This was my third Kendal Calling, and by this point I’d consider myself a seasoned veteran, or at the very least, someone who can pitch a tent without swearing too loudly.
By (Kendal) Colin Douthwaite,
Photos by John Hayhurst
This year was a touch different, as I had a press pass wristband and a lanyard—thanks to my slightly younger neighbour who insisted having a “different perspective” might be valuable to this magazine review. Apparently, short grey hair and glasses makes you look wise, even if you’ve just spent 40 minutes trying to work out how to use a composting toilet.
It also turns out if you wear a custom T-shirt with ‘Kendal Colin’ on it, and a lanyard with all the times of the bands on, people start thinking you’re important and ask for selfies and directions, or timings. I became something of a mobile helpdesk. Which is better than last year when they thought I was only there to empty the bins. I didn’t always know the answers, but if I said them with confidence, they believed me.
The journey in was as you’d expect – tortuous. For reasons known only to sadists and festival planners, our campsite of choice ‘The Shire’ is found approximately one vertical mile from the car parks, up what can only be described as a ski slope covered in damp grass where optimism goes to die. I dragged my trolley up it like a reluctant donkey hauling its own coffin. I saw many other trolleys tip over, and I had to stop for a breather beside a man weeping into a crate of Pot Noodles. We nodded in mutual defeat.
Still, it was all worth it in the end. The weather was suspiciously perfect. The only rain was during the night or very early morning. It was almost unsettling—like the sky was up to something. For those of us up early, enjoying the buzzards calling above the Shire field in the morning light. That sound, echoing across the hills while the site slowly wakes up — it stays with you. There’s peace if you know where to look.
Camping these days is a streamlined operation. Every morning began the same way with determination, wet wipes, and a breakfast beer, which counts as both tradition and hydration. Also, a squint at the lanyard to remember what day it is.
The security staff were top drawer — friendly, helpful, and good-humoured. I even overheard two women on gate duty discussing the sheer volume of bare bum cheeks at this year’s event. I chipped in and agreed, and they laughed. It’s true though — I’ve honestly seen more arses this weekend than a midwife on overtime. The fashion amongst the young women this year seemed to favour frilly skirts shorter than a sentence. The human backside was practically the festival mascot.
Once in the arena, I was greeted by the usual sights: inflatable animals, glittery faces, every fashion disaster imaginable, I saw nuns, men in full bridal wear, at least three people dressed as fish fingers, and one bloke in a Santa suit and crocs combo that I still wake up thinking about.
A couple in front of me wore turkey hats with massive fantails, blocking the entire stage during one set. You find a great spot, feel excited… and then gobble gobble, view gone. As a shorter gent, I’m constantly performing a kind of festival periscope dance — bobbing and weaving around the 6ft 3 lads who inevitably stand right in front of me just as the band starts.
Now, on to the music!
The festival kicked off properly for me on Thursday evening with the ever-fabulous Sophie Ellis-Bextor. She arrived shimmering in a silver tasselled dress and legs that seemed to start somewhere around Penrith and finished in Preston. She sang ‘Murder on the Dancefloor’, and I briefly considered trying to dance before remembering my vertebrae are no longer insured. Her version of Madonna’s ‘Like a Prayer’ was “Biblical”. The crowd was in full sunshine-fuelled euphoria, and even the blokes in inflatable sumo suits were getting emotional.
Later came the Kaiser Chiefs, who were loud, confident, and had apparently replaced their entire chorus songwriting technique with a series of extended vowels and alarm noises— “ooooooh ooooooh aaaaagh” being the dominant theme. Ricky Wilson, the frontman, appeared to chuck a mic stand at a poor cameraman, but nobody blinked. Possibly because we were all deaf by then.
The set was decent if chaotic, I enjoyed the cover of Ramones ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ which a young lady in the press tent later called it the “AO Advert” (How old do I feel now?), but it all felt a bit like I’d been shouted at for an hour or so by someone in a stripey jacket.
