Festival Diaries
Saturday 23 June
Saturday Focus
Trevor Lord
A Guillemot
16:00 - The Way of the Samurai
There's an old Samurai phrase, 'Make big decisions quickly, make small decisions carefully'. It's worth remembering, especially at a music festival.
I'm watching The Guillemots, feeling a little disappointed that the lead singer isn't dressed as a bird - though liking his attractive red suit. They're on the Pyramid stage (which I'm a little frightened of), it's raining and the music is just not working for me - their arty rock doesn't suit the weather, I need something with a bit more balls.
I develop a bit of a man crush on the guitarist. He's got a nice nose.
Like a Samurai, I am decisive. It's off to see the Long Blondes at the Other Stage (which has become my default festival home), they're from Sheffield and I'm feeling a bit guilty that I didn't go to see the cheeky little Monkeys last night. It's a 'unity with fellow northerners' thing.
Someone rings, when the call is over - unlike a Samurai - I carelessly put it in my pocket, it falls out, in the mud soup. People are laughing at me, possibly in a supportive way, possibly not ...
The Long Blondes were the right decision; the lead singer is wearing a red dress (what's with the red threads today?) and I develop a bit of a man crush on the guitarist. He's got a nice nose, and I've always had a soft spot for that scratchy/scribbling/guitar pop thing.
I feel my grimy phone in my pocket, and reflect on the Wisdom Of The East.
Naughty Boy Doherty
21:00 - A Shambolic Revelation
I'm not going to go on about it, but I'm just giving you a quick mud update. It's not mud anymore, it more chocolate. Think Mr Wonka's factory and you'll get the idea.
And I'm coping – I’ve got my rambling kit on. Big boots, black gaiters and an orange high visibility Gore-Tex jacket. Not stylish – but maybe nu-rave? Time to see The Klaxons!
A bit of tie-dye but no day-glo. Mind you, the young people standing next to me are keeping to some of the old rave traditions, liberally inhaling from a bottle of amyl nitrate. But they're all wearing straw hats. Amyl and straw hats? It's not a good look. And they’ll have terrible headaches later.
The band love being here, it's clearly a dream come true. But to me the music's a bit of durge, I can't get into it. Maybe I'll try and find some old ravers in the Dance Field.
Skinny white boys in skinny jeans, with silly haircuts and strangely even teeth. I'm getting cynical and tired.
And it's a pleasure to come across The Bays performing their improvised dance magic in one of the tents – can't resist having a bit of a wiggle, and I wonder how the drummer can play so well with his woolly hat pulled over his eyes (if you’ve ever seen them, you’ll know what I mean.)
It's weird though, liking Dance music seems to me a bit like being nostalgic for Rock'n' Roll. For much of the 90s it seemed so vital, so important – now it seems trivial, almost pointless.
Somewhat reluctantly I head over to watch Babyshambles. It's starting feel like I'm on some sort of conveyer belt, these bands pop up along the way, then they're gone, replaced by some other bunch of skinny white boys in skinny jeans, with silly haircuts and strangely even teeth. I’m getting cynical and tired.
And the last thing I expect to break my mood is Pete and his crew - they've said nothing to me about my life.
But they win me over.
First of all it's their playing: they play like musicians who play together all the time, which they must do to sound so good. They're loose and tight at the same time, with an economic grandeur which never once falls into self indulgence.
And Pete Doherty – he is charismatic, and his voice is strangely lyrical. I can understand why women want to mother him.
Liking something you didn't think you would can be quite profound. At the end of the performance I wonder off in search of food, feeling philosophical and cheerful...
Iggy Pop
00:00 - The Filth and the Fury
I'm running, hard and fast - I've made a big mistake, and if I don't sort it now it will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Here's what happened. I decided to go to The Killers, on The Pyramid Stage. Do the big gig. Iggy Pop's on the Other - but he's going to be past it. Yes, his music changed my life and I've never seen him play live...but so what, you can't see everyone at a festival.
But as The Killers kick off with a disappointing firework display, I become overtaken by fear. How can I not see Iggy - with the Stooges!
In my head a chant develops, 'Must see Iggy, must see Iggy', I start to run (well, not really running - my boots keep sticking to the ground, and I'm surrounded by 10,000s of people).
Eventually I hear the primal chant of "1969" in the distance, I love that song! The Igster exposes the shallowness of the hippy dream...perfect!
And I arrive at the stage, and it's beautiful. He's on to "TV Eye" - I'm singing along...the spirit of primal, dirty, punk music enters me.
I am filth, and he is filth.
Iggy is rolling about the floor, and then he's standing at the front of the stage, like he's the figurehead of a foul pirate ship. And he shouts to the audience...'F*** this shit, get up here, get up here'...
And the audience does just that: hundreds of them climb on stage: security hasn't got a chance.
Iggy seems quite upset; he doesn't seem to know what to do with the 300 people on stage, all of them wanting to kiss him and pinch his strangely muscular flesh.
And for a moment I think it's happening, the ultimate Rock'n'Roll transcendence is upon us. Soon we'll all be on stage, not just the audience, but the whole festival. They'll be so many of us up there that stage will take to the sky with the energy of it, and explode for the sheer joy of it. And we'll all be one. Iggy will be us, and we will be Iggy ... it's what we all want.
Then someone unveils a banner, and it says 'Bring back The Wispa'...
Eh? That's not very transgressive...I mean, it's true - the texture of the Wispa chocolate bar was perfect for the munchies...but?
The 'Godfather of Punk' seems quite upset; he doesn't seem to know what to do with the 300 people on stage, all of them wanting to kiss him and pinch his strangely muscular flesh.
The security guards are protecting him, fighting people off. He's says 'we're having a moment', but can't quite bring himself to say "F*** off my stage."
It takes about 20 music minutes for 'The People' to leave. The band starts up again, but I don't want to see them anymore. The promise of the music has gone - I can't suspend my disbelief anymore. We don't transcend into oblivion, we just wake up with a hangover and develop dodgy mental health.
I walk away, thinking abut John Travolta and looking for a disco which isn't full of mud.
