“Hell’s Bells” is the phrase that sticks from Pren ar y Bryn / Tree on a Hill. “Bingo” too. Both are utterances of Clive, a quirky character, played by Rhodri Meilir, who is representative of this offbeat drama. Filmed in Welsh and English, the former went out on S4C around Christmas whilst the latter appeared on BBC Wales from Easter. And though both are fairly similar, there is something about Cymraeg that offers an eccentricity not quite matched in its Saesneg counterpart.
Right from the start, the programme is off-piste. The presence of a model village is symbolic of a dream-like quality that permeates into the lives of Penwyllt’s real-life inhabitants. The brass and percussion instruments of the soundtrack, resembling arhythmic, improvised jazz, add to its oddness with their chaos. It is at once tragic and comic – a duality that runs through the series like a winding river. The titles are reminiscent of a B-movie; and indeed, complete with the music and faded colour palette, could have easily come from the 1950s. The addition of a rather outlandish murder plot and several strange occurrences mean that, in some ways, Pren ar y Bryn / Tree on a Hill is quite unique in the contemporary TV landscape.
Ed Thomas
It would be no surprise to find The Singing Detective as an influence upon the creators of this drama. It is certainly very different to the more serious and sombre work of producer Ed Thomas (Hinterland, Bregus). Here, he takes the elements of a classic whodunnit and turns them inside out. He borrows from the absurd of sitcom, the emotion of kitchen sink drama, the aesthetic of arthouse film, and even a little from the genre of horror, to create not just a narrative but a whole world that is strange and surprising, silly and sinister. Meilir, for his part, brings a wide-eyed innocence to his role. Deadpan, emotionally understated, yet physically expressive alongside Nia Roberts, who is beautifully awkward as his wife Margaret. Richard Harrington is perhaps the only straight-talking member of the cast as Glyn, the catalyst on which this fabulous yarn unravels. Yet even he is used in a subtle exploration of mental illness that comes to define most of the characters here. Themes of loneliness and change and liberation all feature in a drama that is both brilliantly barmy but with surprising emotional depth. A dead body in a basement freezer is the best description (without giving too much away) of its sliding scale between the ordinary and surreal.
Watch Enid a Lucy, Dal y Mellt and Y Sŵn, even The Way, and you will find a penchant for the off-kilter, ironic, and darkly comic in Welsh drama. The spectral and otherworldly nature of realist pieces like Parch, Yr Amgueddfa and Gwleddalso feel very representative of a certain aesthetic that continues into Pren ar y Bryn / Tree on a Hill. Such ingredients somehow work better when the Welsh language is weaved into them – something in its rhythm and pace and tone that differs from the English; that contains a sense of mystery and magic that forms part of the nation’s identity. In which case Pren ar y Bryn is recommended as the preferred watch. Though Tree on a Hill doesn’t miss out on so much that it can’t be just as enthralling.
Click here to watch either series (Welsh or English) on BBC iPlayer.
Originally written for and published on Get the Chance on 20th April 2024.
Everyone has a song that means something to them. And for me, ‘My Church’ by Maren Morris is one of those songs. It has followed me for the best part of almost ten years, and recently I have had cause to reflect on how its informed my relationship with faith, religion, spirituality, and music.
I remember where I was the first time I heard it: sat at my desk scrolling through iTunes. I can’t remember what songs I was downloading at the time but I noticed the title of this one and clicked to take a listen. I’m not sure what I was expecting but what I heard deeply impacted me in a moment. After that, I couldn’t get enough of it. I’ve always thought there’s something about stumbling across a song that you never intentionally searched for, but that speaks to you when you hear it, that makes it extra special. That was certainly the case with this song, which I’d discovered before it became a hit, so the idea of coming across it “by accident” is a phrase I can never quite believe.
‘My Church’ played into a melting pot of songs that I was discovering as part of a new wave of Country Music. ‘Nashville (Grey Skies)’ by The Shires had lifted the lid on what has become a passion for the genre back in 2014. At the same time, ‘Follow Your Arrow’ by Kacey Musgraves had become a song fueled with encouragement against a heart of low self-esteem. And ‘Something in the Water’ by Carrie Underwood gave fresh expression to a Pentecostal-soaked faith that had become burdensome and was in some ways without a home. Then came Radio 2‘s pop-up station, dedicated to Country and broadcasting live from C2C. That weekend, in March 2015, is self-described as “my Country Music conversion”. Even then, I was using religious language to describe my experience. So when I heard ‘My Church’ for the first time, it is perhaps no surprise that it struck a chord, and became both a lens through which to interpret and a place from which to dialogue with my own Christian faith.