The next day Pixie Lott brought things back to something resembling order. She looked radiant and (as we understand now) pregnant with her second child, which didn’t stop her absolutely nailing her set. There’s something admirable about singing your heart out on stage while also incubating a human. She popped into the press tent afterwards, glowing and gracious for an interview. I didn’t speak to her—felt wrong, somehow—but I did watch someone try to offer her a cookie, which I assume will be reported in future biographies.
I then discovered Luvcat by accident and ended up staying for a while. She sang a track called Matador that I actually found myself humming later that evening. Will be looking her up once I remember how to use Spotify properly.
And then came Elvana. Now, nothing I say can quite prepare you for this experience. It’s a Geordie dressed as Elvis Presley, performing Nirvana/Presley songs, while sounding neither like Elvis nor particularly like Kurt Cobain. Bonkers fun, and the crowd were loving it. At one point I thought I was hallucinating. I even high-fived a lad dressed as a burger. It felt right.
I completely missed the Courteeners on Friday night. I laid down in my tent “for five minutes” and woke up three hours later, sweating, confused, and spooning a half-eaten steak pie I don’t even remember buying.
Saturday the weirdness continued. Slay Duggee, a hard rock metal band dressed as cartoon dogs, did Baby Shark like it was the apocalypse, while two toddlers on parents shoulders in front of me waved glowsticks like it was Glastonbury. The crowd roared. I blinked a lot. I genuinely thought I’d suffered a mild episode, or, was I still in my tent and dreaming this?
Then The Pigeon Detectives followed with a riotous set. The lead singer soaked himself in water, then launched off the bass drum riser with all the enthusiasm of a man being chased by bees. He’s the last Yorkshireman still clinging to a perm, which I respect—takes commitment, that. Walking through the woods came across the Roots Stage (BBC Introducing)— Surprised by the talent on there, The Redroom were on, powerful female vocals, tight band, real presence. One to watch for the future.
Reverend & the Makers got everyone bouncing. I didn’t want to bounce. I was trying to digest a Greek chicken gyro wrap. But Jon McClure had other ideas. “From the front to the back, let’s bounce!” he shouted, over and over, until I gave in. My knees still haven’t forgiven me. Their set was a masterclass in getting an audience to keep bouncing – “Space Hopper” should sign them up at once.
The always-excellent Lottery Winners delivered what I reckon was the set of the weekend. Thom Rylance might be the funniest man in music—part stand-up, part therapy, part singalong machine. Worry, Letter to Myself, Let Me Down—they were all belted back by a crowd who knew every word. They’ve become genuine favourites of mine. Should’ve headlined, if you ask me.
I did see Mark Kermode — yes, the film critic — playing double bass with The Dodge Brothers. That was a surprise. Turns out, when he’s not reviewing French cinema with subtitles, he’s in a proper foot-stomping rockabilly band. Got a photo of him too. A very welcome curveball in a day full of oddities.
Lindisfarne played a lovely early evening set. There can’t be many original members left—maybe one, and even he looked like he’d wandered in from a bus stop. But they played Lady Eleanor, which was beautiful, and though I didn’t stay for Fog on the Tyne, I’m confident they didn’t skip it. It’s the law.
I passed on Fatboy Slim in favour of Scouting for Girls, which might be the most middle-aged sentence I’ve ever typed. But they just seemed like a nice bunch of lads. They played all the hits with big smiles, and by the end, even the security guards were singing along. There’s something comforting about singing along to She’s So Lovely while being slightly tipsy on Brewdog lost lager and gyros.
Later in the woods, I found Moonchild Sanelly, she held the smaller crowd with an odd, compelling stage presence. If you can imagine a drenched Marge Simpson rapping, twerking and asking if anyone has got any weed. It was trippy, weird, and not exactly what you would expect to find deep in the woods at 10:30pm. Afterwards, with the Lost Eden lights twinkling through the trees, it was like stumbling into Narnia run by ravers.
Now, let’s talk food & beer. It was genuinely excellent this year. Tibetan Kitchen served me a plate of momos and rice so fragrant and perfectly spiced I considered proposing. Man v, Food BBQ offered the kind of meat mountains that make cardiologists weep.
