Christmas. As Andy Williams noted it's the most wonderful time of the year; a few days of over-indulgence and wistful nostalgia, sitting in the bosom of your family whilst trying not to argue over who gets the last good chocolate in the tin of Quality Street. So then, what better time to blow the dust off of a stack of CDs, pore over sleeve-notes and scribble down lyrics? Yes, you're quite right, I've gone and knocked up a lyric quiz again.
In previous years I've given out suitably cheesy prizes for those returning the highest number of correct answers but, for this year, I think it'll be just for fun (although I might change my mind, it depends how well/badly people do). For those who are tempted to run to Google looking for help don't get any ideas about cheating (as every time you cheat an angel's wings fall off); there are rules, read the small print on the quiz for more information. It's supposed to be fun, honest, so massage your brain, click this link to download the PDF, and get cracking.
Rob da Bank's annual farewell to the festival season, a hedonistic September weekend on the Isle of Wight, is now in its eighth year. After a fun-packed first day on the Isle of Wight I ventured back on site for Bestival day two...
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.
Rob da Bank's annual farewell to the festival season, a hedonistic September weekend on the Isle of Wight, is now in its eighth year. That it's taken me this long to get off my tuchus and make the short journey across the water is a tale for another day but, having hosed off the caked Somerset mud from my wellies, off I went.
The festival site is covered by a thick blanket of fog by the time I arrive (there's a side-tale of walking into a pub that I won't bore you with), so much so that it resembles Silent Hill more than Robin Hill; keeping this tenuous gaming theme going the first sight I encountered once inside the enclosure was a tree festooned with what appeared to be Little Big Planets. Once the fog clears I'd see the site for real but, on this damp Thursday night in September, the lights and strange buildings rendering out of the murk added a surreal twist that my brain struggled to cope with. Somewhere in the murky gloop 80s popsters Blancmange were already working their way through their back catalogue. With no point of reference to guide me (save for the signs pointing the way which, obviously, I ignored) I first ended up in the Psychedelic Worm (it's a big tent, I was tired, etc) before one of our party picked out the sound of synths in the air; following the sound led me nicely to the Big Top, arriving in time to hear both Living On The Ceiling and Blind Vision. Lovely.
Thankfully the fog had lifted by Friday morning, with the sun just about making a proper appearance by the time the legendary Brian Wilson took the stage. The former Beach Boy, perched at his keyboards for most of the set, had the crowd singing along with arms waving to the beat. Backed by his really rather excellent backing band he played the feel-good songs we wanted to hear (plus one of his new Gershwin re-workings which, I must confess, worked better than I'd anticipated).
Bestival's eclectic line-up means the upbeat fun of Brian Wilson is followed by 80's hip hop legends Public Enemy, another of the many acts on the bill that I was looking forward to. Unfortunately, and try though I might, I just didn't get it. The posturing was excessive (we're a captive audience, there's no need to bang on about how great you are) and I want to hear some tunes not Flava Flav banging on about his Twitter feed. I lasted 20 minutes, which was about one and a half songs of their set, before I moseyed off to find something more entertaining.
My wandering led to Bollywood where, almost hidden behind the Ferris wheel, sat The Black Dahlia tent. According to the programme it was supposed to have an air of a 1930's speakeasy, which would be true if the bar staff in such places spent more time talking to each other rather than serving the customers. Regardless of the listless bar staff the tent was a delight; DJs spinning 78s of old jazz and swing, each song heavy on the crack and pop.
It was whilst sitting on the carpet, watching the chandeliers sway, light bulbs flickering almost in time to the music, that Sara Spade (aka The Ukulele Lady) took the stage. With her band she entertained with a collection of original songs and classics (including a requisite Formby number), keeping my foot tapping and bringing a smile to faces all round. Leaving the comforts of the Dahlia I made steps to the Big Top, where Graham Coxon was entertaining a sizeable crowd. A sizeable and, if the people near me were anything to go by, quite excitable crowd.
It was whilst standing at the back, listening to highlights of Happiness In Magazines, I first encountered the great Bestival tradition of bundling. It's fairly straightforward to get the hang of; all you need to do is, when amongst your group of chums, push one to the floor so the rest can dive on top. When the screaming for air gets too loud you all pile off, help you chum to their feet, have a smoke and a big laugh. Well, it makes a change from piping Nitrous Oxide I suppose.
The Bestival site is fairly big, so it pays to plan ahead if there's specific bands that you want to see. It could also be argued that half the fun is stumbling across bands as you wend your way around the place. Or you could do like me, make a plan to do one thing then do something completely different. That's how I ended up at the Wonderland Bar (which, for some reason, I kept calling the Wonderland Zoo for the rest of the weekend), near the Bandstand in Tomorrow's World, instead of staying put at the Main Stage for Magnetic Man. Admittedly I got to catch some of their set; as I yomped up the hill, past the Pants To Poverty stall, Getting Nowhere drifted up the hill behind me.
