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leedyMan, that was fun.
Off we went to Electric Picnic on Friday, B and I and Mick and Sinéad and their borrowed shiny green vintage VW Microbus (I WANT ONE) and many cans of beer. Also, oranges. For vitamins. Our original plan is to camp in the Quiet Field, but we then discover that the campervan pitch is big enough for both the van and our tent, thus meaning that we need to carry our stuff all of, ooh, about two metres. Result. Once we're pitched, we get our wristbands and head off to meet approx. half Dublin at Tinariwen, before B and I go to Joan As Police Woman, who are really, really, really excellent -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stellanova bought me the most recent album for my birthday, but I wasn't sure how it would work live. Fantastically, it turned out. There is happiness. Then there is further happiness of a culinary nature when I have my first Pie Minister pie of the festival before going to Sigur Ros, who were initially very boring (their quiet ethereal stuff just sounds unsubtle and bombastic at stadium levels) and then became really quite good, with lots of brass and strings and colouredy lights, also the best visual brass band gag ever (the brass were first introduced in one song that only had a tiny brass bit, during which they marched on, playing, from one side and marched straight off at the other. WHY DID WE NEVER THINK OF THAT?). Buoyed by this, off we go for another wander and a sit down in the Body and Soul area ("Is sitting down a new kind of drug for the over 30s?" "I'm getting a mad buzz off this seat"), then back to the campsite for some beer. The campervan field is dim and quiet, with the occasional murmur from vans and the faint thump of Bodytonic over the hedge in the next field. "What a nice place to camp", we think*.
*Foreshadowing (copyrightjinxremoving)
A couple of beers and a bit of a dance to drum and bass in the Bodytonic field, and we decide it is time to head back to the campsite. Which is, alas, no longer quiet. The camper van beside us was blaring out what Sinéad later described as "Now That's What I Call Music To Play In Clare's Accessories Vol. 3" at an ungodly volume (I think we subsequently figured out that it was louder outside their van than inside it). B points out gently to one of the inhabitants that it is after 3 and could they perhaps turn it down a smidge? Incumbent says "no worries". We go to bed. Despite earplugs, it still sounds like we are trying to sleep in a very, very bad nightclub. I drift into an uneasy slumber, during which B goes and visits the van and points out slightly less gently that it is now 6am and STOP THAT RACKET. The incumbent adopts the hoary old "but it is a festival and I am having fun" argument. Impasse. B goes back to bury his head under his pillow/pray that they run out of coke. I am awoken at 7:30am by "I'm horny, horny horny horny!". I stomp over to the campervan looking about as threatening as one can while sporting bed hair and pyjamas. The door is opened by a female incumbent. I think I manage to get out the words FOR FVCK'S SAKE before the female incumbent shuts the door in my face. I am now INCANDESCENT WITH THE RAGE. Eventually they shut up at 8:46am and I get some kip before waking up to eat yummy cooked breakfast from S and M's campervan and compare fury-induced (and possibly impractical/criminal) plans to set fire to the evil van, drain their petrol tank, put sugar in their petrol tank, blare The Fall at them, somehow find Mark E. Smith and put him in their campervan with them, etc.
(I also admit to having consoled myself with a good fifteen minutes of smug self-righteousness about how sad it must be to be them, and to think that their choice of music is any good.)
At this point another female Cockfarmer From The Campervan approaches us and asks for some of our "red sauce". Sinéad points out that she is one of the people who has kept waking us up AND NO YOU CANNOT HAVE OUR KETCHUP, EVIL ONE. CFTC retreats muttering about how if we wanted to fvckin' sleep we should go to fvckin' Butlins, it is a festival and I am having etc. etc. fvck the rest of youse boring shites etc. etc. I resist the urge to point out that it is perhaps more boring to spend a festival in your campervan listening to terrible music.
