End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #2

Should have known that fog would mean a grey start to Saturday. And it did. But you can't sit around with a face like a smacked arse when this is going on round the breakfast table:

Breakfast of King

The day may have made a damp start, but our spirits were soon lifted by a trip to the Garden Stage to see James Yorkston. Having watched a beautiful performance by James recently at St Giles' church (he read from his Domino Press book about touring "It's Lovely To Be Here - not had chance to read it yet. If you read this, A-D - lend?), I knew I was in for some very special soothing of my slightly furrowed brow. Tartan (how apt) blanket laid out and a nice lie-down as he played, accompanied by a lovely string section. Sigh.

Second must-see of the weekend - Canada's most-super Dan Mangan. I honestly can't get enough of this man, and lucky for Blighty, he comes over to see us on a regular basis. Despite breaking a B string, he played his heart out, not with his usual electric ensemble, but with a beautifully fitting string set-up. His double bass player is a hoot, makes a superb effort on the falsetto vocals on 'The Indie Queens Are Waiting' which raises a real giggle from the assembled fans. 'Nice, Nice, Very Nice' is a wonderful album - buy it, you won't regret it (anyone who references Mr Vonnegut also a winner in my book). And then, he brings the sun out (I'm putting it down to him - the God I don't believe in must love him too). There's an obvious finale, but one every assembled fanfreak is happy with - huge 'Robots' sing-a-long, and Dan chucks himself offstage for a walkabout to play among us, which goes down a storm. Big admiration.

Nicer than 'Nice' Mr Mangan

No need to go anywhere right now - next up, another EOTR stalwart fave, Mr Bob Log The Third (oh, how I'd love to have met First and Second). BLIII is unmissable. Last time I saw him, it was Christmas week, the final week of lovely Lumianire's existence, watched with dear friends from a top vantage point. He's a regular here at EOTR, but I have to say, this is BLIII's year. Something struck a chord, a very deep-down-and-dirty chord, with the audience and it was a riot. When he asked "hey crowd, are you wet yet?", there were whoops from every lady present. He suggested we had dirty minds - he'd only wondered if we were sweating. When he announces his 'secret' performance in the Tipi at half past midnight, you know mayhem is in store. At this point, I catch up with Lou W, who really is quite moist at the thought of Bob and is his newest, biggest fan. A plan is hatched to be up front for the Tipi bedlam, she wants to be bounced on Bob's knee, and perhaps give his Scotch a stir. Rather than show you some dull snap of BLIII, not remotely capturing the essence of this remarkable phenomenon, I'm attaching a little footage of the man in action - prepare to feel damp, people:

Generally, I make one cock-up each year at EOTR, usually involving missing an act. I've absolutely no idea what happened next, maybe I was sidetracked by fried food or fine hirsuteness, but I managed to not see Phosphorescent. WHAT??? WHY??? Apparently, he was amazing, a solo set. And he played "Wolves". Stupid, stupid, stupid me. (I'd like to mention that 'Wolves is likely to be played at Mr McG's funeral. I mention this not because there's anything up with our Irish friend, heralding an imminent demise, but because the playlist for his funeral currently stands at approximately 173 songs. This funeral, when it eventually comes to pass, is going to last about a fucking week. The lovely, long-suffering Bernie is surely hoping she goes first, just so she doesn't have to sit through it.)

After it dawns that I've cocked up, it all goes tits up. I've since looked at the line-up and can't remotely remember what I was up to for about the next 2 hours. I vaguely recall seeing a bit of Welsh wonder Gruff Rhys, but that's about it. Next thing I knew, I was swaying to the psych-swirly Black Angels (thrilled to hear that Nana had found something she really liked, buying 'Passover' from the dear folks in the Rough Trade tent, and it's a bloody good album), now way past 9pm. Think the Health & Safety Officer came out in Scooter Steve at this juncture, as he pointed out the mirrorball in The Big Top stage, which had some seriously worrying long spikes as part of the design. "That's just hanging by a thin wire and if it comes down, someone's going to get hurt". No shit, Grandad. But he did have a point, and from here on in, none of us wanted to stand under that bad boy:

Death Star

Black Angels gave way to Mogwai, who were just superb. Perfect, perfect sound. Then some Okkervill River, with a bespectacled Will Sheff treating us to a heartrending 'Stone' but more importantly, giving it his all on 'Black', to which I sang along, unashamedly. Then, Bernie appeared from a toilet break holding something in her hand. I wondered if she'd had an accident on the way, but no. On entering the lav, she'd seen this shadowy thing in the corner and realised it was a crutch. Who on earth comes to a festival with an injury so bad that it requires a crutch, only to leave it in the bog after some urinary (or secondary) relief? How could you forget the bad leg / broken foot? Booze must have played its devilish part for our mystery injured party, that's all I can surmise. Some legless (pun intended) pisshead staggering about thinking 'something's missing here'. She meant to hand it in. It didn't happen. It was used as a Dick Whittington-esque stick to hold the Cab Sav bladder aloft. It was used to poke people in the back. I think it may have ended up on stage with Bob Log III at midnight, but maybe he was just pleased to see us:

Bet she kicked Legless while he was down too.

OK, let's cut to the chase. BLIII is on stage at 12.30am. We get there about midnight and it's already starting to fill up. Undeterred, we head for the front and Lou swears she may rip the tits off anyone scuppering her chance to grace the big man's knee. You couldn't move as showtime came around. What really amused me is that all the young ladies around didn't even bat an eyelid at the nice, bespectacled 'roadie' who came on stage to test kit and mic. Probably old enough to be their Dad, and sporting big specs. Well, young ladies - there's the thing with wearing a bike helmet to play. No-one really knows...that actually, BLIII is a gentle, speccy Buddy Holly lookey-likey. Tickled me pink. But hell, get that man in a lurex jumpsuit and his shiny helmet, and it's tits in his whisky and hot-ass-on-knee aplenty. It wasn't easy to maintain a position right at the front of the stage with the youth desperate to be near our hero, but years of elbow experience paid off. I really don't mind letting anyone pass me at a gig, I have lovely manners. Unfortunately, them there youth of today do not. At one point, two brazen hussies make a loud and pushy move to pass Lou W. It was a thing of beauty. She subtly held them at bay for the rest of the set, using just her elbows in some mental skiing action (I'm laughing out loud at the memory of it now), which considering the persistence of these little nightmares, was quite a feat of endurance. No bingo wings on our Lou. Bob was great. Amazing. And us old birds did the graceful thing and let the youth in their hotpants grind their asses on Bob's leg. It would have been too unkind to them (and, in fact, him) if two middle-aged birds in army jackets and old Levis had thrown their shit on his leg. (Top songs, Bob - 'I Want Your Shit On My Leg', along with 'Boob Scotch', 'Clap Your Tits' and 'My Shit Is Perfect'. Nice.)

Fired up by Bob, I cracked open Father's flask of Fighting Cock (not sure how that reads for you, bit weird for me), and headed for good ol' bourbon oblivion. It was bloody brilliant:

Definitely to blame.

There are vague recollections of attempts to pole dance down part of the Tipi. There was definitely dancing to Aretha F in the fairy woods whilst singing loudly. There was a sing-a-long of the very brilliant Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way' on the path near the tents, until one tent shouted "Shut Up And Fuck Off", because it was 4am and they were sick of hearing "If I could, baby, I'd give you my world" for the umpteenth time. No sense of humour, some of these modern nylon constructions.