Following its release as part of her debut album ‘Hero’, ‘My Church’ came to act as a lovely (perhaps even necessary) counterpoint to my relationship with the institution of the Church. I had for a long time found myself uncomfortable with the evangelical environment in which I had become and grown as a Christian. There was a black-and-white certainty, a conservative conformity, and a culturally-restraining cloud that hung over my spirituality when I was in a church environment. This was largely separate and disconnected from my lived spirituality outside of it, which on the one hand expressed much greater freedom but, on the other, I was having a different struggle with – namely to communicate and even name it as “Christian” for fear of rejection, mockery or fierce criticism.
Into this context dropped Maren‘s song, which seemed to be able to hold both facets of my spiritual person in tandem. It forged a sort of middle way that took the language of Christianity and the experience of listening to Country Music and melded them together to articulate a very personal perspective on faith. I could relate, for I too felt that there was a judgemental attitude in church in contrast to the liberating lyrics of Country Music’s emotional honesty. The Holy Spirit was present in my listening to ‘Wild Silence’ (The Wandering Hearts) as much as in the middle of worship during a Sunday service. Still today, my soul is sometimes revived in quiet contemplation; sometimes by putting on a Tenille Townes record. ‘My Church’ captured something of what was going on in my heart; some kind of answer to a question with which I’ve always wrestled: Is the power of art evidence of God at work?
This relationship between religion and spirituality, faith and music, art and God, would feed my interest to such an extent that, when the opportunity arose to write about it as part of my Masters degree, I chose to undertake a lyrical analysis of ‘My Church’. What I found, without going into too much fascinating detail, was a dynamic, fluid, yet coherent religious experience – a form of “lived religion” made up of “a specifically Christian morality and a sacramentally-functioning country music”, to use my exact words. I look back on that essay fondly and still think it has something important to say. It made me fall in love with the song even more, and I wonder whether there is some unfinished business in the realm of Country Music and contemporary faith to explore. Above all else, it gave legitimacy to my interactions with God through music, which in turn allowed my faith to retain some form of life at a time when it could have easily died such was my frustration with the institutional side of the Church.
By that point, in 2019, I had spent the best part of two years exploring a sense of vocation. This was initiated off the back of a few conversations with people who had seen in me a calling to ministry, which they had interpreted as priesthood. The problem was that I had never felt the same, and so I’d been grappling with what God might be saying, all the while fighting off those who just wanted me to fit into a neat conformist box, without ever throwing in the towel and walking away entirely from what was fast becoming an assured Anglican identity. The turning point for me was in my conversation with the Bishop in early 2020, when in his wisdom he identified, out of all this information and my passion for the arts, the role of a Deacon, a position that I had never heard of before. But the more I looked into after, the more it seemed to fit, as if made to measure, not only capturing everything that I had been thinking and saying but representing something of who I was as a person.
I’ve often thought that ‘My Church’ came to lie fallow during this period. But as I reflect on my journey towards becoming a Deacon, in those strange two years of COVID lockdowns, I wonder whether actually its influence had been implicit throughout. For a Deacon is described as being a bridge between church and the world: an in-between existence, if you like; residing in a liminal space where boundaries are blurred. And at the heart of ‘My Church’? A song that mentions the institution but opens up the possibility of faith beyond its walls. A third way, if you will, which is often the hardest to walk. Another reason why this song has been such an encouragement down the years. For not only in faith but life am I a person whose natural position is to sit on the fence, consider both sides, and then offer an invitation to “meet me in the middle”. I quote another of Maren‘s songs here deliberately. For though the context of ‘The Middle’ is a domestic dispute, the act of negotiation, or mediation, that it seeks in the aftermath is a loose metaphor for attempts to (re)connect and dialogue with typically-patriarchal institutions.
