So far, the featured artists in this blog have been people I don’t know.

People I do know get a mention in the course of the post, but none of them have been on stage.

Until now.

This week I was at a show given by someone I’ve been watching for almost 30 years and who I’ve been lucky enough to get to know for about 28 of those.

Our local theatre, The Brindley, staged An Audience with Greg Oldfield – Greg being a local singer/songwriter who has been a fixture on our `scene’ (or whatever has passed for a scene) for three decades.

Unfortunately I only saw the second half being unable to get there until the interval, but even the final hour was worth the admission.

The audience was filled with familiar faces from 30 years of watching local bands and some good-natured banter from the bleachers punctuated the between-songs chat.

Greg treated us to some of the lesser-performed songs from his repertoire, each with a story attached – often self-deprecating, usually funny and occasionally extremely poignant.

He even dusted off two songs from the never-released album by the band he was in at the back end of the 80s – Great & Lady Soul – who signed to Virgin, released two singles and then…(see comments section for full story).

But Bad Weather and My Dictionary were a pleasure to hear again, as was the bluesy cover of Are `Friends’ Electric? which often featured as a G&LS encore back in the day. That band also featured other Tony who you may remember from this year’s Sound City post where he got to meet Sleaford Mods.

All in all, an enjoyable occasion that would bear repeating.

So for the second year running I finished the summer with back to back weekends of Creamfields and End of the Road.

And the contrast could hardly be greater between the two events.

Where the former is a massive communal celebration of getting lost in (dance) music, the latter is a much more cerebral – although at times no less joyous – gathering of music fans.

This year Gill agreed to go and spend the entire weekend on site – a festival first. OK, it was in the boutique camping area, but who’s keeping score!

She did, however, remain slightly disappointed not to have seen one of the fabled peacocks that roam the festival’s Larmer Tree Gardens venue. Maybe the rain which poured down on Saturday kept them sensibly sheltering.

We arrived on Friday just in time for the wonderful Field Music who, despite having had problems getting their gear to the site, still fashioned a set worthy of their reputation and sounded like what might have happened had Prince stumbled into Talking Heads’ rehearsal room and asked to sit in on a couple of tracks.

The nature of EOTR is that for every beard-stroking Louisiana porch merchant on one stage there will be something heading in a radically different direction somewhere else.

Hence we found ourselves watching Shura and Cat’s Eyes in the Big Top neither of whom could conceivably be placed within much of the festival’s roots and Americana agenda.

Shura had impressed at Sound City earlier in the year and here made a compelling case to be a very big deal indeed with a clutch of great synth-washed tunes. Cat’s Eyes were more playful than I expected and their four-piece backing choral singers took many of their songs to great heights.

While not eating, drinking gin-based cocktails or watching engaging Irish comedies at the festival’s cinema – Sing Street if you’re interested – then we also had a good time watching Broken Social Scene, The Big Moon, the bit of Cat Power we saw, King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard and Bill Ryder-Jones.

But, for us, the highlight was certainly Sunday night – again in the Big Top – where both Scritti Politti and Teenage Fanclub were playing.

I can barely state how excited I was to see Scritti Politti having only seen them once before in their entire getting-on-for-40-year history and that was only a short support set.

As with Echo and the Bunnymen, I’ve always found Scritti’s lack of ongoing mainstream recognition somewhat baffling.

I’d take their debut Songs to Remember to a desert island with me if I was only allowed 10 long players and, thinking about it, I’d slip Cupid & Psyche 85 into the same sleeve just to get two to listen to on the beach.

Effectively Green Gartside and accompanying musicians they plucked gems from their four decades including the big 80s hits such as Wood Beez and Absolute, the indie beginnings such as The Sweetest Girl and Jacques Derrida and later work like The Boom Boom Bap.

He told a story about seeing Tito Puente in New York with Kraftwerk and introduced Asylums in Jerusalem by saying `as you’ll recall from Nietzsche’s critique of Christianity…’ I don’t think most of us did but it wasn’t important.

