(Tems headlining on the West Stage)
On Friday, Lorde megafans had been queuing outside the Forwards site gates from 8am in order to get prime front row spots for their musical hero 12 hours later. On Saturday, it was more a case of delaying entry until the last possible moment, the diabolical downpours of the morning giving way to late summer sunshine just in time for Paraorchestra to take the East Stage to rework Kraftwerk in their own commanding style.
The first overheard conversation of the day, as the masses trudge across the Downs between downpours, concerned sustainability, though not in the tone one might expect. Two festival-goers, armed with the weary indignation usually reserved for planning disputes, were complaining that Forwards was “a bit too environmentally friendly” for their liking. A sentence so uniquely middle-class Bristol it almost deserved its own stage slot. The Barbour boots were out. Food festival memories of earlier in the summer were being reheated. Summer, apparently, was still clinging on.
As Goldie commences his performance on the West Stage the crowd look oddly disconnected from the man in front of them. Perhaps understandable given his unnaturally early scheduling. Here is one of the genre’s genuine musical pioneers, throwing shapes and beats with characteristic energy, while sections of the audience remained curiously motionless. Not hostile. Not engaged. Just eerily present.
(Goldie appearing on the West Stage)
With Forwards scheduling the acts so that there are zero clashes (and, as an unfortunate downside, a reduced necessity for the crowds to commit fully to a performance), flip flopping from stage to stage becomes the order of the day, and Maribou State take over on the East Stage.
If Goldie was movement, Maribou State were atmosphere. Their arrival brought a perfect blend of late afternoon sunshine and shimmering musicality, the sort of set seemingly designed for open skies and drifting minds. On stage, Talulah Ruby carries the air of a disco belly dancer, casually throwing North African shapes beneath glittering sequin babushka-style headwear as people slowly surrender to the groove.
A funky early hit arrives in the form of ‘Nervous Tics’, underpinned by artificial strings, finally beginning to shake some life into the audience. Then came ‘Steal’, its refrain of “sometimes you have to rob and steal” floating across the Downs as Ruby’s vocals wrapped themselves around the melody. The song remains a masterclass in emotional electronic music, equally capable of soothing and unsettling. A skill Maribou state absolutely nail.
By now the weather was showing off.
“How we doing Bristol?”
Polite cheers.
“What about this fucking weather?”
Better.
Maribou State acknowledge that they have been touring this material for 18 months now, and it showed. Not in fatigue, but in confidence. Songs breathed. Moments stretched. They trusted the crowd, even when the crowd seemed reluctant to trust itself. When they launched into ‘Otherside’, with its yearning imagery of paradise and escape, the sun breaking through onto the stage did half the production work for them. Suddenly Bristol felt a very long way from itself.
(Maribou State on the East Stage)
The piano-led ‘Lay My Head Down’ provided one of the afternoon’s emotional peaks, Ruby returning to deliver the song with a tenderness that felt distinctly apt: soulful, melancholic and quietly beautiful. Somewhere between trip-hop and whale song.
“Still with us, Bristol?”
An unintentionally hilarious question given there was literally nowhere else for most of us to be.
A rogue camera operator stumbled across a man dancing with complete abandon. For a brief moment his joy was projected across the giant screens and became the visual summary of the entire set. On stage, Liam Ivory also appeared to be enjoying life more than any human being has ever enjoyed life. Closing with ‘Midas’, the band finally unlocked the singalong they’d been chasing all afternoon. Thousands of voices joined in. The connection had arrived, just slightly later than expected.
Backstage Bristol royalty Daddy G casually mingled with the growing throng, while Joy Crookes delivered the effortlessly cool ‘Feet Don’t Fail Me Now’, her rich vocals cutting through the evening air with ease.
Then came Tricky.
As the weather turned greyer, the atmosphere adjusted perfectly for Bristol’s dark prince of trip-hop. Launching into a set dominated by heavy drums and ominous textures, Tricky felt less like a performer and more like someone haunting his own songs.
The music lurched and brooded. Staccato keys stabbed through the mix. Drones hovered ominously overhead. Tricky himself wandered the stage blinking as if newly awake, forever stretching and tugging at his designer fleece, seemingly undecided whether he was participating in proceedings or merely observing them.
“She’s from Poland,” he muttered, introducing Marta Złakowska. “This guy’s all the way from Hengrove” he shrugs, exposing his underestimated humorous underbelly, as he turns to Mitch Sanders. Only Tricky could make both statements sound vaguely threatening.
There is still nobody quite like him. While much of modern festival culture seems driven by algorithmic urgency and fear of missing out, Tricky remains stubbornly committed to his own pace. He whispered lyrics. Turned away from the audience. Danced with ghosts. Conducted from the margins. Stopped the crowd when he wanted silence.
“The world’s insane.”
No argument there.
His music remains wonderfully unresolved. Taut as a ratchet strap, forever promising release but rarely delivering it. The tension itself is the point. These aren’t songs seeking catharsis. They’re songs living permanently in uncertainty. As drones repeated and two microphones became extensions of his limbs, Tricky shadowboxed his way through the closing moments. A reminder that trip-hop’s greatest innovators were never interested in making people comfortable.
“Thank you for taking the time to stay with us.”
A humble sign-off from a genuine original.
Self Esteem is playing the last date of her Complicated Woman tour and is intensely emotional from the moment she walks on stage. The long run has meant the choreography of her and her dancers has reached performance perfection.
Her and her backing vocalists enter in black and white Handmaiden outfits but later switch to custom tracksuits and a top that says “they’re only songs”. The show picks heavily from the album and the opening sequence stop the festival in its tracks whilst putting a finger up to patriarchy (with one dance leaving the performers flipping the bird by its close).
(Self Esteem appearing on the West Stage)
Later on, highlights from the Prioritise Pleasure LP are interspersed. There is a celebratory atmosphere in the crowd, matching the intense outbreaks of emotion from the stage. Though tears mix with humour and fun. A great last opportunity to see these big, powerful anthems (for a while).
Back on the East Stage, Wet Leg are coincidentally also performing the last date of a lengthy stint. With simple strobes, a smokey stage and silhouetted band, the eye is drawn to the performance of front woman Rhian Teasdale. And while she has come into her own as a truly evocative performer, the shadowy band around her deliver a meatier, direct indie rock and roll sound, drawn heavily from their second album Moisturizer.
Keen to get in position for the headline act, I return down the hill for Tems appearance. Tems’ Nigerian heritage gives her R’n’B music originality and warm African vibes, greeted by a huge crowd reception and a party atmosphere throughout. The fireworks from the stage are matched elsewhere, with Tems backed by a smooth and soulful band and two very suave male dancers.
Tems explains this is her first visit to Bristol but is clearly taken aback, telling us she “hasn’t received this much energy for a long time”. The enthusiastic crowd is rewarded by a set building to popular hits including ‘Burning’, ‘What You Need’, ‘Love Me Jeje’ and ‘Free Mind’. As the rain holds off for the duration, Tems instead brings some late summer warmth.
Kevin McGough, Matthew Nicholson and Conal Dougan
