I always thought a festival was best observed from the morning; that to get the fullest idea of the ethos and the crowd you had to see it develop from those first tentative squints at the early morning sky. Yes, of course we all know it’s all going to explode in the evening; funny hats to be adorned, drinks drank and traditional behavioural codes well and truly abandoned. But it is in the slow burn towards this that I always believed one could grasp what your chosen 21st Century Festival was all about.
Unfortunately, thanks to the twin evils of the M25 and M4, this was not an option for me or my two cohorts as we alighted half-cut, bored and chomping at the bit into the beatific grounds of the Big Chill after a seven hour crawl up the west side of this Merry Isle. The sun had tossed his hat aside at least a couple of hours before our arrival, thus our first experiences of this gentle giant of the British festival season were to be whilst it was in its primal, hedonistic element.
Luckily for us, Big Chill shined in the gloom; happy campers in fancy dress costumes were a ubiquitous sight, whilst Japanese lanterns crowded the sky before gently floating off over the Malvern Hills; people in backward states climbed trees then giggled and posed for pictures when they fell out; groups of lads strode around purposefully, eyes bulging into next year; contented looking urban couples picked at each others noodles whilst a group of knobheads in Ali G outfits swaggered past 10 years too late; Londonites in trilby’s and Ray-Bans swigged cocktails and compared press passes; nervous looking teenagers locked tongues, trying to work out what to do next while grinning New-Agers, spaced out on poi, stared at the lighthouse in the lake. All the while there’s a full on sensory overload, flashing lights, a thousand smells and the sounds of banging dance music from the don’t-know-how-many stages, each one segueing into the next whilst staying incrementally independent. And kids are fucking everywhere.
Fuck watching it evolve, I thought. This is the way to start off a festival.
Being late as we were, the first act on the agenda was the Friday headliners,Basement Jaxx. Opening with best tune ‘Good Luck’ was a risky move; yes it’s a banger but you need to keep the half arsed-ers hanging on for something. They then bashed through a triumphant ‘Red Alert’, ‘Oh My Gosh’ and a low key ‘Romeo’all pretty early in the set, leaving ‘Raindrops’ as the only essential song left. This came soon after and, as good as the band were visually with their cast of gorillas and Tarzan’s careering across the stage, we decided to take our agitated feet elsewhere.
Some time was spent in the banged up old cars that faced a cinema screen showing succession of soundless movies . If ever a place was meant for festival fumblings it was these; indeed,one nice lassie chirpily shouted ‘fancy a blowjob?’ at us through the window. To my disappointment she didn’t oblige,but it was reassuring to know it wasn’t just us that was thinking this.
Vaguely aimless wandering was then the order of the night as took in stage after area, after stage, after area, laughing and talking to anyone that would talk back; a nice young lad called Sky offered us nitrous oxide balloons in exchange for some of our vodka, while a group of friendly local 40-something ladies told us that we should ‘take what [we] want, just stay away from the ketamine.’ Open attitudes prevailed everywhere. That isn’t too say that The Big Chill is a drug-laced den of iniquity. Its just, like with all the best festivals, there is a bit of laissez-faire about it; if you want to find it, you will. And, frankly, they make everyone more friendly so lets not makes a fuss eh?
As we would find throughout the weekend, the Rizla Invisible Players Castle Stage was where it really-to use the clubbing vernacular- ‘went off’ later on in the evening. A diverse range of DJ’s played music to suit all tastes and, speaking to different people each day they all,at some point the previous evening, spent some time there. It was here that the heart of the Big Chill seemed to beat at night, and an ecstatic crowd danced, twirled and shimmied together to the likes of Mylo, The White Stripes and Dusty Springfield. From there to Mr Scruff’s Tea House where the man himself was spinning, and we managed to acquire a couple of generous females who would accompany us on our travels to the Dance Tent, to the Rum Tent for no rum but more balloons, a quick spin out and then back to our gaff where we chatted like the wind and managed to awake our neighbours (one of whom, it turned out, wasone of the people in gorilla suits during Basement Jaxx earlier that evening).
As five o clock approached Girl 1 had squirreled off to her camper van, and Girl 2 was in Mike’s tent, thus I was relying on Mark to stay awake with me. Unfortunately, his constitution for the session is not what it once was and, after a couple of toots on Miss Mary Jane, he felt the need to stop humouring me and go to sleep, leaving me in a dilemma. Not tired. Not very light. Not with anyone. Fuck.
Then, from not 10 tents away, I heard her. My night saving siren, my saviour:
‘I’m going to take a valium and jump in the lake!’
Leaping up and following the voice I come across a blond bobbed lass,apparently shouting at the guy standing not two feet from her. Swift introductions were made, and al engthy discussion on whether she really should jump in the lake began. I managed to convince them both it’s not a good idea, until another person she’s with, Jonny, wanders along and starts proclaiming, in all seriousness, that the (massive) lake is heated. ‘Of course it’s not heated’ I cry, ‘it’s a fucking lake.’
‘But there’s steam coming off it.’
‘And you’ve never seen steam coming off a lake before? Imagine the logistics and cost of heating a lake like that. And then, most importantly, please ask yourself why?’
The conversation carries on like this for far too long-he still thought I was wrong-until the blond girl Leah lets slip that Jonny has just come back from a tour in Iraq, and that he flies fucking Chinooks for a living. Now, it soon transpires that Jonny is a very nice man indeed and could certainly duff me up so I'm not going to say anything too cententious, but it does make you wander what they’re teaching them at Military School (besides flying Chinooks, that is)
More friends of Jonny and Leah come out of the woodwork and, after finally deciding the lake is definitely not the place to be, we proceed to go to the bar on Green Campsite, where the next how-many hours are spent gibbering, cackling and welcoming in more stragglers that happened to be wandering by. By 8 there’s a merry band of strangers all skipping the light fandango and, though I will never see any of these people again, lifelong memories are formed in this field in Herefordshire. It’s not about the booze, drugs or whatever you are doing now, but, and I know this sounds trite, its the sense of togetherness and unity that you just don’t get in London, Bristol, Liverpool, or wherever you may be.
As mid-day approaches, the sun beats and yet more from Jonny and Leah’s ever expanding group appear, the realisation dawns that I am in a rather confused state indeed. The new names and faces all merge into one swirling whole, and an already scrambled brain reaches overload so I take myself back to my tent, where Mark and Mikey are stirring. Beers are dispensed, and a new day begins….
Posted In Festivals, Aug 25 2009.
Words - David