre of contrabass, harmonium and hammered dulcimer. Haunting airs that skew political with a memorable lament for Jason Arday, god rest his soul. “No matter how bad a moment might feel, don’t worry,” she intones. “There’s always another moment on the way.” Goosebumps, mate.
Skindred, ehhhh. There’s a lively debate to be had about bands who (whisper it) are a little light in the hits department. Do you stolidly crack on with deep cuts for 40 minutes, hoping the crowd will look favourably on you? Or do you pad out your set with covers? To my mind, Skindred take the piss. Come on lads. ‘Jump Around’, really? The fucking Jet2 Holiday theme? Have a word with yourselves.
The Proclaimers – who have, what, three hits? Four? – are having none of that. And they’re all the better for it. This pissed-up Friday night crowd, bobbing about all jocular in their tam o-shanter hats, are clearly willing the twins to crack on with 500 Miles. You know what though? Despite being dragged along by the wife, I love every second of their set. Masterful tunesmiths, their voices still strong and resonant, that mad Sid James bastard hammering the toms at the back, a first-class live act.
Ditto Steeleye Span. Hands up, didn’t know who they were. Wander in, instantly bowled over by their slick stagecraft, dream theatre arrangements, everything neat and trim and on-point. I make a note, at the time, that I expect the crusty caravan-shaggers outside probably consider them a bit squeaky clean. Am I right? Who’s to say. They’ve been around since 1969, what the fuck do I know.
Yeah, crusty. It’s a crusty festival. Of course it is. Most punters have a story about breaking in through the fences, back in the day, before their knees went. But let me tell you, the crustyverse is a fine place to be. Henna tattoos, songs lampooning ‘that fascist bastard Farage’, proper cider from a keg. Punch and Judy, barefoot kids. Lovely.
Besides, it’s not all crusty. Madness, always a good laugh, have this resolutely ooo-arr Devon mob lustily singing along in Suggs estuarine accent. Samantics, a local lad, holds the Little Big Top rapt with his delightfully witty singalongs. The Divine Comedy, suited and booted, have the swankiest roadie on earth, who at one point wheels out a drinks trolley for Neil Hannon to whip up cocktails for the band while crooning acid swing invective about Trump.
The grub on site was spot on – paella, burritos, Japanese street eats, loaded fries, a tour-de-force of flavour that kept every palate happy. Bravo.
What else? DJ Yoda, criminally underrated and the best DJ here by a mile, a winning smile plastered on his face as he skilfully slaloms between oldschool bangers, the IT Crowd theme, Flowdan and Bowie. A proper turntable technician.
Kirk Field, local author, poet and rave‑era raconteur, pops up everywhere from the Bimble Inn to the toilet queues, unleashing acid‑house nostalgia with a wink. His rave‑generation poetry has the old heads grinning knowingly, remembering their own 90s chemical baptisms.
Meryl Streek detonated Sunday at midday sharp – political rap barked over feral hardcore guitar with a live drummer who appears to be powered by pure spite. He laughs about the early slot, but by the end it’s obvious – he’s woken the entire site. His new record Stories They Don’t Teach You at School lands 9 October, pre‑order it, it’s a belter.
Local heroes Sound of the Sirens open The Big Top in style, walking out to The Sound of Silence and fully committing to the gag with wigs and a moustache in honour of Simon & Garfunkel. Their set is upbeat, joyous and exactly the lift everyone needed to kick off the final day of the festival.
Snayx on Sunday afternoon charm the pants off me with their anti-establishment patter, baiting the pigs, pilgrims to the Prodigy. Another cheer for Palestine. That game all the kids play, sneakily clipping pegs – gorgeously decorated – on the dozy brims of unsuspecting hats.
Dublin’s Gurriers bring serrated post‑punk energy to the main stage, a tight, urgent set that wins them a fresh wave of fans ahead of their sophomore album Nobody’s Coming to Save You on 25 September.
Nova Twins tear through a high‑voltage set, blistering bass and guitar solos ricocheting across the field. A live drummer adds extra muscle, a canny move for the larger festival stage.
The Wonder Stuff, just before The Levellers, lean hard into their early catalogue – exactly what this crowd wants. Any mention of new material gets a polite shrug, but Miles Hunt keeps trying anyway, grinning through the indifference like a man who’s seen it all.
As the final hours of the festival slip away, crowds gather in the main arena for The Levellers, taking the stage for their 24th consecutive year at Beautiful Days. Curating a setlist to satisfy every corner of their fanbase must be a tall order, but they delivered, and it all pops off. No fireworks this time, fair enough on this incendiary August.
And god bless the crusties – you’ll never see more punters splayed on the grass, reading actual books. And get this. There’s basically zero screens at Beautiful Days. Barely anyone is on their phone. There are no screens in the DJ tent, or for that matter either side of the main stage.
The revolution, it appears, will not be televised.
Words - Andy Hill
Pictures - Steve Muscutt
