Mercury Award nominees Jon Hopkins & King Creosote may not have garnered a large crowd for their Saturday slot in the Psychedelic Worm but those of us who made it were treated to something special. Admittedly problems with the thumping bass from the Big Top caused some consternation and a slight reworking of their set list but this didn't put the duo off, indeed a couple of King Creosote's solo songs were thrown in for good measure.
Back at Wonderland, waiting for Trophy Wife to appear at the Bandstand, I came across Mr High Five, a young lad who delighted in 'high-fiving' all and sundry who entered his path. Was I having a good time? Yes? High five! Was I stoked to be seeing The Cure? Yes? High five! His Dad had bought him Three Imaginary Boys for his thirteenth birthday, he'd been a fan of The Cure ever since. That, I quite rightly surmised, deserved a high five.
Leaving the high-fiving behind I decided to head back to Bollywood via the Ambient Forest only to get slightly disorientated in the dark glades; only after being mistaken for a DJ (it must be the beard) was I able to get directions and exit out the other side (and all without finding where exactly the real DJs were). Oh well.
In The Black Dahlia, my festival home-from-home, the delightfully monikered DJ Auntie Maureen plundered the dark recesses of her record collection until she eventually found one I owned (although my version of I Tawt I Taw A Puddy Tat is on a 7" 45, not a 78). Joining in with the crackly version of the Hokey Cokey she finished with may not have been my best idea; such pursuits are best left to folks with more better knee ligaments than I but that's beer for you.
With ligaments stretched it was time to find a spot in the crowd to enjoy The Cure, my highlight of Saturday, if not the whole festival. Indeed a chum of mine had bought his Bestival ticket just to see Robert Smith on stage, his palpable level of excitement possibly causing the chest pains he suffered on Friday. I suppose I should gush on just how great The Cure were, and they were there's no doubt of that, but my enjoyment was slightly impaired thanks to the amphetamine-fuelled young lady who spent near half the set talking at me, my chums and anybody who happened to walk past. Once she moved on I could enjoy the last half of the evening, a delicious serving of their back catalogue that made me go a little bit gooey inside.
Afterwards, over at the Big Top, Diplo was winding up his set with a choice selection of tunes, causing some more bundling from the excited people in front of me. I suppose at this point I should confess that I'm not the biggest fan of Primal Scream; they're OK, they've had a couple of good tunes, but really I can't see what the fuss is all about. I did set out to watch their set but, still aglow with the post-Cure feeling, I again wandered off.
Round the corner, at Sailor Jerry's, Dutch Uncles are on stage. The Mancunian five piece feature that great audience divider, a lead singer with an affected voice. In this instance a high pitched warble that reminded me a bit of someone; three songs in it dawned on me that they were a bit like 70s electronic rock duo Sparks, only not as good. With their proclamation that they'd be on stage til 6am I decided that it was time to make like a tree.
No comments:
Post a Comment