Once Upon A Time In The West

It’s 4pm and I’m in a petrol station forecourt in Longford with biblical rain hopping off the bonnet. Through the downpour, there’s nothing but grey, an oasis of concrete. All colour has leeched out of the world. As the steam rises off my car, a jab of lightning throws everything into vivid relief. I’m on a road trip across Ireland, east to west, Forkhill to Westport. The entire journey so far seems to have taken place inside a car wash. Summer in Ireland – as damnable and dank as you could imagine. Festival weather.

I’m heading cross-country to the Westport Folk and Bluegrass Festival, now in its fifth year. Although it’s a small festival, it looks promising. As I hit Roscommon, the rain mellows into that steady drizzle Ireland does so well. By the time I cross the invisible line into Mayo, a watery sunshine peeps through. As Westport draws closer, the N5 narrows down to the kind of gently winding country road that visitors expect of Ireland. And then the ghostly, cloud-shrouded hulk of Croagh Patrick looms up behind the town.
As I pull up outside the Wyatt Hotel where I’ll be spending the weekend, a parking space presents itself and things start to look up. The hotel is in the heart of Westport. Some of the festival’s core events are taking place here and it’s awash with check shirts and ponytails, leaving you in no doubt that you’re at a bluegrass festival. It’s taken longer than I expected to get to Westport, so I’ve missed the Bluestack Mountain Boys who have kicked off proceedings with a 6pm set in Blousers.
Headliners A Band Called Alice have apparently hopped on board and a full-scale session is in full flood as I’ve been getting settled into the old-school gentility of the Wyatt.
Having resisted the temptation to catch a few zeds between the crisp white sheets, I get ready for the ride. At 9.30pm the festival gets under full steam with no less than four bands playing at the same time. I only have to walk downstairs into the hotel’s Cobblers bar to catch my first act of the day. Thankfully, this is no sterile hotel watering hole but a proper country bar straight out of John Hinde’s ‘Postcard Ireland’.
In the corner is The Jason Serious Band. His material is heartfelt Americana that finds a fine balance between bravura and restraint, aided and abetted by a bass player and drummer who looked younger than the instruments they were playing. Two of the bands I had most wanted to catch during the course of the festival – Dublin’s Little Ass Birds and Belfast’s Louisiana Joyride – were both on at the same time. Not being too familiar with the geography of the town’s drinking establishments I didn’t catch as much of either as I would have liked.
Then again, that’s the bittersweet thing about festivals: you’re a martyr to the schedule and unless you’re Padre Pio (or Dr Who) there’s just no way to be in two places at the same time. Trying to track down my favourite artists, I also have to confess I got tempted off-piste and found myself dragged into a session in the back of Matt Molloys where the entertainment included a group of burly – and well over the limit – English lads attempting a few Irish dance steps.
Saturday’s entertainment got under way early with a mix of folk and bluegrass tunes from David Hope who, without his normal backing band The Henchmen to hand, teamed up with Tom ‘T-Bone’ Lyons. T-Bone kept things cooking on mandolin, banjo and guitar while David Hope shrugged off a bout of food poisoning to show off his rich, emotive voice to full effect. Afterwards most of the musicians descended on McGing’s Bar for the festival session, by this stage a highpoint in the annual calendar. Things got so rumbunctious that spontaneous playing broke out in the street outside.
Things moved back to the Wyatt Hotel for the festival’s centrepiece concert, opened up by hometown heroes The Clew Bay Critters, led by Tim Rogers. He seemed equally comfortable on banjo, mandolin and fiddle, with a mix of bluegrass standards and well-written originals complemented by a good onstage chemistry and laidback performance style. Meanwhile Brooklyn’s The Dust Busters looked and sounded the part and certainly brought an intensity to their performance which delighted the crowd. Alas, by the time headliners A Band Called Alice took to the stage, the hardcore bluegrass audience had been diluted with a more general crowd. With the place resembling a Fianna Fáil fundraiser, the band too lacked the focus of the preceding acts.
The festival’s final fling came on Sunday lunchtime. With word obviously out that there was good craic to be had, what might have been a sleepy wind-down became a rollicking gig by The Molly Hicks in a packed to the gills Clew Bay Hotel. I – like a lot of others – will be back for more next year.