Originally published here and in DIY Magazine. 8/10. Wireless Festival (Day Two).
Barclaycard. Vodafone. Pepsi Max. Everywhere. Welcome to the world’s most corporate affair. Sold out months in advance, and teeming with gazillions of scantily clad revellers in caps, we also notice the bountiful Essex bum on display, but that’s another matter.
Fajita in hand, AlunaGeorge are the first band we see, playing to a virtually empty Barclaycard Unwind Stage, and in spite of major sound drifts from the Main Stage, they manage to resonate as clearly as a klaxon. The marvellous ‘We Are Chosen’ comes across like Katy B’s poppy UK Funky but underpinned with post-dubstep clicks, whilst the endearing humps and sways of single ‘You Know You Like It’ dead ring for early Sugababes. A fine – if curt – set, the main attraction for the audience appears to be Aluna’s amiable belly button; iPhones wave in awe.
It’s not too sodden, so we saunter over to the Main Stage where Rita Ora is playing that tune she played on CBBC’s Friday Download. Says it all, really, and on hearing one crowd member’s declaration of “YOLO”, we move swiftly on, mainly out of dread.
After catching an ounce of Ozzie middle-aged rap troupe Hilltop Hoods’ atrocious set, interspersed with clichéd hollers of “Make Some Noise!”, the Pepsi Max Stage begins to overflow for D’Banj, who Mistajam introduces as “the King of Afrobeats”. It’s early days for this new wave of Nigerian pop in the UK, but with extraordinary backing singers, didactic “put your hands in the air”s, enviable moves and the advent of sun rays, his set is a bona fide winner. Afro grooves and manic dance-offs galore, closer ‘Oliver Twist’ is a massive mid-arvo party tune.
We subsequently endure an unpleasantly smelly crowd crush, and Ortis Deley’s detailed big-screen clarification of what a ‘Barclaycard Payband’ is, to watch Wiz Khalifa on the Main Stage. Dressed like a lost Rolling Stone, all denim jackets, head hankies and ridiculous tattoos, the polemical fella kickstarts his vaguely fun set by uttering: “Who’s gat the best weed out der?” He continues in similar fashion, employing unremitting “weed” anecdotes, samey choruses and a load of mass sing-a-longs. The one tune which truly stands out is infectious closer ‘Black and Yellow’, rather obviously. Wrapping up, the girl next to me proclaims: “n’aw, int he cute”.
One issue today – on the same weekend Bloc festival gets shut down for overcrowding – is the number of people here. It feels over-sold, and it’s incredibly tricky to move around the site. Indeed, as we wait to witness the Weeknd’s second ever UK date, Mistajam delivers an important announcement: “if you want to see the Weeknd, please take a step backwards.” Of course, everyone does want to see the Weeknd, but practically no one takes a step backwards. The poor, cramped sods at the front. It’s no use; they give in, and on strides the elusive Abel Tesfaye.
And it’s certified sexy time: despite many a flying Tuborg soaking the heaving crowd, everyone gets down in time to the sub-bass wallows, screeching along to every tune, from those on House of Balloons through Thursday to Echoes of Silence. Such is the shrill uproar that we can hardly hear the music, but as a whole, it’s a triumphant, strobe-lit set in which Tesfaye’s consummate, ululating vocals wow the crowd and reveal a character less enigmatic in person than expected. Borrowing largely from his Coachella set (available on YouTube), he culminates proceedings with a weepy rendition of ‘Wicked Games’.
Affective R n B done with, we head over to see the coquettish Lieutenant-General Minaj, who procures this title by dint of her command of the stage, and the fact she marches on followed by a regiment of semi-naked backing dancers. With a cerise-hued, synthetic stain-glass backdrop, some naff pink graffiti and a sci-fi themed spoken word intro (a blatant Janelle Monae rip-off), it’s as grandiose a beginning as you’d expect from The Walking Slideshow of Facial Expressions.
