The BritFest reminds us why music matters: A rising festival with soul

Writing and photography by Shavorne Wilbraham

So, The BritFest. My first rodeo — and what a wild, slightly chaotic, occasionally baffling but ultimately charming ride it turned out to be.

The BritFest knows exactly what it wants to be. There’s no identity crisis; no confused branding; no ‘Who are we?’ energy.

It is nostalgic, it’s proudly British, it’s bursting with personality and it’s curated with a confidence that says, ‘Yes, we know exactly who we’re for’.

Across four days, Ashley Showground became a living scrapbook of British music filled with ’80s icons, ’90s indie heroes, pop royalty and cult favourites. It was a celebration of eras, memories, and the wonderfully mixed personality of British music culture.

The lineup probably wasn’t for everybody, but there was definitely something for everyone.

Friday: Peace, love and guitars

Despite the fancy dress theme of the ’70s and psychedelia, punters decked out head to toe in flower power threads, Friday leaned heavily into the golden era of ’90s Britpop and alternative music.

After a two-hour wait to secure the passes that would actually let me near the bands, I just about caught The Farm.

Fresh from supporting the Happy Mondays on their Pills, Thrills and Bellyaches tour, they took centre stage, clearly loving their moment in the Cheshire spotlight – pure Liverpool spirit from start to finish.

When they launched into All Together Now, the crowd was already in full festival mode with arms raised and halfpints swaying.

They also treated us to tracks from their latest album, Let the Music (Take Control), a welcome addition to the set. Peter, Keith, Carl, Roy and Alex were a joy to listen to, as they always are.

Sadly, I missed Sleeper thanks to yet more time spent in the accreditation tent, but I could still hear Louise’s cool, sharp delivery drifting across the field, that unmistakable Britpop attitude she’s always been known for.

Instead, I wandered over to the Busk Stop stage, where Sam Millne was
mid-acoustic set, entertaining passing punters on their way to the bigger stages.

Some even stopped, settled, and supped a pint to Sam’s unmistakably cheery sound.

I’m not sure how much I can say without sounding biased, but I genuinely enjoyed his set and he was easily one of my favourites on that little ‘stage’, alongside Kieran Arnold.

I’d seen Kieran’s face floating around on facetube as ‘someone I might know’, and while he looked familiar, I had no idea he was in a band until he approached me, curious about my business.

After a friendly chat, I promised I’d return later for his set, and I’m glad I did.

His band, currently going under his own name because they haven’t actually settled on one yet, sounded polished and professional.

Kieran’s voice is as strong as the songs he writes and I’d make a real effort to see him again.

And then there was Naomi Kalu. What an absolute joy to watch. Her infectious smile, laidback energy, and tangible love for music made her set feel like a burst of sunshine.

I really enjoyed my time lingering around the Busk Stop. Sam, Kieran and Naomi are all heading somewhere, and each one delivered something uniquely brilliant.

I was lucky enough (though admittedly a little guilty) to slip into the VIP lounge and catch part of Seahorses’ Chris Helme. People gathered around as Chris settled himself firmly on his stool, ready for the first of his two sets.

But without warning, an unexpected percussion section arrived in the form of a 10-piece carnival band positioned directly outside the tent.

Chris laughed it off, joking that this set might now sound like reworked versions of his songs. The audience laughed with him.

He followed it with a dry, perfectly timed quip: “Why don’t you do more festivals, Chris? Oooh, let me think.”

No shade on Chris, he handled it brilliantly, but it was hard to fully enjoy his set with a musical duel happening just metres away.

After consuming my body weight in blue beef, I headed off to see Stereo MC’s. I hadn’t seen them since my youth in the 90s, and only recently discovered they were the first UK rap group to break the US R&B charts before Connected went global.

Not knowing what to expect, I gathered in the pit with another ten or so togs. I was not ready for what happened next.

The bass pounded so hard you could feel it in your chest, to the point of slight nausea. It was uncomfortable and fun all at once.

We all glanced at each other, mouthing the odd expletive. Loud was one of the words. They blew speakers – no joke.

Technical issues aside, they were phenomenal, instrumentally tight, energetically explosive. If there had been a roof, they’d have blown that off too when Connected kicked in. The field became a bouncing mass of nostalgia.

