Bestival 2014

Summer is a heady choice of adventure. With the festival circuit in full swing between about May – September, there’s a myriad weekends to decide which one to lose yourself in. If the festivals are to be seen as one big family; Download your rock-loving brother, Latitude your young, mad, fun auntie, then to understand the Bestival experience, we have to work out which member of the family it is. Armed with tent and wellingtons, it was my job to find out.

Being usually a L-atit-uddite (and yes, a young, fun auntie to boot, thanks very much), the trek beyond the East Anglian limits came as a shock. Train – tube – train – bloody ferry – shuttle bus was far removed from the jaunt down the A146 I’m used to. But you know what, it’s doable and we made it, an hour and a half earlier than I expected.

Bestival was already in full swing when we arrived on the Friday, and even before the main arena area, the site was bubbling with activity as I rolled down the hill, tent on back, gathering moss, twigs, grass, squashed leftover chips and nitrous canisters. Ah, the modern British festival.

Friday rolled by without drop in pace; from the moment we entered the main arena, to the sound of Laura Mvula and her heavenly chanting of ‘Sing to the Moon’, we were in a steady routine of watch – get bearings – eat – repeat. It seemed the 60,000 people that were reportedly in attendance were all doing their own merry dance before the whisper of everyone coming together for the headliners, Outkast that night.

We weren’t wishing the time away, however; we caught some of charts-dominator, Sam Smith with his falsetto soul ballads floating off the main stage, and Disclosure’s set was appropriately danceable for the evermore glittered up Bestival crowd. I’ve seen Disclosure before, and they’ve received criticism for standing behind turntables and doing, well, nothing, but this set was full of knob twiddling, crowd hyping and genuinely good musicianship. ‘When a Fire Starts to Burn’ was the first time (of many) of the weekend that I was imbued with that festival feeling; that moment when you’re suddenly aware that together with thousands of people, you’re singing and dancing from the same hymn sheet, to brilliant music that has come alive from stereo to stage.

For me, despite Outkast being on Friday’s bill, tUnE-yArDs played the set of the day. I’ve never seen Merrill Garbus’ musical persona live, but it was full of the spontaneity and boundless energy that I’d come to expect from hearing about her live exploits.

Outkast should have been brilliant; twenty years of funk-fuelled hip hop behind them, the catalogue alone would provide enough material to keep the crowd in the palm of their hands for over an hour. Disastrously though, wherever in the crowd I stood, all I could hear was the bass of the tracks, and André 3000’s trademark patter. Big Boi’s deep drawl couldn’t be picked out well, and none of the melody of the tracks, like the iconic keyboard riff from ‘Hey Ya’ could be distinguished. It was devastating, and made every song sound the same. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a little pout.

SATURDAY

We spent a good part of Saturday orientating ourselves for the day to come. We knew we wanted to end Saturday’s adventures by taking in Annie Mac’s DJ set from 1am at The Port, which was at the other end of the arena space, so it was good for us to plan that journey before being beer soaked later.

Every festival has its touches that make it unique. Bestival’s huge, huge disco ball*, strapped down to one particular apex of its hilly terrain was a shining beacon of this year’s theme, Desert Island Disco. It was like Mecca for all the fancy-dressed, disco tile sporting pilgrims that had made it to the island. *I’ve just found out from the trusted source of the BBC that it was the world’s largest.

Another of its hallmarks was the Feast Collective, an undercover street food tent that celebrated how good eating stood-up in your wellies could be. As a couple of foodies, the variation away from your bog standard burger or questionable looking MSG-soaked Chinese food was well received. We had steamed cod dumplings from Dorshi, Italian meatballs, ham hock pie and shaved, melted cheese from Le Rac Shack. Let’s just repeat that: shaved, melted cheese. It’s an alpine traditional dish – Raclette – that had cornichons, salami, pickles and potato all being blanketed by molten cheese that was shaved from the larger wheel. Oh yes, we ate well.

Back to the music. It was fantastic to start the musical day off by visiting one of the smaller stages, Pig’s Big Ballroom, which was home to the Shellac Collective’s curated line-up. If that name sounds familiar, it should. The Shellac Collective have a strong relationship with Norwich, with regular shows on Future Radio, and many of their chosen acts residing in Norwich itself. It was so nice to venture inside the tent and see DJ78 – a Norwich icon and legend! – spinning his 78s to a happy, grooving crowd.