Clothed in a pink, frilled Barbie outfit, her set features plenty of miming, but that’s no shame given the abundance of tunes on offer: be it Pink Friday standout ‘Beez In The Trap’, the booty shakes of ‘Sound The Alarm’ or ‘Turn Me On’, David Guetta’s only tolerable smash. We can’t understand a lot of what she says in her quick-fire soliloquising between songs, but she certainly seems to tell us that we’re all “sexy” every thirty seconds or so. Rather spookily, just before closer ‘Superbass’, having intoned “bend up and touch the sky” in ‘Starships’, the heavens immediately send forth the rain…
But this is what our subsequent headliner urges us to chant back on the subject:
“I don’t give a fuck about the rain. We’re here to hear Drizzy go insane.”
Indeed, it is time. Fuelled by typical braggadocio, Drake ascends to serenading horns, cheesy drum fills, dropping mass bundles of N-Bombs and telling us simply how wonderful he is. Surrounded by funereal monochrome, two huge screens depicting visuals of volcanoes and blown up apartment blocks, himself adorned in a simple black hoodie and excessive gold chain, our splendid set of lugubrious emo-rap gets underway.
The Weeknd-featuring ‘Crew Love’ is an early, if doleful, highlight, whilst ‘We’ll Be Fine’, also from Take Care, incites mass, tuneless chants. Never falling short of cocky, introducing one song with “whenever I get 60 or 70 thousand people in one place, which isn’t every day, you’ll be surprised to know…”, dedicating another to “women who are destined to become women”, his set is jam-packed with hits and special guests. Minaj galloping on for a glorious ‘Make You Proud’, in a change of dress and straightened wig, is hands down the best tune we hear all day.
Just like Minaj before him, Drizzy is in prevailing control of the stage. For the most part, it’s just him and a mike in clear view, striding from one side of the stage to the other, as if totally unaware of the crammed park in front of him. But his stageshow also comes with its fair share of pyrotechnics. Having shattered my hopes and dreams when Rihanna doesn’t appear for ‘Take Care’, the stage is set ablaze for ‘HYFR’ and dazzling, far-fetched fireworks shoot off into the LDN sky. As he closes with ‘Headlines’, the screens now covered in intricate Mallarmé-esque fonts, we realise what an incredible 90 minutes we’ve just passed. He may well be the coolest motherfucker on earth.
(post paint fight)
Originally published here, here and here. Secret Garden Party.
DAY ONE
This particular party feels like another earth within The Earth, and it’s a weird one. Tent assembled, we begin by strolling through the site aimlessly and with an ambling gait, swathing through mud-plastered hippies, in awe at the fifty hula-hoopers skanking to Rihanna and the early-risers swimming in the pictorial lake.
As Bristol singer-songwriter Rozi Plain plays out her fragile, wafer-crisp folk on the eerie Where The Wild Things Are stage, tummies rumbling, we decide to sample the SGP cuisine in the form of a ‘caramelicious’ hot chocolate and take another wander. But everywhere we go, there’s something daunting and garish glaring at us. What is this ‘Colisillyum’? Why is there a gigantic fucking straw fox wearing a monocle on that hill?
Taking refuge in the Living Room venue, we bump into ex-school-friends Fair & Square who relate their meeting Lee Evans earlier this week. This is a cool and absorbing discussion, but a large man walking past in a wedding dress immediately distracts us.
Later on, however, these recent winners of ‘Best Newcomer’ at the Musical Comedy Awards are a genuine live winner. Quick-fire gags, inimitable chump faces and jocularly nonsensical interludes are the manifold order of the day. Curt parodies of Radiohead, Kelis and Britney, with added audience interaction, a dapper dress sense, ukulele noodling and cajon throbbing make Fair & Square an exceedingly difficult act to follow.
