A Joyful Little Reminder Of The Summer
The Bestival
Isle Of Wight, September 2006
It doesn’t get much better than wandering through the fancy-dressed Saturday night Bestival crowd, bumping into Altern-8 in the portaloos, ordering a drink next to a five-man Viking ship, and dancing with Bill & Ben, the flowerpot men. With the bloodstream a cocktail of this, that and the other, every wannabe fairy’s wing sparkles extra bright, every hint of the setting sun glows extra orange, behind the increasingly thick cloud cover, and we Beatmaggers cannot think of any festival we’ve enjoyed so much in recent years.
This is the last festival of the British summer, and probably the best. It has a sterling line-up where others slump occasionally and, what’s more, it has prime time Glastonbury’s sense that anything could happen around any corner. For instance, Bestival takes place in a country park with all kinds of forest walks and hidey-holes to discover, so one might wander up the hill one morning to find an array of dishevelled punters being put through their work-out paces by a choreographed fitness gurus in leotards to soundtrack of ‘80s power-ballads. Then next door one might find an inflatable church with couple after couple sealing ‘marriages’ as the hiss of the nitrous oxide stall next door ensures the mood remains cheerful.
The small complaints that could be made of the Bestival were that the bars were a bit inefficient at busy times and that there were peculiarly unnecessary rules about taking alcohol onto the festival site. But these are mere quibbles compared to the joys of three days in dreamy early Autumn sunshine with a crowd that took in everyone from students to parents to full-on fest-nutters.
And so to the music. There was too much to catch everything. There was so much to do that, for instance, Beatmag ended up in the Come Dancing Spiegeltent learning to tango when we’d had intended to check out Dr Rubberfunk. And sometimes, of course, it was just much more fun to loll around on the grass with mates laughing it up, paying little attention to whatever bands were on, however wonderful they may have been.
For the record, then, Friday contained many acts that were on when the Beatmag was making its way to the ferry and onto Isle Of Wight mainland, missing the likes of The Fall, Mystery Jets, M Craft, Jamie T, My Robot Friend and many others. A bottle of pink fizz stuck away, The Klaxons were our first port of call, a big top full of kids with glowsticks and fluoro gear going barmy to the frenetic sound of a band on a roll, playing their known indefinable punktro racket.
Headliners, however, and for many the best act of the weekend were Slavic New York gypsy punks Gogol Bordello who headlined the main stage and caused a riot of wild jigging, their luxuriantly moustachioed lead singer Eugene Hutz whipping up a frenzy during the endless climactic encores of ‘Not A Crime’.
Following them a trip to see The Egg play the Rock’n’Roll tent proved a disappointment; once a great jamming unit, the Scott brothers who now make up the group alone, now deal in a waterier synth-funk. The rest of the night is a haze that we’re not willing to detail here.
Saturday kicked off with the wonderful Kitty, Daisy & Lewis on the main stage, a teenage group in whom the spirit of Johnny Cash is alive and well. With instrumental back-up from their parents they stormed through a set of country rockabilly that accompanied sausage’n’mash breakfast just fine. Next up, in another tent, it was time for longterm John Peel Fave Kanda Bongo Man whose African soukous sounds are alive with ebullient optimism and whose two female dances exuded sex like raw perfume, the whole set ending up a writhing mass of cheerily sensual dancing and grins. Back at the main stage Lily Allen, one of the years best pop star discoveries, wearing bunny ears for the occasion, had the crowd in the palm of her hand, giving way to the Cuban Brothers whose cabaret set has developed into an arena crowd-pleasing disco comedy. Very good fun. The same could not be said for Kid Creole & the Coconuts who weren’t awful but their Caribbean-flavoured novelty schtick only works in short bursts. Rachid Taha, on the other hand, provided a lively set of Algerian punkery, the highlight of which was seeing Brian Eno sing The Clash’s ‘London Calling’. Headliners the Pet Shop Boys were as grand and entertaining as ever, sticking to the hits, performing a theatrical show, and ending with the gigantic ‘Go West’. For some reason the Bestival crowd was not massively taken with them and the atmosphere wasn’t quite up to that of their usual gigs. And so onto a night of dancing which needn’t be detailed here – suffice to say that sambucca and laughing gas was the least of it.
Sunday and everyone’s battered but the good humour remains. All who don’t have to go home for work Monday, however, are ready for more. Jeggsy Dodd is a curious fellow who opens the Main Stage, a scouse John Cooper Clarke who is as pithy as he his confrontational, funny and occasionally annoying. Later The Stranglers led the crowd through their hits as the sun burnished the mood pleasantly and Hot Chip proved that they’re OK but not nearly worth all the hype. Elsewhere the Aliens, ex-Beta banders whose Gram Parsons-meets-The Orb numbers promise much from next year’s debut album, deliver a storming set culminating with lead singer Gordon Anderson becoming irate with his microphone and throwing a loony dance that ended in the audience.
It was left to the Scissor Sisters, beginning their ‘Tah-Da’ return to Brit consciousness, to headline Sunday. The anticipation welled into a sense of occasiona which they road admirably, combaining new and old albums, whilst dressed as the most sinister horror clowns, a host of giant and truly evil clowns joining them for the finale. Their energy and commitment to a good time always does them credit.
Thence to have a boogie to Black Grass and go totally mental to Carl Cox playing an old school rave set to a jam-packed big top, whistles and horns a-go-go. In the end, the partying went on until dawn in many corners of the site but that’s another story.
It’s a testament to the festival that Beatmag managed to miss so many excellent acts, from the Long Blondes to Crazy P, but also that it just didn’t matter. The Bestival is about hanging loose and having a blast. And we’ll certainly be back for more next year. Top one
all photos in this article were shot using the Olympus E-System
