Somewhere in the depths of London’s acoustic scene, something remarkable happened. Not a massive festival, not a mainstream showcase, but a beautifully intimate, nostalgia-soaked celebration called Lynchfest. Yes, you read that right—the first-ever Lynchfest, an indoor festival that felt less like a gig and more like a reunion of folk’s nearly forgotten voices.
I arrived a little late, but the energy was unmistakable. The venue, a hidden gem in Shoreditch, carried that perfect balance of iconic charm and fresh energy—a place where you instantly knew something good was about to happen. The drink menu didn’t disappoint either. Strong local brews and vodka lemonades (almost dangerously smooth) kept the crowd in high spirits without punishing their wallets.
The Sound of Return
The theme of the night wasn’t hard to spot: artists who had once been on the cusp of something bigger, who had disappeared during the pandemic, only to return now with a little more grit and a lot more heart. This wasn’t just a folk event; it was a testament to survival—of music, dreams, and creative persistence.
The performances reflected that too.
Tom Jenkins the first act I witnessed with a playful, yet poignant set that felt like the perfect warm-up. His songs carried a touch of cheeky charm, a dream or two about Sir Tom Jones, and just the right amount of cool to ease the crowd into the night.
Then came Jim Locky, who leaned fully into the vulnerability of the moment. His songs were raw, almost existential, reflecting on themes of midlife crises, loneliness, and love lost. It felt less like a performance and more like collective therapy—one song about an ex-partner left more than a few audience members nodding knowingly.
Sean McGowan, another familiar face from London’s folk circuit (and a veteran from his days at around the South Coast scene), brought a more traditional touch to the evening. His songs carried that same emotional weight but with a touch of long-brewing sadness—dreams that hadn’t quite gone as planned, yet somehow hadn’t entirely died either. Ten years on, his voice is still steady, but with a slightly darker undertone.
The Return of Rob Lynch
Of course, Rob Lynch was the headliner of the night—and the man behind this entire event. Lynchfest felt like a homecoming for him and his fans, a celebration of all the usual favorites and a chance to showcase the folk revival he’s quietly been leading. His set was a reminder of why his music always resonated: heartfelt, raw, and undeniably catchy, with lyrics that tug at the heartstrings but leave you smiling.
The Big Question: A Folk Revival?
Is this the comeback acoustic folk needs in London? Possibly. There’s something about this kind of small, personal festival that feels like the antidote to overproduced, corporate events. Lynchfest wasn’t polished or flashy—it was real, emotional, and just the right size for something truly special.
And if Lynchfest is the start of something bigger, sign me up. This might just be the quiet revolution the scene needs.
(Also, a Quick Shoutout to the Portaloos)
One last detail that can’t go unmentioned: the portaloos were spotless. By 7 PM, they were still untouched and pristine—a miracle in any festival setting, indoor or not. If that doesn’t say something about the kind of care that went into this event, I don’t know what does.
Conclusion
Lynchfest was a reminder of why we fell in love with acoustic folk in the first place: honest music, strong drinks, and a community vibe that’s hard to beat. If this is just the beginning, then the future looks bright for the acoustic scene in London.
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