Then ho for the music again! We trot off to where the fun is, all with raincoats tied around our waists with suspiciously clanking pockets (seriously, organizers, if you do not want people bringing cans of beer into the main arena, you could perhaps have bars that sell something other than Heineken and Paulaner at inflated prices and don't shut at 10pm), and have an explore, during which we find some very nice coffee, a bicycle-powered sound-system (which we wonder if we can borrow for sonic assault on the CFTC later), and hear a bit of the Mornington Singers doing some Arvo Part. Lovely. Then B and I go to Ulrich Schnauss, who is pretty enjoyable and is obviously a man in possession of some My Bloody Valentine and Ride records. Shoes are gazed at. We meet some of our pals and tell them of the CFTC, garnering some further fine suggestions, viz:
(We also return to the campsite to get a couple more beers and a jumper. The CFTC are still in their van with their shit house, blithely ignoring the ENTIRE LARGE MUSIC FESTIVAL going on around them.)
Rachel Unthank And The Winterset are late starting due to a cello malfunction so B and I sit on the Temple Of Truth and have a coffee, meeting a very happy man called Niall who has lost all his friends but doesn't care because he's having a lovely festival. He wishes us a happy life before wandering off. And then we see the Unthanks and lo, they are lovely, featuring much top folkiness, and a Robert Wyatt song, and a song about having to go to work after a weekend on the lash ("I wish the birds were made of booze"), and some clog dancing. Excellent. We also run intobarsine, filled with enthusiasm about visiting the circus. B and I then wander over to Grace Jones, but the tent is kind of packed and it doesn't seem all that interesting, so we decide to go to Silver Apples. And a good thing too, as they/he are absolutely great - quirky little songs over weird-but-poppy analogue synths (also a version of the Ode To Joy on the theremin), and Mr. Apples seems utterly delighted by the reception he gets. Bless. We then have a snack before hearing a bit of Crystal Castles (quite fun and an endearingly excited-to-see-them crowd, though I suspect Ms. Castles' vocal screechiness could get a bit wearing after a while) and then the end of Underworld, featuring ACTUAL MEGA MEGA WHITE THINGS. We hear a bit of George Clinton, which seems fun enough, then some of A-Track for a great deal of dancing to fancy mixing (also world's friendliest security guards), then a bit more P-Funk, then have one of those Saturday nights at a festival where you wander around a lot and keep meeting people and losing people and finding them again and finding cool stuff and it is all rather excellent. We get back to the campsite at 5am and the CFTC are either mercifully quiet or we're very tired - either way, we get a good night's sleep.
Sunday dawned Properly Sunny Like Proper Summer. Joy! We locate restorative coffee and bacon sandwiches, then find my new non-musical festival highlights, the Walled Garden and the Craft Field, which are full of things like lovely organic cider stalls and demonstrations of flint-knapping, kind of like a teeny Glastonbury Green Fields with more nice trees. To absolutely nobody's surprise, we findunav in the craft field, and Una, Sinéad and I while away some of the afternoon learning how to make rings out of ACTUAL SILVER with ACTUAL FIRE. AND HAMMERS. AND, er, sandpaper. It was great fun, and the results are glinting on my finger e'en as I type. We have a celebratory cider afterwards while waving our adorned fingers around ostentatiously.
We then catch a bit of The Congos (much fun), and then I finish my cider with a yummy roast pork and apple roll (appletastic) to fortify myself before going to see Faust. Who are great! And have a chainsaw! And a drill! And lots of drums! We explore further (featuring the aforementioned Louis Walsh sighting after a very funny drag show) before going to Grinderman. Top stuff, the last twenty or minutes or so in particular. Though I am not sure whether Nick Cave's children will be more mortified by his hair, his moustache, or his "lascivious" dancing. I do a frantic run to the loo (OH NO WHAT IF I DON'T GET BACK INTO THE TENT) before finding a spot for My Bloody Valentine. Who were ... fvcking hell. One of the best things ever. The kind of gig where you don't know if you're hearing or feeling and the sound is like a three-dimensional thing that you're inhabiting and you can't stop smiling or laughing or nearly crying and why are all bands not like this and OH YES. (I was also quite amused by the fact that Kevin Shields and his GIANT STACK OF AMPS were on one side of the stage, while the rest of the band appeared to be cowering from the blast on the other.) Totally awesome. Also source of further plans vis-a-vis the CFTC:
I still hope their constant battery use meant they ran out of petrol on the way home, mind.