It was an hour of utterly brilliant polished pop that I’d go a long way to see again and again.

After Scritti had finished there was then a hiatus in the Big Top while Joanna Newsom did her thing on the main stage, but once she’d finished, Teenage Fanclub strode onstage in the tent to a heroes’ welcome and drove through a greatest hits set plus a couple of new songs from their forthcoming album.

Stylistically they plough a similar furrow throughout, but they do it with charm and songs like Star Sign and Sparky’s Dream are genuinely great.

I remain staggered that an event like Creamfields happens in Daresbury, 10 minutes drive time from my front door.

I did my usual again this year with a ticket for Sunday only as I’m fully aware that I couldn’t last for a Saturday stint and the  come back the next day, when all I’m really interested in are some good tunes, a bit of a laugh and a few beers.

With the regular duo of me and Matt having our numbers supplemented – first by Jon and now also by Paul M – it’s a great middle of the Bank Holiday weekend day and night out.

Hadn’t planned to watch Tiesto again, but once we’d stood and listened to Hardwell we didn’t fancy moving away from that particular stage.

We love the outdoor atmosphere – especially on a warm night – and the headliner didn’t disappoint.

Just to add a little more excitement three of us walked much of the way home along the canal which, after a drink or two and in the pitch black, was interesting to say the least!

I never grin more at a gig than I do at Creamfields. I’ve maybe got one or two left in me and it would be nice to make it to double figures. Can I plead for Daft Punk next year and then call it quits?

Way back when, well 1992, I got a free CD on a magazine – probably Q which I read avidly at the time – and listening to it in the car on he way home from work only one track made a lasting impression.

It was I Feel Lucky by Mary Chapin-Carpenter and I played it over and over. I also laughed when Danny Baker played it on what I’m guessing would still have been his morning Radio 5 show and commented on the growl she emits close to the end.

If Danny likes it, I thought, there must be something in it.

So when the parent album it came off was favourably reviewed I took the plunge, even though at that time fairly folky, semi-country female singer songwriters weren’t my thing.

But they are now, and the reason they are is almost entirely down to the impact Mary and her Come On Come On album had.

Within a couple of years and with the help of CMT on cable TV you couldn’t move for the likes of Mary, Trisha Yearwood, Kathy Mattea, Suzy Bogguss and the then sparkly newcomer Shania Twain.

But over the years their visibility has gradually faded from the mainstream which is a huge shame.

However, every couple of years she comes back to do a few UK shows one of which this time round was at Liverpool Philharmonic.

Last time out Gill and I had seen her backed by Manchester Camerata which was a magical evening, but at the Phil it was a more traditional arrangement of pianist and guitar/mandolin player supporting her in a show that was quietly understated and reflective in common with much of her material.

Her voice continues to carry stories of small town hopes, dreams and disappointments in a way that makes you believe every word and when it drops to barely a whisper it’s like it’s just for you.

The standing ovation at the end was richly deserved after she had worked her way through an outstanding back catalogue plus a few songs from her new album, The Things That We Are Made Of.

Michael Eavis knows mud when he sees it.

He’s a farmer and he runs a festival that is notorious for having had some truly atrocious conditions underfoot over the years.

So when he says the 2016 Glastonbury was `the muddiest ever’ you know it must have been bad.

Now I can’t vouch for all the previous waterlogged years, but I can definitely confirm that this year’s was a shocker.

Not music wise   Heard some terrific stuff, and you have to be the worst kind of curmudgeon to look at Glastonbury’s 2,000 acts and claim it’s all rubbish.

But getting around the site was akin to one of those fundraising Tough Mudder events. At time I thought someone was actually holding me by the ankles!

However, I don’t want this to be all about the mud.

If you’ve never been you should try to go at least once. It’s sheer scale and breadth are staggering.

Other festivals might be doing individual bits better, but none are the whole package on this level.

