WOMAD 2, Charlton Park

The dancing, by contrast, though covered in various workshops, seems to be left largely in the hands (and feet) of the audience. The sometimes jaw-dropping physical abandon seen at other festivals only long after dark is at Charlton Park evident right from midday – and, as befits this famously family-friendly festival, apparently without chemical assistance. Indeed, many at the more senior end of the festival’s demographic contort themselves with as much gusto as their teenage or toddler offspring.

Yet while that dancing is much in evidence at WOMAD 2010, its soundtrack is perhaps not as strong as in some previous years, at least in terms of headline acts. Both Tony Allen, Nigeria’s much-feted Afrobeat innovator, and Malian singer Salif Keita fell somewhat flat; Los Angeles party machine Ozomatli manage only a weak imitation of their appearance a decade or so ago at WOMAD’s old Reading location; and the continued existence of Afro Celt Sound System remains, to this correspondent at least, utterly baffling.

Happily, however, the musical highlights are still very much there – simply buried further down the bill or of a type that encourages a more static display of appreciation. Many acts on the Radio 3 stage, in particular, fall into both categories. The smallest and most atmospheric of the main performance spaces, thanks to its arboreous setting just outside the main arena, it attracts an almost entirely seated crowd with a correspondingly reverent atmosphere. It is also by some margin the most consistent in its programming.

Their Saturday afternoon show by Rizwan-Muazzam Qawwali (pictured above right), led by two nephews of the all-time great qawwali singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, is surely one of the festival’s most memorable moments (and, thanks to both setting and subtler sound mix, notably more enjoyable than their main stage performance the following day). Though seated cross-legged on the stage, the impassioned intensity of both singers is unmatched throughout the weekend – each man dripping sweat, faces scrunched up in passion, hand gestures wild and expansive. An equally impressive, if more restrained, performance is that of Iranian-born oud player Khyam Allamy, who takes to the same stage the following lunchtime. Hypnotic and immersive, his stark melodies twist around the hand percussion of Andrea Piccioni as neatly as a double helix of DNA. And although his playing draws together geographically disparate traditions – one tune, he explains, takes us from Morocco to Iraq via Italy – not once do the seams show.

Other highlights include Sentimento Gipsy Paganini, a Hungarian act joining the dots between Bartok and Stephane Grappelli, and Spanish bagpipe player Anxo Lorenzo, whose laments and jigs alike steer well clear of the generic. Benin’s Orchestre Poly Rythmo de Cotonou perhaps provide the weekend’s most danceable set, not unhindered by the sun’s sudden reappearance halfway through – though even they can’t quite recreate the heavy, lo-fi feel of their recently unearthed 1970s recordings.

Aside from Rolf Harris – and there’s not much to say here: whether you love or hate hearing a wobble-board "Stairway to Heaven", or "Tie me Kangaroo Down Sport" sung to the tune of "Land of Hope and Glory", nothing is likely to change your mind – the last big name is saved until the final night. Gil Scott-Heron (pictured below left), back from rather more than 40 days in the wilderness, opens his set alone but for his Fender Rhodes. It’s a brave decision, and at first it looks as though he might just make it through on sheer charisma and chutzpah, yet he can’t quite stop the momentum slowly ebbing away.

He picks up speed again when the band finally join him, but since they comprise only a saxophonist/ flautist, a conga player and, bizarrely, a second keyboard player either bolstering Gil’s part or adding wholly unconvincing synthesised strings, they can’t provide quite the support he needs. The bass guitar and timbales, within the not too distant past a regular feature of his set, are certainly much missed. Yet though newer material such as the mawkish "I’ll Take Care of You" is weak, classics like "Winter in America", "Home is Where the Hatred is" and "The Bottle" work magnificently. If anything, they actually gain weight and poignancy over the originals, thanks to the richness of his mature voice – and, yes, some of that well-publicised recent history. All in all, an enjoyable and unique conclusion to an enjoyable and unique festival – even if no single act quite matched previous triumphs such as Burning Spear, Adbullah Ibrahim or Trilok Gurtu.

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