Off we went to Electric Picnic on Friday, B and I and Mick and Sinéad and their borrowed shiny green vintage VW Microbus (I WANT ONE) and many cans of beer. Also, oranges. For vitamins. Our original plan is to camp in the Quiet Field, but we then discover that the campervan pitch is big enough for both the van and our tent, thus meaning that we need to carry our stuff all of, ooh, about two metres. Result. Once we're pitched, we get our wristbands and head off to meet approx. half Dublin at Tinariwen, before B and I go to Joan As Police Woman, who are really, really, really excellent -
stellanova bought me the most recent album for my birthday, but I wasn't sure how it would work live. Fantastically, it turned out. There is happiness. Then there is further happiness of a culinary nature when I have my first Pie Minister pie of the festival before going to Sigur Ros, who were initially very boring (their quiet ethereal stuff just sounds unsubtle and bombastic at stadium levels) and then became really quite good, with lots of brass and strings and colouredy lights, also the best visual brass band gag ever (the brass were first introduced in one song that only had a tiny brass bit, during which they marched on, playing, from one side and marched straight off at the other. WHY DID WE NEVER THINK OF THAT?). Buoyed by this, off we go for another wander and a sit down in the Body and Soul area ("Is sitting down a new kind of drug for the over 30s?" "I'm getting a mad buzz off this seat"), then back to the campsite for some beer. The campervan field is dim and quiet, with the occasional murmur from vans and the faint thump of Bodytonic over the hedge in the next field. "What a nice place to camp", we think*.*Foreshadowing (copyright
jinxremoving)A couple of beers and a bit of a dance to drum and bass in the Bodytonic field, and we decide it is time to head back to the campsite. Which is, alas, no longer quiet. The camper van beside us was blaring out what Sinéad later described as "Now That's What I Call Music To Play In Clare's Accessories Vol. 3" at an ungodly volume (I think we subsequently figured out that it was louder outside their van than inside it). B points out gently to one of the inhabitants that it is after 3 and could they perhaps turn it down a smidge? Incumbent says "no worries". We go to bed. Despite earplugs, it still sounds like we are trying to sleep in a very, very bad nightclub. I drift into an uneasy slumber, during which B goes and visits the van and points out slightly less gently that it is now 6am and STOP THAT RACKET. The incumbent adopts the hoary old "but it is a festival and I am having fun" argument. Impasse. B goes back to bury his head under his pillow/pray that they run out of coke. I am awoken at 7:30am by "I'm horny, horny horny horny!". I stomp over to the campervan looking about as threatening as one can while sporting bed hair and pyjamas. The door is opened by a female incumbent. I think I manage to get out the words FOR FVCK'S SAKE before the female incumbent shuts the door in my face. I am now INCANDESCENT WITH THE RAGE. Eventually they shut up at 8:46am and I get some kip before waking up to eat yummy cooked breakfast from S and M's campervan and compare fury-induced (and possibly impractical/criminal) plans to set fire to the evil van, drain their petrol tank, put sugar in their petrol tank, blare The Fall at them, somehow find Mark E. Smith and put him in their campervan with them, etc.
(I also admit to having consoled myself with a good fifteen minutes of smug self-righteousness about how sad it must be to be them, and to think that their choice of music is any good.)
At this point another female Cockfarmer From The Campervan approaches us and asks for some of our "red sauce". Sinéad points out that she is one of the people who has kept waking us up AND NO YOU CANNOT HAVE OUR KETCHUP, EVIL ONE. CFTC retreats muttering about how if we wanted to fvckin' sleep we should go to fvckin' Butlins, it is a festival and I am having etc. etc. fvck the rest of youse boring shites etc. etc. I resist the urge to point out that it is perhaps more boring to spend a festival in your campervan listening to terrible music.
Then ho for the music again! We trot off to where the fun is, all with raincoats tied around our waists with suspiciously clanking pockets (seriously, organizers, if you do not want people bringing cans of beer into the main arena, you could perhaps have bars that sell something other than Heineken and Paulaner at inflated prices and don't shut at 10pm), and have an explore, during which we find some very nice coffee, a bicycle-powered sound-system (which we wonder if we can borrow for sonic assault on the CFTC later), and hear a bit of the Mornington Singers doing some Arvo Part. Lovely. Then B and I go to Ulrich Schnauss, who is pretty enjoyable and is obviously a man in possession of some My Bloody Valentine and Ride records. Shoes are gazed at. We meet some of our pals and tell them of the CFTC, garnering some further fine suggestions, viz:
- Utilize Simon and Caroline's infant's nappies to pollute their air supply.