Stereo MC’s were the surprise of the weekend for me.

Cast delivered tight, melodic indie rock soaked in that unmistakable 60s/90s Liverpool sound.

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Cast many times as a longstanding fan, and their BritFest performance was exactly what they always deliver — consistently brilliant. The songs are addictive, but it’s the chemistry between them onstage that’s a joy to watch.

They remain one of the most reliably great live bands on the circuit.

Peter Hook & The Light — Hooky, Jack, Paul, David and Martin, once again served up a musical masterclass, the kind only they can deliver.

Their setlists are the stuff of dreams for diehard fans, and every track hit the audience like a train. It was great to spot a few JD tees dotted around the crowd, too.

I’ve photographed Peter a few times now, mostly on the anniversary shows, and what I love is how much heart he pours into everything he does.

Whether you’re a Joy Division, New Order or Monaco fan, you always get exactly what you came for, usually across a two-hour set that leaves you totally satisfied.

The man is an ox and just to lift the crowd even higher, in perfect keeping with the World Cup, he threw in something extra: World in Motion, New Order’s 1990 anthem.

Huge inflatable footballs embraced the skies and bounced over the heads of unsuspecting fans. A fabulous sight.

Happy Mondays, they are chaotic, iconic, and absolutely magnetic. Shaun, Bez, Firou, Mark, Gary, Dan and Mikey bring a party like no one else, that unpredictable, slightly feral energy everyone secretly hopes for.

The opener was goosebump-inducing as Firouzeh stepped forward, delivering her usual vocal acrobatics to warm the crowd before the band crashed in with Kinky Afro.

Bez was already at the stage edge, maracas in hand, throwing out those unmistakable Bez shapes, that loose-limbed, wide-eyed swagger that looks planned and accidental at the same time. The audience lapped it up.

Then came the moment that nearly gave Bez a new dance partner.

Out of nowhere, a woman, pint in hand, absolutely committed to her evening, wandered towards the front of the stage and started throwing her own shapes right beside him.

For a split second, it looked like Bez had found his match, same footwork, same unbothered grin, same ‘I’m here now, deal with it’ energy.

She was practically a tribute act. Crew rushed in to remove her but she resisted with surprising determination.

She had clearly promised herself a good time, and she wasn’t about to break that promise for anyone.

The temporary eighth member of the Mondays was eventually escorted off, sharpish, and order resumed, or at least as much order as you ever get at a Happy Mondays gig.

Happy Mondays remain one of Manchester’s most defining exports. They didn’t just shape a scene, they proudly warped it with their own unique sound.

That fusion of grubby funk, swaggering indie, acidhouse pulse and Ryder’s unmistakable drawl created a sound that no one has been able to replicate.

They’re the blueprint for a certain kind of British musical chaos and without the Mondays, the Madchester movement wouldn’t have had its teeth, its attitude, or its heartbeat.

Decades on, they still walk onstage and make the ground feel different beneath your feet.

Saturday: Get on your leg warmers and relax with Holly Johnson

The ’80s fancydress theme was in full swing: rara skirts, leg warmers, towelling headbands, the whole neon-soaked spectrum. What’s not to love?

I arrived on Saturday just in time for a display of Clare Grogan’s charm and charisma, neither of which has dimmed in the slightest over the years.

Altered Images delivered a vibrant set of nostalgic ’80s hits that made me feel as though I’d arrived at The BritFest in a DeLorean.

Clare radiated gratitude from the moment she stepped on stage, capturing the audience instantly, her band matching her buoyant energy by the bucketload.

A genuine pleasure to watch before I ventured over to the wonderfully contradictory Little Big Top stage. Still in keeping with my accidental DeLorean theme, I headed in for an interview with “the Doc” — Clive Jackson of Doctor and the Medics.

The session was funny, emotional, and unexpectedly tender at times, with Clive sharing vulnerable moments of his life and experiences.

It was a refreshing addition to the festival programme; I’m a big fan of Q&A sessions at events like this, and The BritFest’s offering was a nice touch.

I slipped out for a little while then headed back to catch Ashley Sherlock – absolutely phenomenal voice – just him and his friend, performing beautifully crafted originals with that unmistakable tone that makes you stop midstride.

