Having risen bright and early, knowing my nylon home for the weekend would already have been kindly chucked up by dear friends, a smooth drive through baking sunshine brought us to Larmer Tree for the 2011 edition of End Of The Road Festival. Having seen the line-up go from strength to strength over the previous months, we narrowly squeaked in for tickets just before 'Sold Out' was announced.
Arrival at the gates brought some changes. Having been coming here for the last 5 years, I've noticed a few over time, but this was a real biggy. They've altered the way in. Turning in at the entrance, we were met by Kieran McG with the carp trolley. I bought this thank-you gift for my good friends last year - well, thank the Lord for that because it's paid for itself and then some. The only way into the site is now a 200 yard struggle over some mental chain-gang-broken-rocky ground. Luckily, I arrived at EOTR in the most cheery of spirits, but a lesser being might have struggled with the Krypton-Factor-style rocky road hell to be endured. Without that trolley, it would have been interesting to say the least. But we had a man-folk in our midst in the shape of Mr McG and a 'let's off-road!' motherfucker of a fishing trolley, so all was just fine.
The gathering was almost complete. Scooter Steve and Bernie were already ensconced (I'd like to mention Scooter Steve's hair at this point. Something very odd has happened. It seems to have gone a bit...banana Nesquik:
Imagine, if you will, a cross between this...
...and this.Once Nadine's 5-man tent was up (there's one of her, she's about 5 foot tall - it's excessive to say the least, but I'm all for excess), it seemed like time for a well-deserved treat:
Beverage, snack and that mofo of a trolley
And now, a wander on to the site. More stalls than ever and the addition of a behemoth of a new stage, to be known as The Woods. Blanket on the ground, and a lie-down in the outrageously-hot-for-September sun as Dry The River struck up their chords and sent their harmonies wafting over our heads. Lovely start. A wander over to catch a bit of Sarabeth Tucek was sidelined by bumping into Howard and Lucy Local, who were doing their usual excellent curation of a stage, this year at the Tipi marquee (hmmm... that may be the mixing of two tent genres, but you get the idea). At this point, I was accused of wearing a top with very small print across my chest, in order to trap gentlemen into staring fixedly at my front. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and I believe this says much more about the commenter than it does about me, but I won't hold it against him. My chest, I mean. I'll never hold it against him (again).
My partner-in-crime and I had a wander round the healing area. Following last year's off-piste move of having a massage (it turned into something akin to a bumming-with-jeans-still-on), I'd thought it might be an idea to have another go, but preferably done by a nice lady this year. I was embarrassed to see the administrator of last year's on-my-ass action plying his wares again, so I decided to sidle off unmassaged, partly blushing, mostly laughing.
Not expecting such wonderful weather, had to break out the sunblock. Considering what a crock the weather's been recently, we truly were on a winning streak. And once Skinny Lister piped up their party sea-shanty madness, there was definitely a sunny atmosphere going on at the Tipi. Skinny Lister are a riotous bunch - a captainless crew of ne'er-do-wells, pressganging the audience into imagining they're on a voyage of grog-filled folky fun. There actually was a stoneware flagon of grog being passed round the crowd (I did wonder why people were prepared to catch cold sores from complete strangers for the sake of a swig of warm cider, but good luck to 'em).
Next up, Found. Found are part of the Fence Records Collective from Anstruther (started by the wonderful Kenny 'King Creosote' Anderson - he managed to make me cry very recently by being brilliant at The Union Chapel. As I'm writing this, I'm disappointed to be texted by a pal that he hasn't won the Mercury Music Prize - not that he'd probably give a shit. Still, well done, PJ. It's a fine album). Found play off-kilter but enjoyable pop with a spot of added electronica, coupled with the odd freak-out. Bit early in the day for the folky crowd gathered, but I quite liked it.
Back to tent for booze gathering, only to discover The Ladies had arrived. Lou W, Sarah B and Nana sitting round, discussing the potential tears that a second run to the car via Rocky Road Hell might bring. I encouraged them to get a bit of a wriggle on, with enticements of hairy rock 'n' roll and booze. They are easily enticed, these women, and Rocky Road Hell became naught but a small inconvenience with such delights promised. Their first visit to EOTR, this, prompted by Sarah B's 40th birthday and a whipround that purchased one festival ticket and £100 in booze / fried food tokens for the weekend:
Presentation of rock 'n' roll lottery win by Saatchi's finest
First foray to the Garden Stage saw Joan As Policewoman hitting the boards. Time for adult beverage and I was rather proud to have made it to 6.30pm bevvyless (I have self-control - I is finally all growed up). Joan is very good if you like that lady-singer-songwriter thing. Which I do. Quite a bit, in fact. But, if I'm honest, although she's musically proficient and has a strong voice - there's just something missing for me. So, a quickish getaway heads us back to the Tipi for the astonishing talents of Mr Sam Amidon. Sam is a real fave of mine, great banter between songs, really engages with his crowd, picks his banjo like a motherfucker, all coupled with a gentleness of voice and spirit that sends shivers right through you when he takes it down a notch or two. His hair is also much more unruly since last time I saw him play, also a very good thing.
Time for a fried potato break.