This thought crossed my mind recently whilst reading ‘Her Country‘ by Marissa R Moss. There is something in not only Maren‘s story but Kacey‘s too, about rebelling against the norms of Music Row in order to remain true to self, that inspires my own walk with God in the shadow of the Church. To those inside the institution, I am always having to justify myself as a Deacon. They don’t get it. They don’t understand it. And so their reaction is to ask that repetitive question, “Have you thought about going all the way?” A reference to becoming a priest, as if my current existence is somehow forever lacking. Or their response is more subliminal, assuming a priestly bias that leads them to utter phrases that homogenise and exclude. I’ve even had a run-in with one of the “old-guard” recently, for want of a better phrase, who tried to fit me into their own understanding and judge me accordingly. I was surprised by my own resilience in the face of their underhanded criticism. But sometimes, it feels like it would be a lot easier to simply follow the crowd.
This is why I love Maren Morris. It’s why I love Kacey Musgraves too. For despite the pressure to conform, they don’t. Not for the sake of it but because their wish to be authentic wins out. They are not willing to compromise if it means their ability to be honest will to some degree be curtailed. It strikes me that as I write this I’m also reminded that Jesus too refused to obey the rules. He was exasperated at religion that had become devoid of spirituality and consumed by power. Tradition used to control rather than serve. At present, I find the way of the world defines success by way of attaining positions that confer legitimacy; targets to be met that are quantifiable and meant to be publicly celebrated when achieved. In this context, ‘My Church’ has become part of a wider counter-cultural message for me. Because “I don’t want to be a part of the good ol’ boys club”, to quote Kacey. I just want to try and serve out of a place of love and creativity.
Not that I haven’t critiqued some of the lines in ‘My Church’ which don’t quite tally with my Christian belief. Most recently, “I’ve fallen down from grace / a few too many times” has been counteracted by those of ‘From the Inside Out’ by Hillsong. “A thousand times I’ve failed / still your mercy remains / and should I stumble again / still I’m caught in your grace” reminds me of God’s unconditional love and unrelenting grace in a way that matches my own rather than Maren‘s experience. Yet when frustrations bubble, my identity challenged, or temptation knocks at the door, “I [still] find my soul revival / singing every single verse” to songs often from the world of Country Music (and sometimes beyond) too. It may not be what the purists want to hear. But I find, at this complex intersection of faith, music, religion, creativity, and spirituality, that I am most fully alive. ‘My Church’ reflects something of that experience, and will continue to contribute and speak into it for many more years to come, I suspect. At the same time, it joins so many other influences that sometimes compliment, sometimes contradict it. But they all amalgamate into something, in the end, resembling my authentic, lived experience. “Can I get a hallelujah [and] amen” to that.
Gareth Lewis knows how to concoct the perfect musical cocktail. The Swansea singer-songwriter has come up with a delightfully eclectic mix for his latest record, ‘Roots’. Expect a strong taste of rock, with a dash of Blues and a pinch of Country, a drop of Gospel and a hit of electronica, guaranteed to fizz and tantalise the tastebuds.
Opening track ‘Don’t Mean a Thing’ sees the best put forward first. This is Blues-Rock of the highest order, ramped up to the nines with guitars, drums and vocals that help stir a rebellious soul. Lewis takes on the current political climate head on, speaking first of apathy and then revolution beside a thumping chorus whose lines, “Don’t go wasting your time on the circus they bring / don’t be listening to all those hollow voices sing / ‘cause every single word don’t mean a thing”, strike right at the heart of what so many are feeling.
The focus then shifts to the personal and individual on ‘Higher Power’, a song with a different sort of energy. The drums may be softer here but they still portray a determined beat of footsteps pressing on toward a goal. The lighter strings of the guitars also provide encouragement that speaks inward to the self, rather than a collective, using Gospel-influenced images like the lion, giant, eagle and fire to accompany the central message: “I believe in you / and your higher power that lies within”.
‘What Got Us Here, Won’t Get Us There’ carries through the quietly-expansive vocals that cause Gareth Lewis to be compared at times to Bono from U2. His is a heartfelt voice that remains soft even as it belts out; and here there is a wealth of emotion that pours out in the middle chorus such that the subtle change of perspective in the lyrics becomes tangibly felt. There is a clear shift in confidence, most obviously in the replacement of ‘What’ and ‘Won’t’ with ‘We’ and ‘We’ll’ respectively in the title. It is a reminder that love is what holds relationships together, and it only becomes richer with commitment through the challenging times.