I was gutted to learn afterwards that I’d left the tent at the exact moment a band everyone seemed to be talking about, Laurie Wright came on. They’re now firmly on my radar to capture (photographically, of course).

Despite the weather forecast promising a blisteringly hot weekend, Saturday turned out to be anything but. In fact, it was wet, wet, wet just before Wet Wet Wet appeared almost like the rain had been specifically ordered in.

Jason Donovan brought a touch of international star gloss and a wave of pure pop nostalgia to The BritFest. Dressed head to toe in a cerisepink twopiece that could be seen from the next postcode, he delivered a set that was polished, warm, and unapologetically cheesy.

He moved through the classics with ease, from the tender Bobby Vinton ballad, Sealed With A Kiss, to the big sing-alongs like Every Day.

Longtime duet partner Sophie Hiller joined him on stage for a few numbers, their chemistry as effortless as ever. Together, they added a lovely lift to the afternoon, slotting perfectly into The BritFest’s celebratory, feel-good tone.

For me, Holly Johnson delivered the standout performance of the evening. He arrived with a cast of exceptional musicians, each one adding their own electricity to the set, but none more so than guitarist David D’Andrade, who was pure, unfiltered stage seduction.

He moved like the music was running through his bloodstream, throwing out those raunchy, deliberate shapes and lingering stares that turned Relax into something almost dangerously intimate.

With the erotic visuals pulsing behind Holly, the whole thing felt charged, deliberate, and beautifully unapologetic. Vinzenz Benjamin playing bass, had that deep, velvety weight that anchored every song from start to finish.

Big hits like Love Train and Americanos got the audience dancing, but the pinnacle of the night came with the psychologically penetrating intro of The Power of Love.

The moment those first notes unfurled, the entire field shifted. The Italian Renaissance backdrops glowed behind him, the arrangement swelled, and suddenly The BritFest didn’t feel like a festival anymore; it was more like a private, intimate performance.

Holly’s voice was unreal, controlled, emotional and impossibly timeless – pure joy. I’d never had the honour of seeing him live before, and I was genuinely disappointed when I missed his Liverpool show last year.

This more than made up for it. The evening closed with what felt like endless applause, Holly taking his time to thank every member of his band.

Sunday: Playing for extra time

Sunday was ‘sports day’. Dress code: Sportswear or dress as your chosen sporting icon.

I’ve always had a soft spot for anything ’70s, and if I’d paid a bit more attention to the fancy dress code, I probably would have indulged.

Instead, I found myself drawn into the charm of the vintage caravans and vehicles dotted around the site. It was like stumbling into a little time capsule.

I spent a lovely stretch of the afternoon chatting with the owners, people who can tell you the entire life story of a vehicle with the affection most reserve for family members.

There was something beautifully grounding about it. A quiet little corner of nostalgia in the middle of a festival, where everyone seemed happy to pause, remember and share a little piece of their past with total strangers.

After a wander and a much-needed chill, I headed back to the stage to catch Babybird.

Moody, melodic, and unmistakably British, Babybird’s set added a welcome depth to the afternoon. You’re Gorgeous landed exactly as expected, loud, anthemic and met with a chorus of happy voices singing along.

Stephen Jones didn’t need to do much, the crowd carried half the song for him, and he seemed more than content to let them.

Space were an unexpected highlight of my Sunday — a band I hadn’t crossed paths with since the ’90s and somehow even managed to stroll right past without clocking who they were.

To be fair, their look has evolved into something far edgier, looking more like Bloodstock than BritFest, but that only made me more intrigued.

What do Space sound like nearly thirty years on? As it turns out, pure joy.

From the dramatic tale of Tommy falling in love with Dracula’s bride (or whatever gloriously bizarre storyline he was spinning) to the synchronised jumps across the stage, everything had intention, effort, and that unmistakable Space eccentricity.

Tommy’s voice — those familiar tones that transported me straight back to the 90s in an instant. I’ve always felt this group of talented Scousers were criminally underrated.

Their songwriting was fantastic then, and it still is now.

