Old Bush Blues Festival Review
The Old Bush Callow End
15th-18th August 2025
Another hot, blistering weekend and a festival on our doorstep—the same road many will have travelled just a few weeks back to join in with the lively street scene in Upton. You’d have cruised past The Old Bush in Callow End, an exceptional pub that has seen considerable development under owners Matt and Karen Williams. Glamping, camping, a ‘village shop’—all are available, and jammed full for the Blues Festival weekend.
It’s an interesting contrast to Upton Blues, where thousands fill the streets, crowded pubs jostling with the pull of the three big stages. It’s free, fun, and frantic at times. The Old Bush is a time-served, well-oiled operation: wonderful food, and a range of beers and ciders at everyday prices. Yes, it’s ticketed—a sell-out each year. Old friends return; you have to move between stages, maybe ten metres, fifteen minutes, and the next band fires up. Matt has a good team: 28 artists performing over the three days, including the acoustic stage. It is a bit remote, but a little haven—no ear plugs required, just a 60m walk. Oh yes, plenty of rain cover should it be needed.
This year’s festival certainly pulled in some great bands. The hard-working, suited-and-booted Milk Men, who for once cast off their velour jackets in the heady heat of Friday evening. Friday also found Aynsley Lister on stage, and the return of the risqué Andy Twyman—damned if I didn’t miss him. Well worth seeing, with plenty of humour for the filthy-minded! The campers and glampers faded into the late night, no doubt looking forward to a hearty breakfast and a few paracetamols.
Saturday: the irascible Welsh guitar wizard James Oliver shared plenty of banter with his faithful followers, spliced with brilliant rock’n’roll blues on his ’53 Telecaster—almost as old as me. A rare sight of Stuart James was, for me, a revelation: a genuine old-school three-piece, raw rock band—went down like a chilled Guinness. Regular and colourful, Robin Bibi toured the site with his Strat, getting up-front and personal with the crowd and exotic birds, before rejoining his band, which included a lovely three-piece brass section—you’ve gotta love the sound of horns.
Slipping through the Hadrian’s Wall gap, Aberdeen rocker Gerry Jablonski invaded with his band of Picts—electrifying rock, which I missed as I scooted back for a forgotten camera and ear plugs, typical. I was back for Lawrence Jones, who headlined—looking a little frail at present, only playing in the UK this year as he rebuilds following a difficult bout of illness. Didn’t stop him filling the Fothers stage. Pristine Fender Strats, pristine Marshall amp… hmm, looks like he’s sponsored by Adidas too???
Sunday: the usual slow awakening, Old Bush breakfast, and on with the show. I caught up with Sunjay in acoustic solo mode—always impeccable finger-picking, spliced with some light humour. Contrast that with another long-time friend, Mark Harrison, both new to OBB, both finger-picking maestros. But Mark, for the first time ever, was sporting a spangly new hand-built Scandinavian electric! A real Dylan moment—and we’re not talking Magic Roundabout. Only a couple of plugged-in songs, the National delivering the rest—there is magic in Mark’s wonderful deadpan humour.
Burning Rope is a newly formed band pulled from the embers of Catfish, following the loss of Matt Long—huge, impossible shoes to step into. So Burning Rope emerged: Paul Long on keys, with lead guitar in the hands of a talented Alex Voysey, who had played here in his own right in ’24. More highlights with harmonica wizard Will Wilde, who had recently joined Walter Trout both on his UK tour and on his current album. Looking more the Badlands bandit with metal bias than harp sharpshooter, Will has returned to his role as badass blues blaster—and with a great new album out.
Charismatic Krissy Mathews followed on; it was well into the evening session, and all available space was filled with gyrating bodies moving to the groove. Host Matt, swaying a little in the breeze, was sporting a nice loud Simpsons shirt, whilst compère Joules was garbed head to toe in yellow duck-themed clobber. Numerous ‘ladies’ lurked in groups, bearded and clutching an ale, proving beyond doubt that clothes do not maketh the man—more stylish than knee-length baggy shorts and faded gig T-shirts though. The only lady to seduce me was Old Rosie in the beer tent.
As ever, a brilliantly organised festival, Old Bush Blues continues to lead the way. My thanks to Matt, Karen, and the hard-working crew.
Graham Munn