‘Letting Go of the Rope’ cranks the musical energy back up to the max with its electro-rock soundtrack. It is pulsating in its presentation and powerful in its message: of liberation from a Medicine Man-like figure not too dissimilar to one on fellow Swansea singer-songwriter ELERI’s track ‘Snake Like You’. And just as she adds lots of textures and layers to her Country identity so Gareth Lewis does the same with Rock. On ‘What Goes Around Comes Around’ for instance, a recognisable Country twang can be heard now and again beneath the Britpop-soaked rhythms that combine with a Luke Bryan-esque style of delivery. In some ways, this final track is more radio friendly than the radio edit version of ‘What Got Us Here…’ that rounds off the EP. No matter, as every song is worthy of being added to the playlists of Radio Wales and Planet Rock, where Gareth Lewis has found himself many times before. ‘Roots’ is evidence that this is no fluke. It really is a fabulous record, containing “the heart and soul of an artist who”, in his own words, “has poured his passion and experience into every note”. It definitely shows.
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Helen Maw has a great deal of heartbreak to share on debut album ‘Growing Pains’. The Liverpool singer/songwriter puts the piano centre stage in a series of songs that feature break-ups, shake-ups and the odd take-up of relationships. Mixed in with these emotional stories are a variety of instruments that all serve to enhance the narratives. This places her somewhere between Folk and Pop.
Opening track ‘Mine Tonight’ contains a splash of soul amidst a strong beat which matches the desire at the centre of the song. ‘This Lonely Boy’ then adds a beautiful bit of saxophone to elevate the yearning for self-acceptance; to “see the boy you’re meant to be”. An element of tragedy reigns in its closing lines – “this lonely boy who has my heart / can’t see he’s tearing us apart” – which echoes through several of the tracks that follow. Not before the title track offers up a self-referential bop; though even here, an undercurrent of sadness is present, particularly in the line, “oh how I’ll miss these growing pains”.
The electric guitar on ‘Your Little Secret’ produces a determined attitude that drives home the consequences of cheating. Then, from ‘Ain’t No Friend of Mine’ onwards, the album becomes much more reflective and sombre, the piano truly taking over. ‘Fool’ is one of the highlights, with echoes of Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘What are you Doing New Year’s Eve’, in both tune and sentiment. ‘Won’t You Stay’ holds a more positive message, especially in the lines “I look in your eyes / and I’ve got a feeling we’ll be fine”. There remains a shred of uncertainty however, left to hang in the aching final words, “just tell me your mine”. ‘Second Thought’ is then tragic, and ‘Things You Never Said’ is poignant, despite the uplifting music.
As a result, ‘Growing Pains’ feels like one long ballad; like Helen Maw is still working through those romantic encounters and distilling her emotions into life experience which will stand her in good stead as she moves on to that “next stage”.
You can purchase ‘Growing Pains’ here. To hear more from Helen, visit her Spotify page.
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The Wandering Hearts will always soothe the soul. None more so than on nights like this. For such has the frustration, expectation and manipulation weighed heavy on me this past Easter week, that to enter Gorilla and experience the refreshing tones of the trio’s harmonies is a gift duly embraced.
An air of nostalgia also helps. Support from Pearl Charles brings a throwback to the Glam Rock era. Indeed, her Los Angeles roots may explain her penchant for the kind of Country-Rock sound that emanated there from the same period. Playing music from her album ‘Magic Mirror’ alongside new material, the addition of disco funk ensures a ‘70s vibe encapsulates her whole set, with delightful abandon.
Pearl Charles
She is perfectly suited to open for The Wandering Hearts whose identity is partly shaped by the spirit of ‘Woodstock’. Indeed, a visit to the festival site proved seminal in the creation of their self-titled album. Their new one, ‘Mother’, contains fragments of that same Americana sound whilst also leaning more firmly into Folk. The resultant set is awash with soaring vocals, delicate performances and pulsating moments. The incorporation of songs from ‘Wild Silence’, their debut album, contributes to a greater array of flavours that blend well into a collective whole. At the same time, songs such as ‘Devil’ and ‘Rattle’ are subtly transformed to match the band’s present sound, without taking anything away from them.