Next up – Strobe Circus, an irregular 8-piece reggae band are a fun find in the Rhumba Rum Bar, whilst The Moons, who number a Bob Dylan doppelganger, a lost Gallagher brother and George Harrison’s ostensible ghost, deliver pointless and unfashionable lad-rock at WTWTA. This isn’t so fun, so we head back to catch Planet Man and the Internationalz who bring the veritable dread to the Rum Bar, all Kingston riddims, bass thrums and meandering organ. There are a number of clichéd yelps of “I n I” but when the whole tent’s grooving to spotless bass improv and horn synths, who cares?
It is now raining. Typical bugger, and there’s a turnout of roughly a dozen for Dylan LeBlanc’s outdoor show at WTWTA, but he takes this on the chin. On a stage bedecked and surrounded with labyrinthine logs, himself resembling some sort of Neil Young and Evan Dando hybrid, LeBlanc plays a stunning set accompanied by a sole slide guitarist. Standout track “Diamonds and Pearls” aside, it’s his between-song chit-chat which is most endearing: “Oi, y’all, turn it up”, he calls out to the tinny D n B DJs in the distance.
Evening approaches as we bump into the lovely, if grumpy looking, SoKo on our way to see Alabama Shakes on the Great Stage. Wearing white, mud-splattered Dr Martens, she tells us she hates the mud and that she isn’t really “a festival person”. She plays on the same stage with an anomalous surprise guest the following day (see Day Two review).
In some sort of miraculous occurrence, the sun instantaneously comes out for Alabama Shakes’ early evening set, and the world’s most unseemly rock-stars amaze with their melodious, if rather comatose, rock n roll. Be it the androgynous chants, incendiary organ and infectious bass rolls of single ‘Hold On’, frontwoman Brittany’s howls and screeches on ‘I Found You’ or a new quick-paced number piloted by walking bass, their set is utterly triumphant from beginning to end. A drunk man snorting something whilst flailing his girlfriend in the air in front of us is a slightly disconcerting distraction, but nothing can detract from the Shakes’ powerful, sun-kissed grooves.
Cider-sozzled, we subsequently perch on top of the hill to watch Little Dragon’s catchy synth-pop of ululating 80s synths, LCD grooves and jovial bass thumps. It looks neat on paper, for sure, but they fall short live. Fifteen minutes is enough, so we leave to find an all-female MC group called the Lyrically Challenged Collective playing in the OneTaste area. Claiming to “represent unity”, they spit rhymes over Lauryn Hill samples and glitchy beats, pitching up somewhere in the THEESatisfaction vein. Hollering choruses like “We’re not having it any way, any how” is utterly enjoyable, and a little bit thought-provoking.
Compere MC Angel, a member of the aforementioned collective, next introduces 17-year-old Essex beat poet and rapper Sonny Green, who proffers irate political tirades of existential anger and fear, or what he describes as “conscious” music. Clad in a rainbow jacket, spoken word tune “Deeper Within” and the musical rest, on which he’s backed by drummer Kwake and DJ Shorty, are plainly wonderful. Quipping “Fuck Jay-Z” alongside “I remember when it was 10p for a freddo” showcases geniously topical teenage lyricism.
Irritated by Edward Sharpe’s entirely forgettable folk whimsy and entirely shitty dancing, we stick here to catch Kate Tempest’s beguiling unrelenting flow. Accompanied by childhood pal Kwake on the kit, she performs incessantly and spittingly, with the crowd in admiration. A short but sweet four-song set, at one point she takes off her socks, endures the mud, takes the microphone into the crowd and stands on a stool as if a preacherman. Tempest is surely a future poet laureate.
DAY TWO
It’s midday, the sun looms high and for some reason, the entire live population of SGP seems to be watching dire hirsute comic Tim Minchin on the Great Stage. His lyrics were kind of amusing once, but years of repetition and banal iconoclasm make his set severely dull; that said, his AOR funk music is groovy enough for us to jig our booties to at the bar whilst no one’s looking.