Benjamin Francis Leftwich holds court at the Bandstand when I get there, a rapt audience sat cross legged, all hanging on his every note and lyric. A combination of enjoying his very mellow set combined with a prolonged encounter with the very drinkable Bestivale meant I only caught the end of Mogwai's set; what I saw lived up to my expectations, at times both raw and precise measures of sound, skillfully played dirges and melodic excursions that took my brain places it wasn't sure it wanted to go to.
My last stop of Friday was again The Black Dahlia; one-time Dangerous Brother Ade Edmondson, together with the rest of his Bad Shepherd bandmates, demonstrated how to rework punk and new wave using a mandolin and uillean pipes. What the two middle aged guys in front of me, who spent a large chunk of the set snorting cocaine and giving each other knowing "Hey, we're doing drugs" looks, thought of it I can only guess. As for me I savoured every second of the folk punk, or punk folk, before their set ended and I finally called it a day.
Tomorrow I'll be bidding the old homestead adieu for a couple of days, slinging my well-packed rucksack over my shoulder, and heading over to the Isle of Wight for Bestival 2011. It'll be my first jaunt to Rob Da Bank's annual shindig, the last big UK festival of the year and one that has a reputation for good music and fun. The line-up for this year is a suitably eclectic mix and, as more artists have been announced over the past few months, my excited has been building. Now it pretty much goes without saying that I'm looking forward to enjoying the spectacle of Björk's live set, Brian Wilson's (supposedly) final festival appearance, the shoe-gazing awesomeness of The Cure and the chance of seeing The La's on stage, but here are a few other bands on the bill that I'm proposing are worth checking out... Magnetic Man I'll confess that I couldn't tell you what's hot or what's not in the world of dub step but I know what I like and this lot I like very much. The combined talents of Messrs Skream, Benga and Artwork have produced a fine collection of electronic sounds (one of which, Getting Nowhere, tests the speakers in my local fleapit before every film) which should get a packed tent jumping.
John Grant With Queen of Denmark the ex-Czars front-man produced, to my mind, one of the stand-out best albums of last year. A stirring collection of beautiful songs that ache to be played over and over. I could continue waxing lyrical about how great John Grant is but superlatives can only go so far. Suffice to say that he's very good, so very very good indeed.
Junip You remember José González right? Had a big hit a few years back with his mellow acoustic cover of The Knife's Heartbeats? Well, before he went solo he was in Junip producing similar, if slightly quirkier, acoustic goodness (if you search the web you should be able to locate most of their 2005Black Refuge EP, featuring the excellent Turn To The Assassin and a tasty cover of Bruce Springsteen's Ghost of Tom Joad). Juniphave reformed and are touring with new material (a sample of which can be found on RCRD LBL). Mellow.
Asian Dub Foundation Being a complete gig-whore I tend to get asked, on a fairly regular basis, what my favourite gig is/was. After much umm-ing, ahh-ing and general bluster my answer is invariably that time I saw Asian Dub Foundation at The Wedgewood Rooms. It was a hot, sweaty, bouncing, gripping, pounding evening of musical power; if their set at Bestival is even a tenth of that, I'll be happy.
Treefight for Sunlight Good music seems to fall out of Denmark all the time; from Mew to The Kissaway Trail, excellent sounds have poured forth from Northern climes over the past few years. The latest to hit our shores is Copenhagen's Treefight For Sunlight, an indie pop four-piece producing joyfully upbeat and infectious tunes.
The Bad Shepherds The idea of taking a known song from one genre and reworking it in another isn't new, but the results don't often produce such mellifluous offerings as the combined talents of Troy Donockley, Andy Dinan and Adrian Edmondson (yes, THAT Ade Edmondson). The chaps rework punk and new wave classics, sprinkled liberally with beer and stringed instruments, to produce a foot-tapping folk sound (yes, folk) that introduces old favourites as if hearing them for the first time. So, grab yourself a beer, hunt out The Bad Shepherds wherever stage their playing, and have fun. Phew, I managed to get through that without mentioning Vyvyan. Oh, arse.
Son of Dave AKA Benjamin Darvill, late of the Crash Test Dummies, who blends the Blues, beat-boxing and his virtuoso harmonica playing with eye-popping results. A strange, breathless hybrid of Blues and techno, and the 'between song' banter is usually pretty good too.
I could go on (I invariably do) but that'll do for now; no doubt I'll probably not get to see any of the above and, instead, will stumble across one of the many fine artists on the bill that I've not heard of, enjoy what I'm hearing, and lose all sense of time. And, honestly, isn't that what festivals are all about?
