And so, it's that time of year again, when me and the Usual Suspects set off for Dorset and End Of The Road festival (there are newcomers and fall-by-the-waysiders...we lose Smiff and Marc to a wedding in Berlin, but gain Nads, and Andy and Lou over from NYC). I drive down with Nads, in poor Betty Ford Fiesta, who is creaking under the weight of the amount of crap we've managed to squeeze in (I blame the gazebo, but more of that later). Journey is lovely and uneventful - gorgeous Autumn day, sunny, clear, crisp...we pass Stonehenge on the way, and I nearly crash trying to steer and take a picture on my iPhone. Not big or clever...I don't mean Stonehenge, although I always think it's smaller than you imagine. Definitely in this pic:
18" high (nod to Tap)
We got to the site easily - good navigation, Nads - and caught up with the Brummie, Screwy, Bernie and Kieran. Lugging all the gear up the hill after wristbands are collected is no fun, but once we've got it all there, tents are up in no time. There is the small matter of the gazebo...Brummie insisted I should bring it. It had been living in the back of my car for 6 months or more, a freebie gift from a photoshoot, and now finally getting its debut. A real team effort was needed - it's enormous:
Daisies optional
Time for some music, methinks. First up for most of us - The Ginger Angel himself, David Thomas Broughton. I make no secret of the fact that he's one of my favourite live performers, and he doesn't disappoint. With Johnny Greenwood on double bass, and the newly supermodel-thin Howard Monk on drums, this is a must-not-miss. Superb as ever, highlights have to be when he shouts "SHUT UP!" at the small children he has drumming with Howard at the front of the stage, closely followed by a comedy collapse, and running off stage sticking twos up at the audience. He is King. It's a really beautiful evening, and bodes well for sunshine the next day:
I hung about for Shearwater (good), then a bit of aimless wandering with Nads and some gorgeous Goan fish curry...closely followed by the gorgeous Vetiver for dessert...and then a call from Brummie enticed us to the Tea Bus. This was really sweet. An old Routemaster, downstairs the serving part, upstairs for drinking. And a Dansette, complete with a great selection of vinyl. We were treated to Billie Holliday whilst we sipped tea and ate buns:
Last act of the day, we watched Beth Jeans Houghton. I use the term 'watched' loosely, cos it was packed in The Local tent, and all I know is she had a feathery head thing on...time for bed, said Zebedee...
I was right about that weather...we all wake to a glorious day, started off with a massive fry-up. Wise move, this. Some of us feel a bit shabbier than others...but this doesn't stop the Tesco run for more booze. Steph and Bernie set off, and there's some lolling about before we head off for the Garden Stage...and it's packed already. Like a military operation, we have to stalk potential movement to try and bag a space big enough for the entire gang (Lou and Andy arrived late the night before, and are now joining the proceedings). We're soon sorted:
Once ensconced, we settle down to watch The Low Anthem, who are pretty good. Sun is beating down and things are looking good. And then the Broken Family Band take the stage. I love these boys. Steven Adams is a clever songwriter, but I'm pretty dismayed to hear that they're breaking up! WHY? They do a top set, finishing with "Leaps" and I know this is the last time I'll see them, because their very last gig will be when I'm out of the country. Sad. Next up, The Acorn (good). And then we need to leg it, as J. Tillman is about to start in the Tipi tent. And here's the first bit of bad timing of the day. Although Mr Tillman decides he's going on much later than scheduled (he is part of a superstar set-up now, after all - gosh, they'll be throwing their transistor radios out of their Travelodge window next), it's already packed, and we find a space at the back sitting next to a bunch of middle-aged blokes with loud voices who just want to talk...loudly. When Fox Tillman finally gets up, he is so quiet, all I can hear is Matey behind sounding like Clarkson on Top Gear. Fucker. So we go out and sit in the last of the evening sun until Blitzen Trapper come on.
I read a review in The Guardian a while back about Blitzen Trapper. Newly signed to Sub Pop, they came to the UK to play. Sadly, their London gig clashed with another gig for me, so I didn't go. And it was a rave review. Apparently, they played to about 60 people as if they were playing to a stadium. I love this sort of enthusiasm. Now, I couldn't see a bloody thing (I listened to them for 45 minutes, but I still wouldn't know them if they sat on my face), but what I heard was superb. So good, in fact, that I went straight to the Rough Trade tent and bought an album, Furr. We got chatting to a French girl with a spreadsheet of the EOTR acts. This puts Kieran's effort to shame this year - his EOTR report will read "must try harder":
What time are The Wurzels on?
Okkervil River up next, and I've waited a while to see them. Bernie and Kieran got me into them, and they were worth the wait. Bernie tells me Will Sheff is blind as a bat, but so vain that he takes his glasses off to go on stage, squints for the entire gig, then stumbles off to put his glasses straight back on. Now, call me a misery guts (I have quite a sunny disposition, but a healthy sprinkling of cynicism and Yorkshire grumpyness surfaces sometimes), but I can't be arsed with the crowd clapping along to songs. It does my head in. And American bands are very keen on getting their crowd all clappy-happy (there'll be more of this cynicism en masse later in this blog). At this point, hunger strikes, so me and Nads go in search of...Goan fish curry. Yes, yes, I know it seems unadventurous, but it was so delicious...