They open the night with ‘About America’ and ‘Still Waters’, the first gently upbeat, the second rousingly reflective. The latter is also prescient to my emotions, with the chorus – “My body’s made up but my mind is a mess / So hard to focus when I feel like this” – washing over to embrace me in its familiarity. Perhaps “Sometimes it is better when it ends in tears”. Then ‘Wish I Could’ explodes with an almighty bop as a reminder of their toe-tapping quality before ‘I Feel It Too’ and ‘Not Misunderstood’ return to that soft sleight of hand for which they are well known.
The mandolin in Chess’s hand is a sure sign that ‘Devil’ is on its way. And sure enough, it is the next song, complete with the biggest cheer of the night bar the finale. ‘Waiting’ and ‘Change for the Good’ follow, one of those pairs linked somewhat by a loose theme. The first expresses a gracious love in the face of irreparable relationship. The second offers a sacrificial love in the hopeful search for reconciliation. Both capture a depth of feeling to which some may relate. As do ‘Tired’ and ‘Hold Your Tongue’. I certainly appreciate the connection with the former – its need for solitude, restoration, and healing. But it’s the other that feels spine-tinglingly relevant tonight. For having experienced veiled criticism, stony-faced opinion, and obsessively-controlling behaviour in the days before, the lyrics seem to speak right into my situation. And the bridged conclusion – “I know this isn’t about me if you can’t see / Let’s agree to disagree / We can stop this before there’s too much damage done” – reflects my own.
Only music has the ability to be both relatable and releasing simultaneously. To hear myself in the echoes of The Wandering Hearts’ music is gratifying. To be able to forget myself for a time in the unrestrained melodies of a ‘Build a Fire / Fire & Water’ combo is invigorating. The encore featuring ‘River to Cry’ seems like the ideal way to end: not a neat conclusion but holding both aspects in tandem. There is something about its tuneful association with ‘Down to the River to Pray’ (Alison Krauss) that also makes me lean into my own faith.
After a trying week, this gig was just what I needed to restore a bit of balance to my life.
This review was written after the Manchester leg of the tour. For further dates and tickets, click here.
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On a night when I’m not at my best, there are moments on ‘Change of Plan’ that still capture my attention. This 14-track collection from Sarah Louise is an assortment of sounds and genres. A selection box of different flavours from Country to Pop, Jazz to Folk. It is hard to pin her down, but the versatility of her voice ensures that this is no bad thing. Rather, we are treated to a meandering journey through many emotions and experiences that somehow amass into a cohesive whole.
The gentle touch of ‘Better Be Lightning’ and ‘Cup of Coffee’ set the album up as a Folk-inspired, partly-introspective walk through nature before ‘Be Real’ kicks in bits of reggae, RnB, and African-inspired rhythm to throw the first surprise into the air. ‘Just For You’ then brings proceedings back down to a piano-led ballad suited to a stage Musical, followed by an acoustic guitar-focused tragedy poignant in both its music and lyrics.
Tongue-in-cheek ‘Sorry Not Sorry’ pervades with an emerging theme of freedom which becomes ever clearer in ‘I Ain’t Got The Time’ – the piano and acoustic guitar being the two main instruments used to help put her stories across with suitable effect. Then comes the biggest surprise and standout song on the album: ‘The Smile’. Transported to a speakeasy instantly by the tinkling piano and light-hearted saxophone, this atmospheric song is gorgeous in its simplicity and captivating in its sound. Unexpected amongst the other genres on display so far, it offers a different side to Sarah Louise’s talents and perhaps makes it even more special in this context.
The album returns to a standard Folk tune with ‘Part of the Story’ before entering into more ethereal territory with ‘I Am Angel’ and ‘Roundabout’. This direction into alt-pop is again an unanticipated but interesting one. The latter is especially fascinating and works well as a final track (though bonus songs ‘All I Need’ and ‘Sorry Not Sorry (Live Version)’ follow) to wrap up a collection that keeps the listener on their toes.
Sarah Louise is definitely what you’d called an undefined artist. But here, on ‘Change of Plan’, that is part of her charm.
