Slottsfjell Festival review, Tønsberg, Norway: Norwegian acts are the ones to look out for

Hei from Norway, we’re 100-odd kilometres south of Oslo, a five minute walk up-and-over the ancient town of Tønsberg and taking a deep breath at the summit of Castle Rock.

We’re at Slottsfjell. Gazing up at medieval towers and down onto tranquil fjords (possibly a river, but nicer to think ‘fjord’), it seems a calamitous oversight that 13 years of this festival have happened without anyone mentioning it to me.

Maybe it’s the nostalgic atmosphere of the site – the haphazard set-up and lo-fi charm bring to mind Green Man’s original site and the early days of End of The Road – or maybe it’s the looming presence of UK veterans like Slowdive, Craig David and The Prodigy spread over the four days, but this festival feels instantly familiar and overwhelmingly comforting.

Oddly, The Prodigy’s set feels the same. Age has sucked the venom from them and you sense that when Keith Flint starts a fire these days it’s followed by a glass of red and Countryfile, but the classics still kick with enough chutzpah to keep them enormously entertaining. Slowdive, on the other hand, are enjoying a genuine creative renaissance and while a downpour that laughs in the face of being called merely ‘biblical’ keeps crowds away, it’s a treat to see them on such vibrant form.

Really, though, the last thing Slottsfjell should be treated as is a field of dreams where old-stagers get to swing a bat again (briefly diverting quickly-turned humdrum sets from The Hives and Paramore quash that notion), instead this is a chance to soak up Norwegian acts new and not-so-new, enjoy a handful of Nordic neighbours, and marvel at the idea of a Government which actually supports the arts.

We find Strange Hellos doing charming indiepop on the tiny P3 stage and fall hard for the confident strut of Hanne Mjøen, who does Scandi-Pop precision with joyful effervescence. Over on the main stage big-hitters Tove Lo and Astrid S produce shows that ooze star quality, with the latter’s “Party’s Over” burning brighter than the fireball in the sky that’s scorched us ever since the early not-quite-armageddon.

Three acts stand out across the weekend however: Anna of the North possesses a nuance and subtlety that raises her high above that well-trodden Nordic algorithmic pop sound.

Amanda Delara adds violin and cello to toothy beats that are sharpened by no-nonsense political lyrics concerning the rank stupidity, violence and greed of humans, and Pom Poko who, as ever, are on a mission to prove themselves the most riotously party guitar band on the planet, and entirely succeeding.

If there’s a mild criticism (and no, it’s not near £8 pints - you’re in Norway, it’s how it is. Just don’t get in a round with people you don’t trust to honour it, and never ever spill your beer), it’s that stage time overlaps mean the likes of a sublime set of saxamaphone-enriched 80s drivetime grandeur by Alex Cameron (“he’s like Father John Misty, but not hateable,” a friend opines, mostly wrongly) is watched only by the 30 or so of us who aren’t wondering what day Craig David’s reminiscing about. It’s a minor quibble though, and doesn’t affect Sløtface’s near-legendary karaoke session, which is seen by a healthy throng of wannabe soft-rockers.

Shame, too, pack the sky-kissing Tårnlunden stage with their kinda-post-post-Britpop invective. Burning-up with the unarguable self-belief of furious youth, they bristle and thrill, and if anyone’s not converted then they’re keeping very quiet amongst the reverence.

Fittingly it’s left to a stellar Norwegian talent to close the on-site festival. Aurora’s huge crowd treasure every moment of a dramatic and surprisingly euphoric set. Those of us that thought her music too polite to triumph at this level are blown-away, especially when “Running With The Wolves” threatens to flatten the very mountain we’re stood upon.

Most festivals end about now, but Slottsfjell just gets off the mountain and into the club. The warehouse space Kastellnatt witnesses all manner of late night kicks, from Lady Leshurr to Fanny Anderson, from Hasta to the Henrik The Artist-boasting Rytmeklubben, and we dance long into the not-very-dark Norwegian night, never ever spilling our beers.

Tusen takk, Slottsfjell, we’ll be back.