Their cover of The Animals’ We’ve Gotta Get Out of This Place was a standout, weirdly perfect for their eerie, melodic sound. It shouldn’t have worked but it absolutely did.

Tommy threw himself into the performance, almost literally. As I saw him move towards the edge of the stage, he suddenly vanished. Dear God, he’s fallen I thought, but no, he’d stepped down deliberately, choosing to meet the audience face-to-face, which I believe he was the only artist to do so this weekend.

From ground level he continued singing Female of the Species, holding hands with fans, leaning into phone cameras and drawing the crowd in with that unmistakable vocal tone.

The audience responded with complete enthusiasm, giving him their full attention and energy throughout – beautiful to see.

This has always been my favourite Space song, largely because it showcases Tommy’s voice in its fullest, most expressive form. Hearing it delivered both from the stage and then from within the crowd added a sense of intimacy and connection that elevated an already special moment.

A performance filled with commitment, presence, and genuine engagement — sheer joy from start to finish.

Good God, Rick Parffit Jnr has energy. I was familiar with his father, as we all are, but had absolutely no idea Parfitt Jnr had this level of talent. I have to say, I was genuinely impressed.

His vocal was fantastic,and even though he was delivering cover songs, it felt like he could sing anything you threw at him.

Fisherman’s Friends intrigued me. I was fully expecting a catalogue of obscure sea shanties, and while there was a respectful nod to traditional Cornish roots, they surprised me in the best way.

Their cover of Fisherman’s Blues was an absolute standout, rich, heartfelt, and beautifully delivered. I couldn’t help but sing along and wish I had my own guitar.

They perform in a way that makes you want to fetch an instrument and sing along. The musicianship and harmonies were a breath of fresh air, earthy, authentic, and deeply British, familiar and timeless. A brilliant addition to the day.

ABC brought a welcome dose of sophistication and style to the final day. Martin Fry walked on with that effortless poise he’s always carried and his vocals were as smooth and elegant as ever.

The band’s lush, polished sound wrapped itself around Sunday like a final flourish, giving the day a sense of class that only ABC can pull off.

The Look of Love was the moment everything seemed to glow a little brighter.

Joyful, timeless, and instantly transportive, it sent the crowd straight back into their own memories and me right back into that DeLorean again. There’s something about the way Fry performs those classics.

Their set felt like a gentle reminder of how refined ’80s pop could be, stylish without trying, romantic without cliché and delivered with a confidence that comes from decades of doing it right.

A perfect close to the weekend’s kaleidoscope of nostalgia. I wasn’t around for Eternal; my health had decided it was time for bed and that had to take priority.

Since 2019, the UK festival landscape has been in freefall. More than 50 festivals have shut down permanently and over 40 more have cancelled multiple years in a row.

Even this week, Heritage Festivals pulled all upcoming tours, affecting Richard Ashcroft and Eric Clapton, citing high costs and low ticket sales.

Independent festivals are being hit the hardest, competing with giants like Live Nation and AEG is like trying to hold back the tide with a paper cup, which is exactly why The BritFest feels so remarkable. It’s either admirable bravery or sheer madness.

In a time when festivals are dropping like flies, they’ve created one from scratch, stitched together with heart, intention, and a genuine sense of community.

There’s a warmth to The BritFest, open, human, unmistakably British. The lineup celebrates generations of homegrown music, the crowd is a blend of families, locals, travellers, and diehard fans; and the atmosphere carries that gentle pride you only get when something has been built for the right reasons.

As a reviewer, I tried to sample as much as possible from The BritFest’s tapas bar, the interviews, the fairground, the themed days, the vintage vehicles, the food stalls and the small thoughtful touches that make a festival feel lived-in rather than manufactured.

Those details matter and The BritFest got them right. Arriving late did feel a bit like walking into a massive family gathering unannounced and a couple of less-than-welcoming faces made that clear, but it wasn’t enough to dent the experience.

There was too much joy, too much music and too much genuine community spirit to let anything overshadow it.

At its core, The BritFest is a weekend built on kindness, connection, and great music.

In a time when festivals are disappearing at an alarming rate, The BritFest stands out as something rare: a festival with soul, created because two people believed it should exist.

It is a festival that reminds you why live music matters, and that alone makes it worth showing up for.