To read Part One of Chris Barrett's adventures, go HERE


Saturday starts and I have fallen in with a group of new Zealanders I found skulking round the swimming pool. The swimming pool is a really nice touch; its situated next to the main house and offers an underwater disco to all those in their Speedo’s. Unfortunately one of my new found friends who goes by the names of Blair, who clearly has not slept, has taken the ‘S’ off his trunks and has started to run round the pool hooping and hollering as the sun beats down. Another suitable random scene to start a Standon Saturday. 

Before we set off to find breakfast one of the New Zealanders, Joff,  greets me with a bear hug and cups my nether regions. From spending a short amount of time with these New Zealanders it’s clear that the males in particular are a physical bunch brought up on red meat and rugby. When you meet people at festivals, especially small ones such as this, you kind of want to be their friend; to trust, love and share is essentiality the ethos of every good festival.

Golden Silvers are a band that I have only recently got to know and I was as giddy as a school girl at the prospect of their Saturday early evening slot, The East London three piece are nothing short of phantasmagorical on the main stage as the sun starts to creep down over those imposing Hertfordshire hills. My current running partners are Mick who is back with tales so tall and so graphic and in parts so brutal that for me to mention them here would burn your retinas to a frazzle. I have also been joined by local lads that at first offended my delicate soul but after Mick convinced me that these pre -pubescent Bash Street Kids were ‘pure’ my defences, like Mick’s trousers, dropped. The final song by the Golden Silvers was ‘Arrows to Eros’ a song that can only be matched by the Headliners in terms of sheer blinding brilliance.        

And it is Friendly Fires who headline the festival on the Saturday night; they played here last year and absolutly tore the place apart, outshining everyone else on the bill. The whole day has been about this, every one you speak to is talking about it..... so it is with a heavy heart that these fingertips type this because I have love for this festival, I have love for the people, but some fucker turned the volume down. No fault of the band...hell no. Their sweat soaked, snake hipped approach is engaging throughout, and they gave everything they had. But, when you can hear the conversation of the people 5 foot away from you without straining, you know something is wrong.

Do dodo do do do do do do doooooo do do... for the uneducated amongst us who don’t what that is, it is in fact the melody of the Friendly Fires song ‘In the Hospital’. A song this writer generally believes to be one of the single greatest pop songs that you, or indeed I, could wish to hear and if you haven’t heard it...stop reading this egotistical piffle and go buy the album.

Maybe it’s just me, maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s the drugs, maybes it’s the fatigue, maybe it’s the strange nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach since I saw her…… but something is most definitely array, my karma is out of kilter, my Ying is thoroughly pissed off with my Yang:  the headline slot is supposed to hit you between eyes and punch you in the gut. Looking around, we are ready. My friend Kate who, to give her her due, has raved on about Friendly Fires for years now, wanted more than anything for this set to breath fire and shit lighting but she is left with a teary eye and ear drums intact. Still they continue with songs that out do most bands. .

I must make a note at this point about the fancy dress element of Standon. As I mentioned earlier, this year is a space theme so you can’t move for moon men, astronauts and Clangers; some are brilliant, some aren’t, but most have made the effort.  The point of the fancy dresses (other than just to add a different spin to the festival) is that the winner gets the use of a tepee for the remainder of the festival. The eventual winner of the competition is some girl in a bikini supposedly from the Fifth Element. Now as miscarriages of justice goes it’s up with the best of them, I mean OJ getting off is nothing compared to this. The compare for the weekend has basically hijacked this entire event for his own grubby fumble behind the main stage... it’s an ugly puss filled pimple on the porcelain skin of Standon and, for what its worth, she had the sexual allure of a dry Pot Noodle. The kebab flavoured one at that. 


What happened on Saturday night is as much as mystery to you as it is to me friends. Save the odd scribbled scrawl of note I can only assume it was a mess of the highest order. As I write the review I’m surrounded by mad scribbles, polaroid’s and pitchforks (I have no desire, want or need for a pitchfork at this time but it’s always good to be prepared). The only thing my note pad is telling me is ‘Christmas wood’ and Jameson’s.  I’m not being completely honest with you dear, dear reader I have one memory of that night and it is this..................................... BONKERS.      

