Bill Ryder-Jones writes songs that seem to arrive with their own weather systems attached — soft grey skies, quiet sunbursts, and that unmistakable Merseyside melancholy that somehow makes everything feel more beautiful than sad. His music drifts between delicate chamber-pop, whisper-close indie and sweeping instrumental moments, all anchored by a voice that sounds like it’s telling you the truth, even when it’s barely above a murmur.

There’s a tenderness to his writing that hits hard: small memories held up to the light, feelings explored rather than declared, melodies that bloom slowly and then refuse to leave. His records feel like private worlds you’re allowed to visit, full of warmth, humour, and the occasional emotional sucker-punch.

In a festival field, that intimacy becomes something surprisingly powerful. Crowds settle, conversations quieten, and those songs — understated, spacious, deeply human — settle over everyone like a shared breath.