Flitting from Minchin to SoKo within in a mere half-hour, the organisers couldn’t have created a greater antithesis: from large-scale laughter to introverted doom. Many songwriters pen one or two songs about death nowadays, but Stephanie Sokolinski seems to solely write songs about her sorry existence, whether as suicidal folk (‘The Destruction Of The Disgusting Ugly Hate’) or ballsy garage rock (‘Nervous Breakdown’).
She’s evidently a lot more in the festival spirit following our encounter with her yesterday: in the wraithlike ‘I thought I was An Alien’ she invites members of the crowd to join her in dancing like an alien on stage, and in the most surreal event of the festival so far, she brings Ginny Weasley on to sing backing vocals on ‘First Love Never Die’. But what’s most striking is her adorable charm: an insouciant burp appears mid-set, she replies to shouts of “I LOVE YOU, SOKO” with “I don’t know who you are, but I’d probably love you too,” and she closes with ‘You Have A Power On Me’, uttering “you guys are having this power on me right now.” It’s a wonderful, moving set.
Sauntering past bizarre art installations such as Guy Woodhouse’s Tea Dispenser and Rosie Jackson’s smoky Rope House, the next act we see is former Cambridge lad Nick Mulvey over in the OneTaste tent. His African-influenced guitar music is a world away from his work as ‘hang’ player in Portico Quartet, but songs written about his new surroundings of Regents Canal, a glorious cover of Gillian Welch’s ‘Look at Miss Ohio’ and ‘Curucuru’, perhaps the best original song we hear all weekend, are a delight to everyone’s ears.
LA grunge amants Tashaki Miyaki subsequently offer wallowing fuzz and Cocteau Twin vocals over at Where The Wild Things Are. In addition to a sweet elderflower and honey frozen yoghurt, songs like their Dum Dum Girlsy ‘Cities’ proffer the perfect antidote to the stifling heat. And the same goes for Violet, Pixie Geldof’s amazing new indie-pop outfit. Spotted skanking to Ludacris and holding a bright pink ciggie beforehand, it doesn’t bode well, but songs like ‘YOU’, ‘Pancakes’ and ‘Cherry Pie’ (there’s a foody theme), combined with twee “ohh-ah-ooh”s, twinkling keys and dulcet vocals engender spellbinding catchiness. Marvellous closer ‘Feet First’ recalls a poppier Mazzy Star.
Next – having bumped into a friendly Proudlock from Made In Chelsea (I didn’t want to say Hi, but my friend did), we catch a distinctly average set of gruff groaning from Baxter Dury on the main stage. Sadly, his music dead rings for his father’s but doesn’t quite hit the mark.
Now on comes Little Roy, whose mix of well-known 70s material (‘Christopher Columbus’, ‘Tribal War’, etc) and Nirvana covers off last year’s Battle for Seattle get the whole crowd bobbing up and down, and swaying from side to side. There’s a meagre turn-out at first but the crowd expands exponentially. A lack of live guitarists is peculiar, but a dubby DJ, two-piece brass section and backing singers more than make up for it. Who’d have thought you’d ever be able to groove like that to ‘Polly’?
It’s now left to Bristol reggae legends Talisman in the Rum Bar to continue the party. A slightly smaller live band than usual (they very rarely play outside the Briz), they still manage to rock the sparsely populated tent. As they claim, “we don’t play music, we work music… Tonight is edutainment”. In fact, they ‘work’ a captivating set which spans Peter Tosh and Bob Marley covers (‘Get up, Stand Up’ and ‘One Love’ respectively), alongside their own extraordinary material (‘Dole Age’, ‘Shine On’, etc). On the note: “Corruption in high places. Nothing change”, we move off and walk past a tent in which a cross-dresser is playing a trombone to the Pink Panther theme tune. It’s time for bed.
