Drove down in Betty Ford with Smiff and Marc as passengers. The Brummie and Screwster were in convoy for a big chunk of the way. The journey was uneventful, apart from a small detour when I tried to go back on to a roundabout the wrong way (having just come back from France, I think this was excusable). We hooked up at the festival site with Bernie and Kieran, then found with Steve J and Jo, who'd got to the site earlier and set out to save a chunk of field for our encampment. Giles and Vicky had called Screwster to say they'd hit the campsite too. The weather was looking OK, although a few dark clouds were hovering...
We all managed to get set up sharpish and the kettle went straight on. Suitably refreshed, we all set off for whichever act took our fancy. My first choice of the day was Kelley Stoltz (good). Followed by a second trip back to the car for more beer. Then the heavens opened. And it pissed down royally. Thank the lord for wellies and pac-a-mac. Luckily, I had packed my sunny disposition, so this didn't even come close to dampening my spirits (and I'd had a pint of nuclear waste cider, so I didn't care). Other acts I watched on Friday were: Micah P Hinson (good), Dirty Three (great - Warren Ellis is unfeasibly cool), Dead Meadow (brilliant again) and the most amazing David Thomas Broughton (nicknamed Ginger Angel by me and the Brummie), who never fails to surprise me with his style and invention. I could watch this man forever. And lovely Howard Local on drums, proving that he is more than just a sarcastic git from Rochdale who promotes folk bands (or "industry schmoozer" - DTB's very own words).
Saturday greeted us with brilliant sunshine and blue skies. This was a real treat. And the couple who'd turned up in the dark the previous night whilst it was pissing rain and plonked their tent in the first space they could see, which happened to be in the midst of our little circle of tents...got up and moved their tent. This wasn't an act of kindness on their part. I think one of our party (he knows who he is) may have suggested he might vacate his bowel (but he used some other words) on them and their tent the night before. Still, it worked and peace resumed. We cooked a massive breakfast in Camp Kitchen:
I'd made a little present for the Brummie the night before we set off. A couple of months earlier, we'd had a lovely trip to Heaven Farm in Sussex, where we'd camped and eaten and drank a lot of booze. Their new tent had an awning/porch thing, which became an impromptu stage where we held the very first Elvis Idol. Very, very funny. So I knocked this up for her:
The rest of the day was faultless. The sun continued to shine, I wore my favourite dress:
And I watched some bloody good musicians: The Accidental (they looked so much more relaxed than when I first saw them at a Health & Happiness a few months back and sounded brilliant), Seabear (cute, odd Scandinavians), Noah & The Whale (good), Karima Francis (what a voice from such a wee thing), Sennen (a surprise find in The Local tent), Steven Adams (foolishly, I went off to see Mercury Rev on the Garden Stage after Sennen - they just didn't do it for me, so I went back to watch Mr Adams and realised I should never have left The Local tent, as he was brilliant and funny, has a lovely voice and very cute teeth), Shearwater (very good, but the singer pulled a freaky face when he was hitting the high notes, so I had to watch with my eyes closed). The highlight of the day, however (if not the entire festival) was Bon Iver on the Garden Stage. It was just the most lovely performance of some of the most gorgeous and heartfelt lyrics I've ever seen. Something pretty magical happened. And Justin got the crowd involved in a singalong. An entire crowd in the palms of their hands.....The evening ended with me and Smiff being very drunk and watching the riotous Folk Orchestra in the Local tent. I saw them when they won Folk Idol at Christmas and again, they were a right laugh, but also very good indeed. Bumped into Ginger Angel (DTB) outside and had an interesting conversation about what timescale would constitute a nap. It was agreed that anything from mere minutes up to 2 hours was OK. Anything more than this, and you have officially gone to bed. This is the sort of important and weighty topics I was discussing with headline acts at 1.30am.
Sunday brought more brilliant acts - except I had a bigger hangover than Saturday, which I battled bravely to combat with painkillers and chocolate. Killer combo - works every time. First up, the Pyramids. I've been waiting so long to see this band. They were due to play with Dead Meadow at the Scala, but cancelled at the last minute. Well worth waiting for. After this, there was a lot of lolling about in the sun at the Garden Stage waiting for my hangover to subside, whilst being serenaded by Kimya Dawson (good, witty, silly - just what the doc ordered).
