Fire Dance Festival 2025: my 18 hours

 

Fire Dance - Girsby & Over Dinsdale Village Hall

Amass, through the lens of my shit phone

You should never let any day, let alone weekend pass you by… so weekends like Fire Dance should be compulsory.

Set in the peaceful green belt between Girsby and Over Dinsdale in North Yorkshire, this little DIY festival is one of punk, techno, and full‑throttle weirdness among like-minded people and it was superb—even if I only caught half of it.

Originally, my plan was to rock up Friday evening with my lad Charlie, pitch the tent, and dive straight into a night of punk rock and pulsing beats. But life, as ever, had other plans. A work colleague suffered a freak accident involving a sock (yes, really—don’t ask), which kept me in North Wales at the last minute. So instead of driving north towards festival fields and furious feedback, I was being polite to the buying public and wishing my life away to 5pm. Too late to start a four hour drive, so it was an early night in prep for an early dart in the morning.

By Saturday lunchtime, we were finally on the road back up. And while I missed some killer sets—including a reportedly storming show by anarcho legends The System (a band I used to write to as a teenager, back when punk records had mailing addresses and you'd trade stickers for stamps)—I did arrive just in time to play a part in the fun and games myself.

Drafted into Drop A#

I'd been called in on a last-minute favour by Emissaries Of Syn, my gnarly grind/crusty neighbours (and alleged friends) from North Wales. Kev, their fifth(!) guitarist couldn’t make it, and somehow, I stupidly agreed to be the emergency stand-in. Or guitarist 5.1 as they called me.

If you’re a guitarist, you’ll feel the sweat forming already: EoS tune down to Drop A♯. That’s not just low—it’s tectonic. Most bands settle for Drop D or C if they want heaviness, but these crazy fools go full sonic earthquake. I had to track down the thickest strings I could find and learn the material more by feel than sound—my slightly deaf ears couldn’t make sense of the recorded tracks at that tuning. So I memorised the shapes and hoped muscle memory would carry me through.

Miraculously, it worked. We had a blast, pure and simple. Chaotic fun? Totally. We got away with it, and the band sold records and t-shirts.

A Tent-Side View

After that, it was time to soak up the rest of the festival with a very tired 11-year-old in tow. We didn’t make it to the front for the last two acts, but from the warm sanctuary of our tent (strategically close enough), we caught some incredible sounds:

• The Sporadics tore it up with their punk-ska fusion, a bouncing frenzy of skanking beats and vocals that channeled Dick Lucas–style urgency (think Culture Shock with a horn section).

• Petrol Hoers—what even are Petrol Hoers? An offshoot of the gloriously unhinged Petrol Bastard, this was less a gig and more a surreal fever dream about the darker side of horses. It’s punk performance art at its most twisted. And brilliant.
  
  Yeah, those two were listened to - these three were seen and heard...

• B-Type brought a refreshing dose of quirky techno-hop, all bounce and basslines and weirdness. Somewhere between a rave and a puppet show. In the best way.

• Cress, now a stripped-down two-piece on stage (though a trio on record), delivered their brand of  anarcho-punk, plenty of space in the songs as the visuals added to the message, and menace.

• And AMASS, featuring our brilliant hosts Andy and Marnie, closed out my night with a blistering set. Heavy, full-on and ferociously tight. An absolute highlight and seriously lapped up by all those present.

The Spirit of Fire Dance

What really made Fire Dance special wasn’t just the music (though that was excellent across the board)—it was the atmosphere. The DIY ethos. The sense of community. The fact that in the middle of nowhere, people had come together to share a weekend of beers, music, laughs and love, surrounded by countryside, midges and low flying aircraft.

There were crusties and punks, ravers and a few kids, dogs, tents, dogs in tents, and possibly a few demons summoned during the noisier sets. And while the village hall and camping field might not seem like much from the outside, inside was a different world—one where anything could happen, and probably did.

Until Next Time…

While I only got a taste of the weekend this time, I’m already planning to do the full Friday-to-Sunday stretch next year. Hopefully without any sock-related emergencies.

Massive thanks to everyone involved—bands, organisers, punters, sound crew (Ash for lending the amp), and especially those random strangers who shared beers, banter and blistering music. It’s events like Fire Dance that remind me why this DIY community matters so much: it’s loud, it’s weird, and it’s alive.

See you in that field next year - if not before.

Drop A# baby

This week in words - (RIP Bryn Merrick)

Busy week in the world of how we rock and how we roll… and by the end of it I felt about ten years older, deafer, and slightly more confused about how any of us manage to function in this so-called “scene.”

Most of the week was spent wrestling with the finishing touches of the new link2wales compilation, This Patch Of Land. Seventeen bands. Seventeen different levels of disorganisation. Trying to get them all to send artwork, approve tracks, or even reply to a message felt like trying to herd drunk cats across a minefield. I swear, if there’s a purgatory reserved for music people, it’s project managing a compilation album.

Saturday (Sept 5th) brought Spam Javelin’s fifth gig at The Dirty Weekend, now relocated to Chester Lakes after Rhyl’s venues finally out-shitted themselves into irrelevance. We were on at 3pm in a tent, which was fine, except we nearly didn’t get there thanks to a tyre blowing out so badly it was down to the bare thread. There’s nothing quite like changing a tyre with a knackered back while all your amps sit in the boot smirking at you.

We made it, played hard, and even enjoyed it—though the main-stage band had overrun their slot, meaning half the potential crowd didn’t even know we existed. Then, as if things weren’t irritating enough, I later found out the drunk drummer from Vitriolic Response had been wandering around telling people we were sexist homophobes. A bold accusation from someone whose band name sounds like a medical condition. What a fucking wanker.

Sunday was a different story entirely. I took my two-year-old along and we soaked up the vibe properly—lentil curry, sunshine, wandering about, the whole deal. Emissaries of Syn tore through a blistering set at 1pm, despite the suburban local Nazis complaining about the noise from inside their beige living rooms. I picked up a pile of vinyl, books and zines, then went home and updated my very, very anal Bands Seen List—which now sits at a mighty 2031. My ears ring constantly and, being in a hardcore band, I’ve fully accepted that I’m fucked.

Music-wise, I’d been listening to an advance stream of the debut St Pierre Snake Invasion album. Proper good stuff. The only downside is modern technology itself—no CD, no vinyl, just a link. Everything’s a bloody link.

Tuesday was a proper high point. Took my daughter Marni to Manchester Academy to witness the phenomenon that is Future Islands. They were fucking ace. Saw them last year, before they blew up, when you could still feel like you were in on the secret. Not quite the same intimacy this time—no one shouting “C’mon Gwaenysgor! Let's make some fucking noise!”—but still small enough to make eye contact with the band. Support came from Du Blonde (solid) and Dope Body, who were disjointedly brilliant. I even haggled two albums off them for a tenner each, proving I can still barter like a dad at a car boot sale.

Thursday (10th) brought another Spam Javelin show, this time at The Skerries in Bangor. Good crowd, good energy. Addicted To Fish were their usual amiable selves. Bad Excuses didn’t show up—possibly because I’d mentioned the number of covers they play and their bassist got a bit feisty about it. Probably for the best; could’ve been an “interesting” evening. Daf Jones opened on acoustic, but I was so wrecked I slept in my car instead. That’s rock'n'roll life for you—sometimes you miss the opener because unconsciousness wins.

And then today (Saturday) hit hard. Bryn Merrick—ex-The Damned—passed away from cancer. Proper gut punch. He was always the friendly face during that mid-’80s Damned era. Once, after a gig, he even let me autograph his arm. A sweet, solid bloke. Another good one gone.