With 5 minutes to spare, the whole gang converged on a packed Garden Stage for my must-see band of the weekend. The Walkmen are a band made up of men. They dress like proper men, normal jeans (Levis - no fancy pockets or detail), in shirts, sometimes jumpers, with suit jackets:
Proper men. Walkmen.
And they rock. I mean really rock. We ventured forward. I'd already told The Ladies to watch out for Hamilton Leithauser (what a name, what a guy). When he sings, he moves mountains. He has the biggest voice I've heard in a singer for years - the veins burst out in his neck, he spits the words (spits quite literally - I'd happily be sprayed) and he can hold a note - for ages. They completely make my day - 'In The New Year' rings out and I get a bit emotional (I'm not even drunk). Some prick keeps shouting for 'Lost In Boston', which is vexing. I've heard tell of their fans doing this before. He just keeps on shouting for it. I pray they don't play it, because on occasion, I can be mean like that. And then, Hamilton tells a story about last time they were in England, they filled their diesel van up with petrol by accident. Some fella called Murdo turned up at 5am, completely pissed, tried to help by draining the tank. Didn't fix it, but they loved him for it. So much so, that they dedicated the next song to him. And what a song - The Rat. I've a feeling we went a bit extra at this point and I ventured to dance / sing-a-long rather frantically. Me and thousands of others. Brilliant.
Last minute leg-it to the Tipi for She Keeps Bees. Entered the tent to Jess Larrabee saying something along the lines of "thanks, this is our last song". Oh, bollocks. But it wasn't - hooray! They played four more songs, accompanied by the very lovely Mr Oh Ruin. I'm not sure if Eoin is now a permanent fixture with SKB, but I've seen them play twice this year and he played with them both times. They really are superb. Jess has genuine shiny star specialness, and I particularly love her inbetween-song banter, which can verge on the bonkers at times. Followed this with a small bit of The Fall - even if you're not a Fall fan, even if you've never heard of Mark E. Smith, I recommend you read his book Renegade (and do me a favour - buy it from a proper bookshop, not Amazon). The man has always done his own thing, maverick in a way a miserable Northerner (my favourites) should be. Hilariously fucking funny. Almost as funny as Scooter Steve's impersonation of Mark E. Smith at any given point over the weekend. The most mundane of things said in Mark E. Smith's voice can reduce me to tears. Best word: 'daddy-long-legs', following one flying past my head at breakfast. Very, very funny indeed.
And so to White Denim in the Big Top. Now, I've wanted to see these boys for some time. And there's really no way to describe what they do other than - wig out. They absolutely wig out, in a jazz-psych-fusion-rock-prog-spazz-metal-jam way (through Orange amps, of course). Am I getting this across? And some of the most outrageous guitar-face pulling I've seen for aeons, surely learned from footage of festivals of the late 60s / early 70s? If that's what they look like when they play, heaven only knows what they look like when they come.
By this time, I was past the bands thing. Over it for one day. I had a bit of this to see me through:
Bakewell + cuppa = second wind
There was drunken chat, particularly from Mr McG, who'd made a severe dent in a bladder of wine (this is basically a box of wine with the box removed - a big, shiny, silver innerbag of Cab Sav with a handy tap for drinking from. The man's an animal). It transpires that in the line for the toilets, some chap had made for the disabled lav, turning round just before entering and telling the massive queue "don't look at me like that, I am technically disabled, I have a hair lip", which is really witty, if a little bit stolen from Curb/Larry David. Still, if un-PC humour is worth nicking from someone, Larry's your man.
I'm not sure what passes for being un-PC nowadays. Feel sure I have my own moments. So, as I've entered the Tipi stage (bearing in mind it's late and I've had a wee bit of booze) to catch up with my fellow inebriates, I hear the band on stage (who are The Growlers from California) saying that their name means 'big shit' in American slang. It also came as some surprise to them to know that their name is slang for 'vagina' in the UK. Honestly - this name stuff is the least of their worries. They were playing blacked up. What. The. Fuck. I thought I was seeing things. And is it bad to find this mildly amusing? They were rocking varying shades of black, ranging from milky chocolate to darkest Bourneville. Maybe that kinda thing is a-happenin' down Santa Monica nowadays, but I'm not so sure they'd get away with it in Hampstead:
Black (Yet Also Strangely White) Minstrel Show
The evening culminated in the very excellent Mr Richard Hawley having his way with me in the woods. I mean, he played music he likes, I danced. There were some cracking Northern Soul moves (bravo, Nana), some less brilliant Northern Soul moves (the rest of us) and a bit of rockabilly / garage shuffling. I love Richard Hawley. He turns up every year at End Of The Road, plays his record collection (sometimes accompanied by Jarvis C), camps out with his entire family, manages to make me weep like a wee child when he plays his love songs. He likes HP sauce. He's from Sheffield. He's a northern God. But however good and God-like he is, when a girl's gotta go, a girl's gotta go. My feathery bed called me and I answered her call with an aimless wander back through the fog (?!?) for a night of lovely, uninterrupted slumber.
Uninterrupted, that is, if you don't count the fuckwit who tripped over my guyropes at about 4am. But it sounded like he hurt himself, so all's well that end's well.
