It’s difficult to talk about Standon without being anything other than staggeringly biased. Since publishing this report of it last year, during which time I have come to be friends with its writer Chris Barrett (hereafter known as Barrett) it has taken on a near mystical position in our mutual minds and witterings. Months, weeks, days had been counted down until its arrival, both of us fully buying into the assumption that Standon 2010 was going to be a magical (in a non-gay way) weekend, where we pushed the boat off the side of the World, wilfully lost our minds and came out of it with a witty, perceptive and generation-defining tome that would somehow put us both on the road to literary superstardom. Witness the call I got at 1 o’ clock in the morning the day before. Barrett was somewhere very loud and sounded drunk, possibly on drugs:
‘I’m telling you Dave. Springsteen said it before Born To Run. He said it was his shot at the title, he knew it. And I’m telling you now, this is ours.’
It should be noted that we both idolise Bruce Springsteen, to a degree most would deem unnecessary. But still, this was big talk. The ridiculous thing was I bought into it. I believed. If it was going to happen anywhere it was Standon. What 'it' was I wasn’t entirely sure, but I knew for me to want it so badly it had to pretty fucking special.
As my shoe flew through the air creating a beautiful arc in its trajectory I reasoned that camp relations had hit an all time low. In my defence this prick has been ‘freestyling’ his talentles ‘rhymes’ for knocking on three hours now. I crawled to my tent hours before in search of sleep, which was frankly pointless given the sheer volume we had ingested but fuck it I wanted to be alone away from the melting faces. Lying staring at the leak in my tent allowing water to slowly soak into my sleeping bag I decided that that I could take this insufferable torment no longer.
‘Will you Shut the Fuck Up!’
‘Easy bruv, chill out. I'm only spitting.’
With that the shoe took flight
Despite seeing himself as the music writer that will bring NME to its knees, you to tears and, eventually, peace in a warring world, Barrett doesn’t want to see any bands. ‘East London c*nts,’ he splutters about every act whilst looking through the very nicely designed round-the-neck program thingy. It should be noted that he doesn’t know who any of these bands are nor what they sound like, but the presence of people on the bill who might not dress like Frankie and the Heartstrings unsettles him. I persuade him to come and see Lazarus and the Plane Crash after listening to their Myspace. He agrees because he thinks the name is ‘a bit funny.’ It is, like Lazarus himself, a revelation and in that precious half an hour we partake in a one of those live music experiences you will still be talking about when you are fifty, bald (in my case), clinging to a neverending hope of being ‘discovered’ and nursing a strange ache that just might be liver cancer.
Hearts already thumping, we bowl into the Twisted Licks tent, and it is hard to avoid the fact that lead singer Joe Coles’s pupils look big enough to cook on. More than that, though, it is clear that this guy is fucking owning the Stage. The Stage is his bitch. The Stage is cooking him a fish supper. The Stage is darning his socks whilst he laughs at the fish supper, kicks it back in The Stage’s face and demands a particularly messy blowjob. In terms of stage presence he’s up there with the best I’ve seen- not Snoop and certainly not Bruce, but a Top-Fiver. He prowls, slides, struts and skids from corner to corner, front to back, singing and spouting his darkly comic tales that are prone to veer on the shaky side of acceptable.
The rest of the band themselves are great-good looking bloke on bass and brass who is happy to be his leaders foil, annoyingly cool black dude on lead and lassie on drums. They are the perfect backing for Coles, and make Lazarus... a gypsy inspired, funk-pop act that are as danceable as they are watchable. Coles gets more and more worked up as the set continues and he incessantly tweaks his nipples, drinking in the joy that this surprised little crowd is revelling in. Pitching in like a cross between Screaming Jay Hawkins and Ed Harcourt, he seems unfailingly comfortable in this arena and is happy to hold everyone’s attention while he rambles off on one tip or another, at one pointing to two sub-double figures kids in the audience and declaring ‘the one on the right invented penicillin, and the guy on the left invented computers.’ They haven’t got a clue what he’s on about, neither do we and Standon has just blasted into orbit.
It’s three in the morning and I’m stood in one of the many alcoves of Alcatraz, the onsite nightclub situated in a cowshed, surrounded by people dressed as murderers, cheats and scoundrels each flying high on the spirit of Standon Calling. Dave or ‘Moaty’ as his costume dictates is lost in conversations with various members of the opposite sex, next to me is a man who give or take hasn’t slept in 48 hours and is intently rolling a joint the size of Jupiter. The music is screeching across the gravel which for the purposes of the festival is doubling as a dance floor, dance music fills my ears (fuck I'm dying for a chorus) and I’m desperately trying to hold on to tale end of this endless conversation
‘You seen that roach mate?’
I could cry at this point, I turn to my left
‘What the fuck you looking at?’
I liked her already
‘You going to buy me a drink or what?’
I didn’t, but I did split my luck warm can of Red Bull with her and she seemed content. She passed me a half finished joint and we started talking. She liked the Stones, enthusing about Keef’s mystic and her utter distain for soulless house. I mentioned my love of Springsteens back catalogue and she rattled off her top 5 Bruce songs (I agreed with 3 and negotiated on the 2). We traded equal amount of insults and complaints for roughly 45 minutes. I found it surprisingly easy to keep focus, ignoring the flashes of colour that played tricks with my vision. I found out the school she went to (Sutton School for Girls), her dog’s name (Gromit) and the fact that she only ordered apple crumble to eat the custard.
Her boyfriend came over and introduced himself
‘My name is blah blah fucking blah.’
(I’m going to guess at Richard)
‘You coming for a dance Tabs?’
Tabitha and Richard then went of to dance to this house she apparently hated so much.
I turned back to my right and the man who had been planning a trip to Jupitur had well and truly crashed, as the spittle formed into crust around the side of his mouth I realised it's time and go and annoy Dave
'Oi, Moaty!'
Part Two continues here...
Posted In Festivals, Aug 23 2010.
Words - Dave and Barrett