The Green Man Festival

On the leisurely drive through a leafy avenue towards Baskerville Hall, the hectic corporate world is fading from view. The field car park is as orderly as an agricultural show's and the camping area is Glastonbury looky-likey but lacks the tradition of strewn tins and food debris. As I walk towards the Hall, a stream of brightly dressed children trail chiffon as they skip behind a parading, over sized papier mache Green Man figure, just like a clip from a European Fairy Tale. There's something rather different and very special about The Green Man Festival.

The air is warm and fragrant on this glorious Sunday. A panoramic sweep of the eye takes in the purple mountains of Mid-Wales before coming to rest ahead of me upon a white marquee, almost dazzlingly so, in the bright sunlight, devoid as it is of any coloured signs to declare the presence of the normally ubiquitous corporate sponsorship.

All credit to It's Jo and Danny who have stuck with, and expanded their innocent dream from a year ago of a festival that brings together simple pleasures for the sake of the joys within them, rather than have them fit in with the fiscal desires of those not even present today on the field or in the country house. From the tentative suck-it-and-see solitary day of a year ago in Brecon, this year's Green Man Festival has moved to the somehow more conductive setting of Baskerville Hall, close to Hay-On-Wye in Powys. The mantra of "keeping it real" has rarely been used to such authentic effect as bands have been booked and an entrance fee has been set and that's that!

Within the gleaming marquee, Liverpool's seven-strong Ella Guru forge themselves into such a peaceful democracy. Taking their name from a song by Frank Zappa, they come across as wispy but are deceptively solid. Creating a perfectly balanced live sound, they excel in their proclaimed naivety.

Isn't is always the case at a festival that your two "must sees" clash? I slipped out before the end of Ella Guru to head off to the Folky-Dolky stage inside the Hall for a couple of snatches of Culprit One's intricate mix of sounds but the bugger has played a short set and is all packed and gone! He's been replaced by Lucky Jim, an emotive Midwest bluesy butt-kicking band that would feel at home in Thelma and Louise's red neck bar.

Gravenhurst are from Bristol and they make alluringly dour, filmic music. It's as tuneful as it is mournful and at times they are a bit John Martyn-ish but without the loop effects. One song 'Public Suicide' leans to post rock and is rather intense. Writer and arranger, Nick Talbot's calm, innocent voice inspires trust and we're all spellbound. This is very beautiful music.

The Green Man Fest offers more than music to get your heads in to. There have been readings and discussions from some Welsh and Wales-based gritty modern writers during the afternoon but as the sun sets, cinema takes over.

In an ornate room boasting an intricate moulded plaster ceiling, a series of silent films are being shown to the sounds of live piano accompaniment, just as it would have been about one hundred years ago. Some newly rediscovered animations believed to be the earliest ever made in Wales, feature a cheeky dog called Jerry the Tyke. He's in the Felix the Cat mould but has been inventively, for its time, spliced with live action. Next come a couple of live action (and I do mean action) films from 1905. The almost non-stop sequences of murders, beatings, shootings and clubbings in these early films, were designed to keep people glued to the screen. So much for the good old days! Violent or not, a complete disregard for continuity made the whole hour surely more hysterical than intended. The sight of a bored kitten meandering out of shot only to reappear seconds later with the velocity of a bowling ball, was just too funny.

My night ends with the premier of a new short film by Shane Meadows, famed for '24-7' and 'Once Upon A Time In The West Midlands. Called 'Northern Soul' it features a young dreamer who views himself as brilliant professional wrestler, despite never having had a bout or even trained. The music of Clayhill features heavily, but almost too heavily. The innocent and poignant nature of the story seems to have its emotions tugged that little bit too much by the fragile, downer soundtrack. As good as Clayhill are, in this context, the pudding seems to have been over-egged (as my granny would say).

Happening the week before the Reading/ Leeds Festivals only goes to show that there is room for an alternate, but as equally professionally run, view of the UK festival scene. Although riots of bliss will have been had at this weekend's knees-ups, the joy of hearing the folk band Daimh powerfully raise the marquee roof, while a mass football game is played in the pitch dark outside, really takes some beating as an end to an incredible day.