End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #1

Army jacket - check. 70s tan knee boots - check. Pocketful of Fighting Cock (in Father's hipflask - it's a nice bourbon, folks) - check. Sorted. Get in the car, Nads - we're off to Dorset.

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.

I challenged him. He utterly denies having done anything to it at all, but frankly, he's a bloody liar. No way that hair went that colour on its own, unaided, without the help of a carton of 80s George Michael/Wham favourite, Sun-In. He maintained his innocence until the end of the weekend. When we were back in London, he rang me from Muswell Hill to tell me that a small child had pointed at him and said "Mummy, look at the man with the yellow hair". See, Steve - even the kids know your game).

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.

Nine Go Mad In Dorset (EOTR 2008)

September always makes me excited. It feels like a time of new beginnings (probably going back to the thrill of returning to school after the summer break - and yes, this freak loved going back to school in September). And I love Autumn. So it was pretty much a given that a weekend in Dorset with eight truly brilliant friends, listening to amazing music, eating good food, drinking fine booze and generally pissing about in the beautiful English countryside would be one of the highlights of my September, and probably my 2008. 

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...