And this is where the cock-up of the weekend happened. For once, my impeccable timing was way off. Somehow, in a disastrous piece of misplanning, we couldn't get in to see the Fleet Foxes. Bollocks. The curry was preceded by wandering in the fairy grotto woods (unfeasibly cute romantic tree cavern adorned with twinkly lights), so we'd got it all wrong. Still, as Nads said "that curry was bloody good, though". So we needed to find an alternative...
We headed for The Local tent. Howard and Lucy Local do their thing at End Of The Road, showing a truly diverse choice of acts, and for the most part, they're a stellar collection. We happen upon a band called The Heavy, and they're just what we need to cheer us up after the Fleet Foxes fiasco. They are a sort-of hip-hop indie rock band (!), but it works. The singer is a black dude, a real snappy dresser, who moves around the entire stage, whipping the audience into a frenzy. They were a real find and we have a ball (apart from some character I name Raggety, who insists on trying to Dirty-Dance with Nads - I feel like I'm besmirching poor Patrick Swayze, God rest his soul, even mentioning this tosser with reference to Pat's finest footwork). The crowd is hot and sweaty by the time they go off stage, and I bump into Howard for a chat. He is keen to point out that he hasn't spared any expense on his marquee decoration (one strand of seaside lightbulbs). This is in reference to last year's criticism from me, which nearly got me roped into making him thousands of yards of bunting.
And so, the final act of the night in The Local - The Travelling Band. Perfect festival band, they are a joy from start to finish, playing lovely tunes with superb vocal harmonies. And the bass player is dressed as a scarecrow. We're all right up front like überfans, and Brummie is by this point rather pissed and sitting on the stage. Once they're over, me, Nads Lou and Andy head to the Tea Bus for a cuppa. Much different vibe tonight...Saturday is Abba night on the tea bus, and the civilised proceedings of the evening before have given way to rowdy bedlam. Funny, though...finally, we have a wander into the Big Top, where Sheffield's finest, Messrs Cocker and Hawley are doing a DJ set. As we enter, the Stooges reckon they wanna be my dog, and it's all looking good. But suddenly, it all seems a bit daft to be bopping about in a tent with thousands of people (I never truly embraced rave culture, I'm a dodgy ex-Goth after all), so me and Nads head back to the tent, and the heaven that is a 15 tog feather duvet and an airbed...
Sunday dawned - weather still good - hoorah! Mud looking unlikely this year...how lucky are we? A much slower start today - a few hurty heads and furry mouths. By this point, it has been agreed that:
- children and prams are a real hindrance to festival fun.
- bongos get on everyones tits
- glowsticks are for young people, not middle-aged idiots
Some suggestions are made regarding the dealing with of such nuisances, but by far the best and probably most effective is Kieran taking a flamethrower to the lot of 'em. This is overheard by some ladies in a nearby tent who look a little shocked. Kieran saying "bring me the fresh blood of babies NOW" makes for even more concern from our neighbours...
The musical day starts in the Garden Stage - it's a beautful day:
and once we're set up, Nads and I wander off to see T-Model Ford. What a total dude. I've seen him before at Spitz Festival Of Blues a few years ago, and he's still going strong, despite being 89 years young. After about 5 songs, I get a bit of a beer-sweat on and have to go outside for fresh air. I head back to slump in my chair, and tell Steph she should go see T-Model doing his thing. When she comes back, she's a bit moist-eyed, as she says he was brilliant and it made her emotional when his drummer had to help him off stage. She's a great big softy:
Cute
I go to see The Tallest Man On Earth, who's a great finger-picker, but I suddenly realise that any act is going to really have to fly my kite to get the big thumbs up today. I'm just on the loo when I get a call from Brummie telling me Jarvis and Hawley are on stage with Bob Lind. I had no idea who Bob Lind was. According to the gang, he's a miserable old fucker, who talks too much inbetween songs, and his only saving grace is that he's managed to get two Northern Gods to share his stage. While he was playing, Brummie says she thought about slitting her wrists, and Nads was busy filing her nails. This isn't good.