‘Change of Plan’ is out on 28th March 2024 and can be ordered here.
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Taynee Lord is diverting down a darker road for her latest single. Country turns to Blues on ‘Heavy Air’: electric guitars creeping over her like shadows; haunted by the harmonies in the chorus. It perfectly resembles the situation in which she finds herself: trapped by a gaslit narrative that has moulded her into an anxious self. It means that despite her pre-chorus insistence that “this time I won’t let them get in my way / I won’t let them feel like I don’t have a say”, her chest tightens, her breath shortens, and she is suffocated out of telling her truth. The shift in emotion, between expectation and reality, is palpable. And what is so moving about this song is the lack of positive resolution. The low vocals remind me of Rosey Cale on ‘Mary Jane’, but whereas the person escapes their situation there, in ‘Heavy Air’, it remains the same at its end. And though that might seem unsatisfactory, ironically it speaks of a truth that is a reality for some. In doing so, Taynee Lord has hit on something important with this song. And in allowing herself to move across the genre spectrum, she has also let the music do the talking.
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Its title is perhaps deceiving. For there are many ways to describe The Way. Realist, certainly, but both magic and social. Incorporating documentary-style shots with archive footage. Alluding constantly to myth and legend. And that fine line between the supernatural and the imagined. All such elements contribute to what feels like something that wants to be epic. But there are so many strands to this drama that sometimes it drowns in its own details instead.
As Michael Sheen’s directorial debut, it isn’t too bad. It is not so disjointed as to be lacking any concept. The problem is that there are too many big and weighty themes being handled. Boil it down to the Driscolls – the family at the centre of this drama – and it becomes understandable. A fractured and broken unit, the four of them are forced to work together when Port Talbot becomes a site of insurrection, for which mam Dee (Mali Harries) and son Owen (Callum Scott Howells) are largely to blame. In this alternate-reality, they have no choice but to flee their country, seeking to cross the border (which is hard and fast here) into England, and on to daughter Thea’s husband Dan in Germany (played by Sophie Melville and Aneurin Barnard respectively). Their journey is strangely perilous, avoiding road blocks and any kind of surveillance in very familiar countryside and townscapes. It is a bit like watching Edgar Wright’s ‘Cornetto’ trilogy but without the humour. Everything is a lot more serious here. As if Sheen wants to create a contemporary version of a Classic tale: a 21st Century Mabinogion, if you will. But this lofty ambition is perhaps pushed too far, with hyperbolic tendencies that create, at worst, confusion, and at best, fascinating melodrama.
Lead actor Steffan Rhodri brings a pathos to dad Geoff that keeps the drama believable. He handles his character’s unresolved grief and melancholic temperament with a natural ease that catches the eye. In contrast to Mark Lewis-Jones’ hammed up performance as Union man Glynn and Luke Evans’ suitably brooding but underwhelming appearance as mercenary Hogwood, Rhodri embodies an everyman persona that keeps The Way grounded in its otherwise flittering state. For amidst the jump cuts, involving security cameras, social media sites, and news flashes, there are also talking teddy bears, Carry On clips, and prophetic dreams. But whilst on one level it could be described as strange, there is also a prescience to it that remains real. None more so than with the threat of job losses at the steel plant. Sheen is not content with just a standard social commentary on this issue though. He incorporates immigration, nationalism, Thatcherism, and nostalgia into a story that also wishes to say something about the nature of story itself. Not self-referentially but in the wider sense of Wales as a land of story and song.
Everything is done with good intention. But it doesn’t always result in translation. There are times when, for example, the life of the steel plant would work better as spoken metaphor, and the final monologue more affective, in the context of theatre. The Way almost shows us too much and, in doing so, doesn’t say enough. It rightly has one family at its core but a tendency to reach wider causes it to lose sight sometimes of this feature. The Way still manages to be entertaining though. Just a shame that it’s Michael Sheen’s name that gives it kudos rather than his direction or the drama itself.
Bariau is the latest series to enter the realm of prison drama. With Timeand Screw already making a mark in their respective ways, it is the turn of S4C to put a Welsh spin on the subgenre. Bariau follows the blueprint of the other two insofar as real-life stories inform the onscreen narratives. Verisimilitude is in vogue when portraying life behind bars these days. But while Bariau does not shy away from the dark realities, its soap-like presentation makes for palatable viewing.