We pitch up for Paloma Faith on the Apollo stage. I have always thought of Paloma as an underrated talent. What I like about her is her dead eyed dogged determination to get where she wants to be. She gives off a laissez-faire kooky pop starlet charm but the devil behind never lies. You can see the way she plays to each camera in turn while singing her latest single ‘New York’. She puts more effort into her stage decoration than anyone else at the festival and looks a dazzling beauty that would bewitch and bedazzle any heart into to giving all their worldly possessions just for a fleeting kiss on those pouting lips. ‘Stone Cold Sober’, her most recognised single to date, is an ode to being sober when all around you are nissed as pewts. Therefore it’s fitting at this point that unsure of foot I slip on the side of the stage, grabbing Mick for stability only for him to collapse on top of me. As Paloma struts off stage in heels that do a damn fine impersonation of stilts, she looks down and sees a four legged Tasmania devil...  as she steps over us I realise that it might be time to sober myself up.  


Sunday morning comes, and where I wake up is nowhere that is familiar to these bloodshot eyes; by the looks of it I passed out in an abounded Delorean. A quick body check and I am naked as the day I was born, with no clue of how I got here, who the person in the passenger seat is and quite why whoever that person is, why in god’s name they are dressed as a zebra. Suddenly there is a golf ball-like rapping on the windows. 

‘Barrett I need your help.’

He always had a sense of timing, Mick. I look at him with complete disbelief.

‘You need help? ...... Mick... I think I just fucked a zebra…. I need to go to a doctor.’

‘Or a vet.’

‘Not the time for jokes Michael.’

‘I sold the camera.’

‘What do you mean you sold the camera, you’re supposed to be the fucking photographer. ’

‘Arghhhhhhhhhhh,’ [that, readers, is the sound of the zebra stirring].

‘Mick open the door,get the door quick, quick, Mick !!’

So that was the start of the final day of Standon Calling folks, me sprinting across the main field, cock flapping in the wind and my companion having sold his camera for ketamin the night before. It’s fair to say at this point the madness has got to us. Three days in and that feeling of losing your grip on reality when the tingles down your spine become constant and the eyes moves too quick for the mind and scenes hit slow-mo. Consumption has put pay to any concept of time and distance. From here on in all we have is the desire to regain what was lost, be it clothes, dignity or sanity. 

 I decided it’s time to sit down and think what to do next. We head for the bar to consolidate and seek council; we have no camera, and I made notes that resemble the menu of my local Chinese takeaway (should you ever want to go there, the name escapes me but it’s on Camden road and its lovely). We decide we best go watch a band. The band we decide upon is Pulled Apart By Horses, a band I had not heard of before but will not forget. 


As we turned up to the stage the front man had just dived into the crowd and was running up to individuals and screaming into their faces. They are a mix between screamo and heavy rock, not my normal choice of music by a long chalk but they are breathtaking to see live. Two things stick in my mind from the set. One was the rotund roadie joining in on lead vocals for one song; he gave it everything and tried to finish with a stage dive that saw him crashing into the entire set of guitar effects pedals and amplifiers. The second was when Mick,who had scrambled the money to get a disposable camera, whispered in my ear that he was going to capture the face of the festival. Running up to the lead singer mid wail he took his shot only for the lead singer to return the favour by vomiting all Mick’s new camera.

‘Well this is shit,’ he says.

‘I don’t know Mick, I thought they were alright’

We decide to leave Standon almost immediately, the ride was over, it was time to go back and face the music. I have a love affair with this festival that goes back many years. It’s a brilliant place, one that I can thank for giving me some truly special friends old, new and unrequited. Its small but perfectly sized, the Ronnie Corbett of festivals, and they put every effort in to making it special. Drawbacks are few and far between, and though are a fair few trust fundees flouncing around, with security so easy going the social equilibrium is quickly restored with the less savoury element simply passing wristbands over the fence to their expectant mates. I never fail to have a good time at this place. It’s what you make of it but with the effort the organisers put in and a great spirit you’re already half way there.




                                     
Pictures by Michael Robinson ('Mick')

Posted In Festivals, Sep 02 2009. Words - Chris