Being fickle little beasts, we took in parts of lots of the acts all day; roaming from Dan le Sac vs Scroobius Pip’s final ever gig – it was awesome to hear ‘Thou Shalt Always Kill’ for presumably the last time live – to catching soul songstress Candi Staton belt out ‘You Got the Love’ and ‘Young Hearts, Run Free’. We also caught some of SBTRKT’s dark, booming, brilliant electronic set and Wild Beast’s avant-garde art-pop on the main stage. The site is small enough to keep it fresh; to escape from underneath one canvas and establish yourself in another.

We ended the long day by trying to establish a position outside the heaving 6Music Big Top tent for Basement Jaxx’s late night slot, before heading to Annie Mac. Basement Jaxx sounded amazing, and it was just bad timing that saw us on the periphery, rather than right in the middle of the action. We sauntered down to Annie Mac, and as Bestival virgins, were taken aback by the monstrous ship at the end of The Port area. Beached and static, HMS Bestival was home to Annie Mac and an astonishing list of other DJs. Everyone – and I mean everyone – had come to worship at the Annie Mac altar, and lasers, pyrotechnics and fireworks signalled her arrival for the headline slot. Radio 1’s first lady of dance kept everyone going ‘til the wee hours.

SUNDAY

Teeny, weeny hangover.

Despite the obvious headache, a third day of dry weather beckoned us out of the tent earlier today, with a line-up that was calling us forth. We started the day off with the garage-y, chart-pop sounds of Clean Bandit, who shook all the Sunday sleepiness out of us with their hit single, ‘Rather Be’, which went down really well.

Austrian electronic producer / artist Sohn was a massive landmark in my day that I was planning stuff around; my artist of the year so far, I was desperate to see him live, so I was engineering our movements around it. Luckily, the Spiegeltent (of Chapelfield Gardens Norfolk and Norwich Festival fame) was superbly, centrally located and provided 15-minute bursts of comedy that made awesome fillers. That’s not to deride the performers; festivals are about the music for me generally, but making small time investments into acts you’ve not seen before is much more likely to convert you than having to invest an hour in a comedy set of dubious quality. Alex Edelman and Jamali Maddix stood out in a largely quality line-up (apart from you, Alistair Barrie, who delivered a bitter, unfunny set full of pompous quibbles about your own lack of success). Bostonian-via New Yorker Edelman stood out to me before I’d found out he’d just won the Edinburgh Fringe best newcomer award a week previous, and before he’d cruelly picked me out in the crowd for the incongruity of my arm tattoos and my 13-year old looking face. Cheers buddy.

Call me biased, but that’s what loving music is about: unwavering bias. Sohn was amazing. If you haven’t heard the minimalist, swooning marriage of his devastating vocal and almost electro-church organ backdrop, you should. To hear my song of the year, ‘The Wheel’ in a live environment was a near-spiritual experience.

Even though Chic were topping the bill that night – and good they were too; Nile Rodgers hammering out those signature riffs – for me, Bestival peaked early. It felt like the whole weekend was gearing up for the entrance of Major Lazer, even though we might not have known it. They epitomised Bestival for me with their colour, energy and of course, banger after banger of a song. Owning the main stage, they had the crowd in the palm of their hands, Diplo whipping up the frenzied masses in front of him, getting the tens of thousands watching to run all the way left, then all the way right on a whim. There was a moment where you could tell they’d managed to gain our complete obedience when they turned the Isle of Wight into a massive, proper dancehall gig, getting everyone to swing their shirts above their heads. It ignited something in all of us - in me. At 6pm on Sunday, Bestival had reached its unintended crescendo. I lay the blame of the carnage that ensued purely in the hands of one Thomas ‘Diplo’ Pentz.

Invigorated, yet beaten and spent, I reflected on the ferry back from IOW on where Bestival sat in the family of UK festivals. There’s one in every family; the wild streak, the black sheep, the follower of their own path, the one who grows up too late – untamed, but very loving. Reader, if you think that might be you, Bestival 2015 is on sale now. Only 51 weeks to go.