I had to leave when Jason Molina came on - my head couldn't take that misery, so I went to see Bob Log III with the Brummie. What a dude. In fact, the word "dude" was invented for this man. He is just a sight to behold, in his black, shiny, mirror-encrusted jumpsuit and motorbike helmet (yes, folks - you read that right). And the man OOOOZES sex. I'd heard he asks for a lady volunteer to come on stage and stir his whisky - with her boob. Boob whisky. I think he has song called this. There are pics on his website to prove this has taken place at least once.
Listening to live music can be a very emotional experience. In a setting like End Of The Road, which is held in the beautiful gardens and woods of a small country house in Dorset, with peacocks wandering among the festival goers, it would be hard not to be moved by a man who can write love songs like Richard Hawley can. The man has such a way with words. I knew that the Brummie and Scewster were massive fans of his. They'd seen him at a tiny gig at The Barfly before he went stellar, and had raved about him. So, the entire group of us went to watch him on Sunday teatime. As the words to each song unfolded, I fell in love with his voice and his lyrics - and in between songs (when dealing with hecklers) with his dry,sarcastic Yorkshire wit. I had a bit of a moment with Smiff, where we talked about me finding love worth having and not settling for less, while he sang of the very same. And then she hugged me at the wrong (or right) time and I burst into tears. Being a bit of a dry, sarcastic Northerner myself, this is not really the norm. Richard obviously hit the right chords with the romantic hidden within me...
Other highlights of the day: pissing about with mates, taking pictures of nonsense (a peacock theme prevailed, naturally):
The evening was spent mainly in the Local Tent. Watched Essie Jain (beautiful girl with a wonderful voice and very clean-looking hair...made me feel like a right scruffy Herbert with my 3-day-dirty-caked-in-dry-shampoo-hair-and-no-shower-baby-wet-wipe-skin) play guitar and keyboard, ably assisted again by Mr Monk on drums and the very brilliant Johnny Bridgwood on bass (double). JB has the loveliest smile and looks at Miss Jain like he is SO honoured to be on stage with her, even though he is clearly a genius on his own instrument.But the musical highlight of the evening has to be watching the Constantines with my dear mates Bernie and Kieran. I'm not sure how to describe Constantines...massive, massive sound...amazing, animated drummer (ripped his shirt open in the most hilarious-but-cool showoff way)...tight, on-the-button, LOUD, confident, exciting, amazing. They just knew they had it. It was funny to watch Steven Adams and Howard acting like a couple of teenagers getting giddy over a favourite band. But rightly so. I don't use the word "awesome" lightly. I reserve it for things like the Grand Canyon or The Great Pyramid or The Chrysler Building. Not to be used to describe new shoes or a new handbag or a new hairdo. But maybe I could use it for their performance.
Bit by bit, our party broke up, mainly due to inebriation/weariness/middle-age. Not before we lit lots of sparklers and fed Lucy Local a thimble of brandy for looking after us (the thimble of brandy was such a good idea for warming the cockles without sinking into instant pissedness). But the hardcore (me, Smiff and Marc) stayed up and went to the Bimble Inn. I'd had some insider info from Mr Monk that Kimya Dawson and Jeffrey Lewis were to play a secret show at 1.30am. Surely not to be missed...? Except that the info was duff. Next time I see Monk, he's a dead mofo. We waited...and waited...and waited. No show. But we had fun nonetheless. Particularly when the closing tune from Bugsy Malone came on and the entire tent sang along. Accompanied by me on kazoo...We rolled back to our tents at about 4am...
Weakness and weariness were the order of the day as we packed up the next morning. We were all starving, and the clever, eagle-eyed Screwster spotted a chalkboard saying that some stalls were still serving breakfast in the main area. And I quote, "it was only a bit of chalk on a board, but it stood out like neon to me" - funny guy. We all had breakfast burritos. The people who ran the mexican food stall were lovely:
And finally, it was time to say goodbye. Hugs all round, then we climbed back into the car to wind our way back to the big main road and head for The Smoke. A top weekend, in the company of great friends at the very best little festival in Dorset (if not the universe).
PS forgot to mention knee-nook (clever Kieran). If any witty, hairy brunettes with all their own teeth read this blog and want to offer their knee-nook to warm my little feet this winter...