DAY THREE
A strangely downcast Sunday Blues atmosphere pervades the barren site at 11am, and following our discovery of ‘masala coffee’ at the Thali Café, we launch ourselves onto the immense pink frilly podium opposite the Colosillyum, next to the ghostly made-up graveyard. It’s an enjoyable exercise simply watching the dishevelled passers-by.
After an hour of this, we decide to explore the Small World Stage, where we find a blissful world of hippies in which footwear is banned. Playing is Nathan Ball who deftly dovetails percussive finger-plucks with understated bongo patters. It’s an uplifting, mellow lunchtime sound-track for sure, but we’re distracted throughout: the stage is infiltrated by a toddler and a dog, and it’s so frigging cute. Totally carefree, they play with each other below the bongo player as though the stage were a miniature playground.
We then catch whiteboy ska band Will & The People who start with a wholly faithful Bob Marley cover and finish with the Pixies’ ‘Where is my Mind?’. We’re not quite sure how this works, but their own material is also pleasurable: all Hammond organs, dub thrums and Pablo-esque melodica. It’s a consummate prelude to the unexpected Main Event.
That is, the annual SGP Great Stage paint fight. There must be 2,000 people here, virgins versus veterans, all crowded around the staff holding buckets of paint powder. Our hands now full, the numerous hype-men on stage count down from 10... 3… 2… 1… The sky is a shroud of blurry technicolour. It’s a surreal moment, made even more so by the fact we’re now dancing to ‘Every Day I love You Less & Less’ by Kaiser Chiefs. As the sky clears, our colourful skin, clothes and bags are unveiled. Whoops.
Wandering off, PR Nick in the media tent declares, “you look like you’ve stepped into the vortex”, whilst a man the Secret Emporium utters, “you definitely lost the paint fight, mate”. I take all this on the chin, compliant with my new rainbow look.
I do psychologically shake it off however, when we see the foot-stomping Ahab, an upbeat country and western band equipped with 12-string guitar, mandolin, headbands, flatcaps and facial hair in the Crossroads tent. It’s amiable faux bluegrass in the Mumford ilk, and a certified guilty pleasure.
On our way out, we happen across a rather flamboyant cortège: a sassy New York Brass Band in dinner attire leading the way, with men on stilts, men in wigs and men in buggies on the rear. As we advance towards the Colosillyum to observe a painful close-up paintball comp, we discover the Band4Hope tree where the public can inscribe future hopes and desires. One thoughtful guy has written – “I wish that one day… Keira Knightley gives me head”.
For some reason, the homely Living Room venue is chock-a-block today. We now see why – the second most annoying hairy ginger of the weekend is doing a secret set. Luckily, Newton Faulkner is just closing with a cover of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ as we enter. The audience is now pouring out in flocks, and we stick around to see Jake Morley whose lap-guitar playing and funky hoedowns backed by a double bassist on new song ‘Allegorical House’ serve up a lovely mid-afternoon treat.
To round off our first ever Garden Party, we head to the Where The Wild Things Are area, which is heaving as hotly-tipped Daughter, minimal alter-ego of moody singer Elena Tonra, ascends to execute her doleful tween-folk. Very much like Marling (super articulated, touching and static), it’s the well-known ‘Youth’, in which post-rocky diminuendos meet saccharine, delicate whispers, that particularly stands out.
And it’s now left to the perennially awesome Summer Camp to culminate proceedings with their ludicrously 80s mish-mash of twinkling synths, twee vocals and reverby FX. ‘Ghost Train’ is a bit of a shambles as per, but recent single ‘Always’ is puissant, invigorating and catchy like a fuzzy Human League. When Jeremy Warmsley proclaims ‘YOLO’ in a description of their close-call with lightning at an Italian festival the day before, we think yes, YES – SGP has surreptitiously encapsulated ‘YOLO’. Paint fights, mud fights and bands we’d never thought we’d enjoy; it was YOLO fo sho.