- Commandeer one of the portaloo-cleaner-outers and make use of its "blow" feature (aka POOVER OF JUSTICE).
(We also return to the campsite to get a couple more beers and a jumper. The CFTC are still in their van with their shit house, blithely ignoring the ENTIRE LARGE MUSIC FESTIVAL going on around them.)
Rachel Unthank And The Winterset are late starting due to a cello malfunction so B and I sit on the Temple Of Truth and have a coffee, meeting a very happy man called Niall who has lost all his friends but doesn't care because he's having a lovely festival. He wishes us a happy life before wandering off. And then we see the Unthanks and lo, they are lovely, featuring much top folkiness, and a Robert Wyatt song, and a song about having to go to work after a weekend on the lash ("I wish the birds were made of booze"), and some clog dancing. Excellent. We also run into
barsine, filled with enthusiasm about visiting the circus. B and I then wander over to Grace Jones, but the tent is kind of packed and it doesn't seem all that interesting, so we decide to go to Silver Apples. And a good thing too, as they/he are absolutely great - quirky little songs over weird-but-poppy analogue synths (also a version of the Ode To Joy on the theremin), and Mr. Apples seems utterly delighted by the reception he gets. Bless. We then have a snack before hearing a bit of Crystal Castles (quite fun and an endearingly excited-to-see-them crowd, though I suspect Ms. Castles' vocal screechiness could get a bit wearing after a while) and then the end of Underworld, featuring ACTUAL MEGA MEGA WHITE THINGS. We hear a bit of George Clinton, which seems fun enough, then some of A-Track for a great deal of dancing to fancy mixing (also world's friendliest security guards), then a bit more P-Funk, then have one of those Saturday nights at a festival where you wander around a lot and keep meeting people and losing people and finding them again and finding cool stuff and it is all rather excellent. We get back to the campsite at 5am and the CFTC are either mercifully quiet or we're very tired - either way, we get a good night's sleep.Sunday dawned Properly Sunny Like Proper Summer. Joy! We locate restorative coffee and bacon sandwiches, then find my new non-musical festival highlights, the Walled Garden and the Craft Field, which are full of things like lovely organic cider stalls and demonstrations of flint-knapping, kind of like a teeny Glastonbury Green Fields with more nice trees. To absolutely nobody's surprise, we find
unav in the craft field, and Una, Sinéad and I while away some of the afternoon learning how to make rings out of ACTUAL SILVER with ACTUAL FIRE. AND HAMMERS. AND, er, sandpaper. It was great fun, and the results are glinting on my finger e'en as I type. We have a celebratory cider afterwards while waving our adorned fingers around ostentatiously.We then catch a bit of The Congos (much fun), and then I finish my cider with a yummy roast pork and apple roll (appletastic) to fortify myself before going to see Faust. Who are great! And have a chainsaw! And a drill! And lots of drums! We explore further (featuring the aforementioned Louis Walsh sighting after a very funny drag show) before going to Grinderman. Top stuff, the last twenty or minutes or so in particular. Though I am not sure whether Nick Cave's children will be more mortified by his hair, his moustache, or his "lascivious" dancing. I do a frantic run to the loo (OH NO WHAT IF I DON'T GET BACK INTO THE TENT) before finding a spot for My Bloody Valentine. Who were ... fvcking hell. One of the best things ever. The kind of gig where you don't know if you're hearing or feeling and the sound is like a three-dimensional thing that you're inhabiting and you can't stop smiling or laughing or nearly crying and why are all bands not like this and OH YES. (I was also quite amused by the fact that Kevin Shields and his GIANT STACK OF AMPS were on one side of the stage, while the rest of the band appeared to be cowering from the blast on the other.) Totally awesome. Also source of further plans vis-a-vis the CFTC:
- Find recording of the fifteen minutes of pummelling noise from the end of the set and play it in their windows.
- Find K. Shields, a generator, all his amps/pedals, and several guitars. Aim at van of evil.
I still hope their constant battery use meant they ran out of petrol on the way home, mind.