Our – by which I mean me Gill, Tony and Helen- 2016 Glastonbury didn’t get off to the most promising start when James were nearly an hour late opening the Other Stage while tractors poured sawdust and woodchip onto the worst of the mud at the front of the stage before the audience could be allowed in.

But whatever else is going on, once a band kicks in everything else takes a back seat and James didn’t play it safe including several newer tracks along with a handful from their glorious past.

And watching a band who were at their biggest more than 20 years ago pretty much set the tone for a lot of what we did over the weekend. Our vintage can be gauged by the fact that we also enjoyed Madness, Paul Carrack, Art Garfunkel, ZZ Top and, particularly, ELO.

Jeff Lynne’s astonishing back catalogue with the latter was a wonder to behold as he chucked out hit after hit backed by what looked like a chamber orchestra and made a miserable, drizzly afternoon a multi-coloured pop delight.

Madness included a nicely judged tribute to David Bowie with a cover of Kooks and if Art’s voice isn’t quite the pristine instrument of old, it’s still good enough to send shivers down the spine when  you hear him start `When you’re weary, feeling small…’

There was also a rambunctious set in the Fields of Avalon from the Ben Miller Band who brought some backwoods country-blues to a corner of Somerset.

Honourable mentions, too, for Explosions in the Sky, Ward Thomas and Wolf Alice at various points over the weekend.

You always go with plans to see much more and then don’t see half. But getting distracted is genuinely the other half of the fun.

Still, not long now until tickets for next year go on sale. I’ll have forgotten the mud by then!

This was a curiously entertaining day.

I’ll admit straight up – it wasn’t Neil Young that sold it for me. It was his backing band.

That was part of the curiosity.

Instead of Crazy Horse, Neil was being backed by the legendary Booker T and the MGs.

I’d grown up listening to Booker T – and the rest of the Stax catalogue – and the thought of seeing the great man and his equally illustrious cohorts, Donald `Duck’ Dunn and Steve Cropper was too good to pass up.

Young had recruited them following their stint as the house band at a Bob Dylan 30th anniversary concert special, and as much as seeing them in their own right, I wanted to see how these slick soul players would work alongside Neil’s idiosyncratic country rock.

Me, girlfriend Gill and mate Graham picked a coach up in Liverpool and quickly dubbed it the Marrakesh Express as it filled up with fumes and tunes.

We arrived at Finsbury Park barely in time to see anything of the openers, 4 Non Blondes, and settled in for the afternoon.

Following these one-hit wonders (although singer Linda Perry has done well since as a songwriter) were Teenage Fanclub, James and Pearl Jam – a line-up not to be sniffed at under any circumstances and, to be fair, these three had made it an easier sell to Gill who wasn’t overly keen on travelling 200 miles just to see Canada’s finest, nor did she share my enthusiasm for the MGs.

Of course seeing Pearl Jam in 1993 gave her the drop on our mutual friend Tony who is frequently mentioned in these pages and is a massive fan, but didn’t see them until a decade later and had to endure the frequent question `so have you not seen Pearl Jam then?’

The atmosphere in the Park had been pretty rowdy all afternoon – although never threatening – and it picked up another notch for the arrival of Neil Young.

It’s the only time I’ve seen him, so I’ve nothing to compare it with, but it’s fair to say he didn’t hold anything back.

Someone once described him as playing his guitar like he was digging up a road which I laughed out loud at but can see what they meant.

It was a performance like a hard day’s labour. Furiously committed and determined to wring every drop  out of every song.

And perhaps that’s why he chose Booker T and the MGs as his backing band – to be the coolly functional counterpoint to his righteous intensity.

Before the finish he threw in a cover of Otis Redding’s Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay which was co-written by his on-stage bandmate Steve Cropper, and closed with a howling Rockin’ in the Free World on which he was joined by Pearl Jam and we were entertained by a lad who bounced around like Tigger throughout the whole song.