The casting of Adam Woodward (Hollyoaks, Emmerdale) as Kit Brennan ensures that Bariau entertains popular appeal. He brings a slight melodramatic edge to this central villain, making him at once genuinely terrifying and ludicrously arrogant. He arrives with a real swagger, and fast becomes the controller of a wing that features a great cast of misfits. Glyn Pritchard is particularly good as the religiously-devout Peter, whose overbearing mother and anger management issues give some kind of insight into his incarceration. The focal point is Hardy however, played with a fascinating aloofness by Gwion Tegid. An air of mystery continues to surround him even as he becomes embroiled in the powerplay and blackmail of life in the cells. He gets dragged into Brennan’s world largely against his will, performing tasks with deadened emotion. He is intriguing to watch.
The relationship between George Lyle (Bill Skinner) and prison guard Elin (Annes Elwy) is fatefully believable. Brennan threatens them both with exposure unless they enact his plan, inevitably involving drugs. The way tension is built up by the searing music is nicely done (though a little too overbearing in episode five), especially in the final episode, where things come to a head in dramatic fashion. Not edge-of-the-seat thriller but still an enjoyable twist or two to keep glued to the screen. The bilingual nature of the show also adds a touch of finesse which plays into the reality of Wales’ prisons. It means overall that Bariau falls somewhere between Time’s grittiness and Screw’s humour: late-night soap opera, if you will, meant not as an insult but very much a compliment.
Each of the members of Girls’ Night Inbring something different to the show but friendship runs through them all like a stick of rock. The camaraderie between the four is a joy to behold, and is one of the reasons this Songwriters’ Round works so well. The quality of their voices and the variety between them is a match made in heaven. For Kezia Gill’s Blues, Demi Marriner’s Americana, and the Country of Jess Thristan and Jade Helliwell, infused with Soul and Pop respectively, create a magical blend of styles. It ensures an entertaining evening for an audience as energetic as they are attentive.
The Liverpool leg of the tour takes place on Valentine’s Day, reflected in the shimmering red of Jade’s dress and plenty of nods to their respective partners (or, in Jess’s case, singleness). The message that comes through loud and clear is not one of traditional romance though but a celebration of strong and empowering womanhood. Coming on stage to ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman’ and proceeding into ‘Hole in the Bottle’ certifies this. The ladies then start going down the line to introduce themselves, not that introductions are needed for those already versed in UK Country Music’s leading lights. Kezia’s ‘House of Cards’ is a nice reminder of her beginnings however, while ‘The Old Me’ and ‘Sins’ showcase the high bar both Jess and Demi have set for themselves. ‘Woman I Am’ has fast become Jade’s signature tune, and so for anyone unfamiliar with their music, this was the perfect introduction.
In between each round – and most songs, in fact – there was a plethora of banter, anecdotes and compliments. This was as much about their relationship as their musicianship; an insight into their characters as well as their lyrics. None more so than during the Co-write Round, where Jade featured across all four songs. But also, when a lucky four in the audience found a card under their seats with a poem inside, the accuracy of their guesses as to who had written which pointed to unique traits that were clearly coming through during their time onstage. Such insight went beyond the usual observations that could be made – like the contrast between the gorgeously gentle ‘Steady’ (Demi) and anthemic ‘Slow Dancing on My Own’ (Jess). Whether in the hilarious follow-up conversations on accents and “BV” (if you know, you know) or the facial expressions and praises given to one another’s performances, this was a show where backstage access became part of the performance.
A final round of as-yet-unreleased tracks revealed the exciting future that lies ahead for their fans. In the meantime, the collective harmonies of this quartet, first on ‘Jolene’ and then on ‘If You Go Down (I’m Going Down Too)’, offered a sumptuous treat that was savoured by the audience. For all the subtle variations in their styles, there is something about their coming together that adds an extra touch of class. Friendship is most definitely the firm foundation for this show. Which helps make Girls’ Night In the most enjoyable of nights out.
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Featured Image (C) Kezia Gill/Jade Helliwell/Demi Marriner/Jess Thristan
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