Summer Loving
Ok, so I’ve been procrastinating for far too long now. After spending the last month in a perpetual haze of hangovers, comedowns, planes, trains and automobiles, I have finally settled back in to life in glorious Glasgow, ready to tell all about a summer of phenomenal music.
Some of you may remember the piece I wrote on this year’s festival selection [and if you do, you’re a better person than me. I can barely remember what I had for breakfast], if you don’t, here it is. Reflecting on it now there are some quite startling ironies, but then hindsight is a beautiful thing. I kicked off the summer with Bloc festival, which promised oh-so much and delivered a resounding fuck all. The festival began with a queue that seemed to stretch on for all eternity, and then once we were granted access to their hugely hyped venue we were greeted with the news that at least two of the stages were incomplete and therefore unusable. Determined to remain positive, we decided to head straight for Nicholas Jaar. Again, queues. The MS Stubnitz, the 700 capacity floating venue set to host Joy Orbison, Jacques Green and Boddika? Queues. The Carhartt Dome [where the sound was frankly appalling]? More. Fucking. Queues. At this point I could feel my enthusiasm for the event dwindling, but hope was still on the horizon in the form of a live set from Shackleton in the RA stage. After a kettling reminiscent of the London riots, we finally broke free and ran straight for the front, managing to find a prime spot where the sound quality was considerably less atrocious. Yet it still wasn’t quite right, despite Shackleton providing a suitably moody performance. Throwing caution to the wind, we headed straight out to join the queue for Snoop Dogg. He cancelled. It was at this point that the entire infrastructure of the festival collapsed and, after a chorus of “FUCK THIS” we were told to leave.
In total, the festival ran for a laughable twelve hours before security and public safety issues resulted in an early termination. However, I can’t complain. The weekend that followed was perhaps one of the best weekends I’ve had in the capital; London really felt alive and determined to provide for the thousands of people left bass-hungry and out of pocket. You can read more about it here.
Second in the festival selection, and one that I hadn’t previously mentioned, was Beacons festival. At the beginning of summer, a plan was formed to land some stewarding spaces at the opening of Yorkshire’s best offering since tea and Fred Elliot. Almost everyone who had initially planned to join me backed out, however a few made it along to work and a sizeable group bought tickets [priced at a modest £85], so I wasn’t left wandering around by myself like some kind of nomadic dance-nutter who took a wrong turn at Glastonbury ’95 and hadn’t experienced sobriety since. Working at a festival is an interesting experience; despite how polished it may look on the surface, beneath the undulating skin there is a metric fuck-tonne of very stressed out people, working night and day to provide the best they possibly can [I’d almost feel bad for the Bloc organisers, if I could forget their gross negligence]. My first shift was campsite patrol on the Thursday night, which essentially involved wandering about, helping to set up tents and accepting warm cans in return. Not too shabby at all. The atmosphere was relaxed yet excited, like the calm before a storm that looks like it’s trying to chew it’s own eyebrows, and the following three nights served up a feast of delicious sounds.
High on my priority list and the first act I ‘saw’ was Disclosure. They emerged on to the stage to a wall of screams and cheers, and set about working the crowd in to one big mess of sweat and limbs. Ten minutes in however, the system completely crashed and once power was restored we were met by some of the worst mixing I have ever heard. Seriously. I don’t know whether the system failure had knocked their confidence or whether it was actually meant to sound like that, nevertheless it was awful. I glanced over at my mate who was standing wearing a face that looked like he’d just eaten a week-old shit. We left.
However all was not lost, Sub Motion Orchestra delivered a beautiful set that left a tent full of people so relaxed they were almost horizontal [in fact, I think some were]; Koreless did not disappoint either, transporting his own brand of thoughtful, melodic sounds down to Skipton’s eager crowd. My personal highlight has to be Pearson Sound, despite only seeing about 25 minutes of the set. I would love to say that I could offer some objective criticism but it was 2am and I was already suitably wrecked. I had a good time, though. I can say that.
Taking the stage to close the festival were the legendary, Toots and the Maytals. There’s little to be said about Toots that hasn’t been said before but I can confirm that they left Yorkshire having pleased a lot of happy customers. With mass chants of ’54-46 was my number’ and ‘Monkey Man’ ringing in my ears, we returned to our tents to squeeze in one last night of hedonism before the inevitably grim drive home.
I ended my summer with a very impulsive trip to Croatia for the launch of Dimensions festival. In my projections for the summer I had glossed over Dimensions but written it off after my experience of Outlook last year, now, however, I’m going to have to eat my words. To say it was the best weekend of my life is an understatement, and by the time Sunday rolled around I was feeling like a petulant child throwing a tantrum; just 5 more days! Please!
So there we were, an intimate group who had miraculously managed to score some press passes to one of summer’s most hotly anticipated events. We hauled ourselves over to the continent, arriving on the Thursday night to a surprisingly spacious campsite [I guess that could be attributed to the fact it was a smaller capacity festival] and grabbing ourselves a sweet spot next to the beach. Perfect for those come-down swims. Heading out to the main arena, we had a wander around and checked out the stages that had been reinvented following Outlook the previous week.: new additions included a jaw-dropping installation piece named ‘Project MOE’ that took pride of place in The Moat stage, incorporating geometric designs and projection mapping. The ‘Outside the Fort’ stage had also been subject to a make-over, and was fronted by a huge, honey-comb structure with a gap that allowed the DJs to survey the madness. It was reassuring to see the Mungo’s arena exactly as I’d remembered it, and the fort itself never ceases to impress.
Waking up the next day, we headed straight for the XLR8R boat party, featuring Koreless, Machinedrum and Dark Sky. As we set sail, the ambient tones of Koreless began floating through the speakers and any sickness from the night before was immediately dissipated. I don’t know whether you’ve ever sailed across the Adriatic whilst listening to some of the most emotive music you’re likely to hear, but you really fucking should. Carlsberg don’t make boat parties, and even if they did they would be utterly gash in comparison to the sterling effort put in by the XLR8R team.
The following three nights were a blur of beats, bass and some of the strangest characters I’ve ever met. Friday saw a killer collaboration between Hessle Audio and Swamp81, featuring [among others] Loefah, Zed Bias, Boddika and Pearson Sound. Pick of the night, however, would have to be Objekt, who threw down some serious rhythms to a surprisingly sparse crowd. Saturday was all about Theo Parrish and Moodyman; the queue to get in to outside the Fort could have rivalled any seen at Bloc, and the stage was fence-to-fence packed with excited fans desperate to catch a glimpse of Detroit royalty. Needless to say we were not disappointed, and were even treated to a couple of tracks very rarely heard in an electronic music environment [Smells Like Teen Spirit, anyone?]. We wandered back to the tent at 6am, content in the knowledge that we’d witnessed something unforgettable.
Due to licensing problems and unforeseen circumstances the Sunday line-up was cancelled, yet this didn’t stop festival-goers from congregating on the beach to cram in the last few hours of partying as the spectacular Croatian sun disappeared over the horizon. The less that can be said about the Sunday night the better; all I’ll say is that it involved regretamine and resulted in losing a prized item of clothing.
And now here I am, spiritually unwell with a bank balance that looks significantly worse for wear. Review: done. Adjectives used: Too many. Fun had: Enough to last me a lifetime. Ah well, it’s only another 9 months till next summer.
- Helen
P.S. Find the NXT Sticker in the video.