But not everything was a success. There was a hot dog stall near the Ferris wheel that served what I can only describe as an insult in a bun. The sausage had the texture of a pencil eraser, and the bun had all the bounce of damp MDF. The onions were lukewarm, and the mustard tasted like existential dread. I took one bite and at once wanted a priest.
Earlier in the press tent, Lancaster Brewery hosted a demonstration on how to pull the perfect pint with some free Kendale IPA. I watched as a young photographer pulled the first one, she then proceeded to chug it all down in one go and then queued up for another! Legend! We got three full kegs from them over the weekend—properly tasty stuff. Some journos barely left the tent after that.
And Sunday. Ahhh, Sunday at Kendal always starts the same. I put on my flat cap, grab my pint, and head down for The Lancashire Hotpots. Few things are as joyful as shouting Chippy Tea with thousands of strangers dressed as pineapples and traffic cones. I was near the front for ‘I Fear Ikea’, congaed past a man dressed as SuperPig, and briefly lost my shoe in the mayhem. The Hotpots are a compulsory Kendal tradition, the kind of band that make you proud to be Northern and slightly daft. Kendal Calling isn’t just a music festival — it’s community service with optional chips and gravy!
More comedy next, John Bishop filled in for Jason Manford, who was apparently having his appendix out—not a setup, just real life. Bishop did a cracking set. Warm, quick, and sharper than expected. He got more laughs than I usually do, but I’ll let him off.
Then came Frank Turner & The Sleeping Souls. My son’s favourite band. And I get it now. Frank plays like his life depends on it. Constant energy, heart in every line, and even crowd-surfed at the end whilst still singing. Recovery was especially moving, and I found myself singing along and wondering how a man can have that much energy for an hour, and still manage to keep his shirt tucked in.
Skindred next, lots of cross-over rock rap and brilliant audience entertainers, they brought with them, the now-infamous ‘Newport Helicopter’—a moment where the entire crowd takes off their shirts and whirls them overhead like sweaty medieval weapons. Although it’s definitely not Health & Safety checked. I saw one hefty Welshman take out five nuns with a single swing of his soaked XXL Dragon rugby vest. Spectacular. Possibly a crime, but festival legend now, surely.
The Last Dinner Party brought theatre, drama, and proper musicianship. If Queen had been an all-female band raised on Kate Bush, feminist zines, vintage theatre posters and gin, this would be it. The lead singer had the most impressive vocal chops and expressive dance moves. Fantastic energy, massive sound, a strange, brilliant spectacle. However, perhaps misplaced going on before The Prodigy.
Divorce on The Calling Out stage were also unexpectedly great — moody, melodic, and more interesting than their name suggests.
Maxïmo Park headlined on the Parklands Stage, they were one of the tightest bands of the weekend. Paul Smith wore a T-shirt that said “FLY” and kept standing on the stage speakers, clearly hoping to take off. Didn’t quite make it, but A+ for effort. ‘Girls Who Play Guitars’ kicked off a brilliant set from them.
Finally, The Prodigy closed out the main stage like a malfunctioning firework factory with the fire alarm permanently set to techno. Smoke, strobes, lasers, red lights, sirens—at one point I thought someone had called the Police. Maxim was shouting “Where’s My People” like he’d lost them in a fire. I’m not surprised he couldn’t see them, the amount of smoke on the stage—it looked like a dystopian nightclub run by angry androids. ‘Breathe’ kicked in and the entire arena turned into a human blender, a set so intense I wasn’t sure whether to dance or phone for help.
At some later point, ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ played, fireworks went off, and someone shouted “WE’RE BEING EVACUATED.” I’m still not sure if it was part of the act, but we all shuffled out politely, heads ringing, hearts full.
And just like that, it was all over. Another Kendal Calling in the books. Sore feet, NO MUD, a mild sunburn, and enough stories to last until next year. Those Press lot, the photographers and journos are all actually working hard during the day, covering thousands of steps to see all the bands – my review here is just a sample of what was on offer.
In the end the airbed went flat, my legs weren’t functioning, and I couldn’t hear properly—but I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
Same tent. Same beer. Same Kendal Colin T-shirt. Hopefully fewer tragic hot dogs.
‘Kendal Colin’…Out…
Fireworks Photo by Nick Brooker
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