Global VAT professional, elected Labour councillor, maker of focus music for Neurodivergent brains, and writer about whatever's currently occupying the hyperfocus slot. AuDHD. Based in Burntwood.
A source of healthful recreation*, maybe too much healthful recreation.
It’s been a week. Bearded Theory was just ten days ago. By Monday, I was feeling a little recovered. By Friday, I was once again running on the kind of energy reserves that get you through a day if you’re careful and nobody asks anything complicated of you.
I was not careful. People asked complicated things anyway.
Friday: filling in
Friday night, I filled in for Urban Love Ulcer, who was unwell and missed his usual rock-and-roll show slot. He posted about it on Facebook. I saw it, messaged him, he said to go for it, and five hours later I was playing AC/DC into Punk Rock Factory doing Mmmbop, then Hayseed Dixie doing Livin’ on a Prayer, then a live Black Water County live recording that reminded me of their Bearded Theory set.
The tracklist also includes Pegging Mitchell. That’s all I’m saying.
Phoole watched from Milwaukee, Winni from Germany and Tor from Norway. Mr and Mrs BrownhillsBob from exotic Brownhills, were the cherry on the cake. It went well. The archive is below.
Saturday: Ryland Caravan
Ryland Caravan is a one-day indie festival held every year in the outdoor amphitheatre at the Midlands Arts Centre in Cannon Hill Park, Birmingham. Stone terraces, trees behind the stage, bunting, fairy lights. It’s co-presented by Independent Country and MAC, and it’s named after Louisa Ryland — the Victorian philanthropist who gave Cannon Hill Park to the people of Birmingham in 1873. She donated 57 acres, paid for it to be landscaped, and *asked only that it be “a source of healthful recreation to the people of Birmingham.”
Louisa Ryland never married. Her father had blocked her from the man she loved. She remained faithful to him her entire life, leaving her fortune to his son on the condition that he took the Ryland name. The park and the festival named for her carry that history, though most people don't know it.
As we arrived, the weather looked hopeful. As Independent Country took to the stage, the heavens opened. It only seemed right for a festival named after a woman who did everything right and still got rained on by life.
"Six cowboys from Birmingham", as they describe themselves, playing country versions of indie classics. Pedal steel guitars and four-part harmonies where there used to be fuzzboxes and floppy fringes. One of those bands that appears to have started out as a joke, but been taken too far and become a genuinely entertaining and interesting act. Commitment to "the schtick" as an art form.
They stared the rain clouds in the face, until the clouds backed down and the sun came out.
MrsVark and I have been proper fans for years. Some of their covers are now the default version in my head. Their take on Pulp’s “Do You Remember the First Time?”, “DefCon One”, and “William, it was really nothing”. Pedal steel does something to a lyric that a fuzzbox never could. A fair amount of 90s indie was a little to pretentious and serious. That gets stripped away when you sign it to a Dolly Parton melody.
Jim Reid of The Jesus and Mary Chain heard their cover of “Blues from a Gun” and called it “the best thing I have EVER heard.”
I mention this because Guy Chadwick formed The House of Love after seeing an early Jesus and Mary Chain gig. The circle is neat.
The crowd at Ryland Caravan contains recognisable music fan subspecies, as do many gigs
The Serious Appreciator was there. You know the type. Stands near the stage, arms folded or hands behind the back, nodding at about 80% of the actual tempo, as if he’s slightly ahead of the music in his head. Faint frown. Teddy boy quiff. Big turn-ups on the jeans. He's enjoying himself too much to look like it's fun. The quiff is load-bearing. Take it away and the whole thing collapses.
His cousin, the Indie Sway, was there too. Knees slightly bent, hands in pockets, subtle side-to-side movement. Face looks like mild indigestion but is actually profound satisfaction. Never quite dances but can’t be accused of standing still. Less intellectual than the Appreciator, more devotional.
Look, I know I’m describing these people while standing in a painted leather jacket with a purple beard, next to a woman in a jewelled hairnet and a yellow smiley-face poncho. I’m not claiming the moral or cool high ground. Just an observational position.
The rain stopped. Michael Head and the Red Elastic Band played. If you don’t know Michael Head: Liverpool, late 70s, the Pale Fountains, then Shack, then The Magical World of the Strands, then the Red Elastic Band. A career with a multi-million pound Virgin Records deal, no commercial success, dodgy management, lost master tapes, a burnt-down studio, and a label that vanished. Noel Gallagher called Shack “the second best band in the world.” The NME called Head “a lost genius and among the most gifted British songwriters of his generation.” The Red Elastic Band name came from the rubber bands postal workers used to leave on pavements (before Royal Mail went cheap and started buying standard rubber bands). He said it felt right because it’s a flexible concept.
Then, The House of Love.
MrsVark could give you their history in detail. Guy Chadwick. Creation Records, 1986. One of the defining bands of the late 80s indie scene, bridging post-punk, psychedelia, and indie pop. Then they signed to a major label, and everything went sideways, as it did for many bands in the early 90s who got too much money and not enough sleep. Their album Hedonism is from a time shortly after MrsVark and I had dated for the first time. When she was recovering from an emotional rough patch that I may, or may not, (definitely did) contribute to.
After the set, Sha got a photo with Guy Chadwick and Craig from Independent Country. She was absolutely buzzing afterwards. Right up until the fatigue consequences-of-your-actions demons visited the next day.
Sunday: the wall
Post-festival fatigue has its own texture. It’s not really tiredness. It’s more like your brain has used up its input allowance and is now filing everything as “deal with this later.” I spent the day getting ready for my usual Sunday show: improving the broadcast setup, getting the “now playing” text working, and promoting “the shit” out of it. Then the consequences came for me, too. I had the full set: brain fog, physical exhaustion, and the mild dissociation that comes from doing too much for too many days in a row.
I did the show anyway. Not heroism. The alternative was not doing it, and the show is the show. I’d put too much effort in. Told too many people it was happening. The tracklist went from deep house to Half Man Half Biscuit to a Monty Python-sampling track by Joman, with a PWEI rework featuring Mal from Cabaret Voltaire and my own AarDHD track between a Fleetwood Mac remix and the Monty Python. Winni watched from Germany. Glen, the mannequin, wore a kilt, as is standard.
That’s a reasonable summary of many of my Sunday nights to be honest.
The archives
Both shows are up if you want them.
Friday — theaardvark does Rock and/or Roll:
📻 Mixcloud: https://mixcloud.com/theaardvark/theaadvark-live-multigenre-music-dj-livestream-20260605-203219/
📺 Video: https://videos.aard.at/w/7u11DKrTve3szRNkbRuf2K
Sunday — theaardvark live:
📻 Mixcloud: https://mixcloud.com/theaardvark/theaadvark-live-multigenre-music-dj-livestream-20260607-193556/
📺 Video: https://videos.aard.at/w/rrHhQBerZPcBkNLgwA9t3y
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