All this misery is soon swept away, as the crowd prepares itself for a Bob Log III onslaught. When he takes the stage, he's in some really dull, dark boilersuit, with his trademark shiny helmet. Not his usual Vegas look...suddenly, with a quick unzipping, he reveals a skintight golden Bacofoil jumpsuit:
Goldenballs
Me and the Brummie go up front. BLIII was a big discovery for us last year. Just what this place needs to shake some folkies up. There's a shitload of swearing from him (can't beat a quality pottymouth) and he is hilariously funny. Has the crowd in the palm of his hand, and if we could, Brummie and I would let him bounce us on his knee (but maybe not do the boob scotch...):
Bob Lovers
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot someone making their way along the gap in front of the stage...and I can't believe it, it's T-Model Ford! And we're right there, as he's shaking hands along the front row of the crowd. I nudge Brummie, who gets really excited and emotional. As he gets to us, she goes to shake his hand then gives him a kiss on the cheek. he looks so pleased, and then I shake his hand and take a quick snap:
Blues Legend & Ladies Man
He waves at us as he walks away and we blow him kisses - what a sweetheart. Although, if his Wikipedia is to be believed, he wasn't always the gentle old chap he seems:
Nads and I have a wander over to the Big Top to see William Elliot Whitmore. Now if I have a type, this is it. The only thing he's missing out on is that he's not from the North of England. He's a short-haired brunette with lovely inky arms (sounds like I'm describing Wardy, who actually ticks every box). And he plays and sings beautifully. Very enjoyable half hour.
At this point, there's a bit of a lull in the proceedings. We're all flagging a bit...I leave Nads having a fag on some cow-print bean bag, and have a wander over to see Dan Michaelson & The Coastguards. Dan has an incredibly deep voice, and is also the lead singer with Absentee. One song in, and I get ambushed by Howard asking how my festival is going. I have to remind him that talking when the acts are on is very rude (his rule, not mine), so we retire outside to discuss how best to kill people who annoy us. Although he likes Kieran's flamethrower idea, he has already been witness to the carnage a machete can cause, and proceeds to tell me about being the main witness at an Old Bailey trial of some nutter who attacked some dude in the street up in Tottenham. As soon as he mentioned an ear getting cut off, I started to get queasy. Maybe this stuff shouldn't be joked about after all...
After all that blood lust, I go to see Tiny Vipers. Wardy is a big fan, so I check her out. She has a lovely voice and is very sweet in a dishevelled kinda way. Then I notice she's wearing $400 jeans, and my mind wanders, pondering why people go out of their way to give the appearance of being scruffy, but at such a price. I'm such an old cynic and I've spent too much of my life in charity shops...
Starts to get a bit nippy at this point. Back to the tent, layers on, flapjack consumed for energy. And I'm bursting for a pee. Now, the red wine has kicked in a bit, so as Nads goes into the cabin next to me, I rush into mine and get my undies down sharpish...only to have the door yanked open by some fella also clearly in need of urinal relief. Very, very embarrassing. He quickly shut the door, very apologetic. When I emerged, he was still outside, and Lord only knows why, I said I should have a picture of him, so I'd know all the men who'd ever seen my "lady garden" (yes, I called it this):
One of the privileged few
By this point, I think some of us had stopped caring about the music. Honestly. Booze just seemed to offer up more fun options, so we got into that instead. I vaguely remember watching some Kraut-psych-jazz madness by a band called Quack Quack - mental. Then Archie Bronson Outfit, who are bloody loud, hard and brilliant, and have a drummer (I may have mentioned before) who pulls the best pained faces I've seen on a drummer. Great...
And so, to the last act of the festival, and we're all agreed that we should go together. When The Local put out a CD last year, the first track and a total standout for us all was "Wear Red" by She Keeps Bees. We get right up front for this, and what a good move this is. Jessica Larrabee is superb, belting out songs in a strong, bluesy voice, and actually wielding her axe with a confidence you don't see from many women. I love this. And for once, although I know her husband (?) is on drums, I'm completely spellbound by her performance. When they finish, the place erupts. And in an unprecedented move, Howard lets them play another track (although why they were only on for half an hour beats me...). He comes over to ask my opinion and I tell him I think they're amazing. Definitely one of my highlights of the weekend...
At this point, you'd think we'd head off to bed...but oh no, there's music coming from the Tipi and the opportunity to create havoc and hangovers of titanic proportions. So, like moths to a rock 'n' roll flame, we went off to get our wings burned...not sure how, but the borrowing competition began. The rules: borrow headgear off a passing stranger and keep it on your head for as long as possible. The contestants:
Rock 'n' Roll Wigger
Givin' Good HeadBut the winner, by a long chalk, had to be:
McNazi
Then, there was a load of pissing about on concrete mushroom sculptures:
Porcini poser
Funghi PrettyOnce you've started thinking climbing on mushroom sculptures at 2am is a good idea, it really has gotta be time for bed. We were all shitfaced. The night finished with a tent shadow competition, instigated by the Brummie and Screw, and easily won by Brummie and her enormous shadow breasts (making Tura Satana look like she's sporting a couple of fried eggs).
There has to be a downside to all this fun. It came in the form of a seriously bad, here-for-three-days hangover. I have all on getting my head off the pillow, but once I gather a head of steam, I get packed up sharpish, knowing I'm about to crash at any point. Nice strong coffees later, and a couple of trips to the car, and it's hugs all round, as Bernie and Kieran head off to France, and the rest of us go back to the Smoke. Another year over at the best little festival on the planet.
