Britain, ever the laughing stock of it’s European neighbours, is often mocked for it’s somewhat trying climate. The British have developed such a blasé attitude to their notoriously wet summers that rain is rarely able to spoil any event. Unfortunately for revellers headed southwards to the Isle of Wight’s Bestival, the tempestuous weather so far surpassed any expectations of an English summer that even the most hardened festival goers were tested.
For the past four years, Bestival,
a product of DJ Rob Da Bank and his Sunday Best label has gone from strength to strength, earning it’s place among the top festivals in an increasingly full market. Small but significant touches keep the festival’s vibe individual, but even a breast-feeding area named ‘Breastival’ couldn’t cover up the grave oversights made by the organisers. By the time people arrived late on Thursday, hurricane force winds and torrential rain had already churned Robin Hill Park into a quagmire impossible to navigate, made less helpful by the confused stewards, seemingly unable to distinguish the whereabouts of any of the camping grounds, or more worryingly, the medical tent.
Those brave enough to venture out from the safety of their tents to catch the likes of their favourite lesser known or new acts such as Lykke Li or Metronomy on the BBC Introducing Stage were thrilled to find the stage had sunk into a watery grave rendering all acts cancelled until further notice. A similar policy followed on Saturday night when all acts past 7:30 mysteriously failed to materialize.
Disorganization of bands was a running theme throughout the festival. Saturday came with the slow realisation that someone, somewhere, had taken it upon themselves to move all bands on the main stage forward by an hour. Unfortunately for Bestival organisers, their foolproof method for enlightening people to this fact; one drunk pirate stumbling through crowds of thirty thousand with a sign, failed miserably, and resulted in many missing key acts they came especially to see.
Luckily on Friday night the rain held off just long enough for the atmospheric My Bloody Valentine to take the stage. A long summer of festivals had not affected the energy of the newly reformed band in the slightest and their fifteen minute wall of sound managed to excite even the most downhearted of the audience. Over in the Big Top tent the fantastic Ladyhawke and Santogold successfully flew the flag for those few female musicians left without a Brit School diploma and both delivered stunning sets. As evening wore on, the mud continued to rise and the rain again began to fall as the night descended into a filthy mess of fiendish electro courtesy of Erol Alkan and Chromeo.
To those who had survived through to Saturday morning after a night of Mother Nature’s worst it was clear from empty patches of grass around the campsites that Bestival had proved too much for many. However with the report (untrue) that the worst of the weather was over and with Saturday being Bestival’s famous day of fancy dress, things began to look up. The unfortunate irony of the theme, ‘30,000 Freaks under the Sea,’ was lost on no-one.
Saturday saw a big line up for the Main Stage.
An erratic and frankly terrifying Gary Numan embodied the plight of an aging one-hit wonder clinging on to his last ounce of glory (with fabulous results) and brought a smile, albeit one of ridicule, to the mud soaked crowd. The mood only continued to lift as ‘Special Guests’ turned out to be The Specials, billed as Terry Hall and Friends in the absence of Jerry Dammers, who bounced their way through old favourites ‘A Message to you Rudy’ and ‘Too Much Too Young.’ Continuing along on the theme of comeback bands, The Human League, a vision of eighties pop in a whirl of pink and sequins, hairspray and inoffensive melodies proved that they still had it. And just in case anyone still cares, yes Amy Winehouse came, yes, she made everyone wait for over an hour, no, she didn’t complete a full set, and yes she snarled profanities at the audience before stumbling offstage, the end.
After an obscure and somewhat disappointing set by Aphex Twin and the chilling realisation that the campsite bore an uncanny resemblance to The Somme with people dropping like flies at every step, it became clear that things had gone too far. The momentary magic brought on by a single sighting of blue sky earlier in the day and an evening of nostalgic music was gone, and things again became unbearably hopeless. There were grim nods and looks of defeat; it was time to go home... And so, Sunday morning, ignoring the promise of Underworld later that evening, many began the long march home, back to a roof over their heads, baths, and warm beds; an untimely end to a potentially marvellous weekend.
Onstage there are no smiles, no outlandish stage antics, no light-hearted banter to do the job their music can’t. It’s worth mentioning that in consequence, the audience is possibly the most unresponsive ever recorded in history. There is not so much as a solitary mosh-pit aficionado to be seen, let alone people fighting for the coveted position against the front railings. Ah, so they’re only young, you say. Give them a chance? In today’s fast paced world of music there are not only a million bands that are doing it better, there are a million bands that are doing it better and are even younger. There is no room for error; it is no longer enough to be a sharply dressed, pretty face in the unforgiving milieu of new music. And, if they’ve any sense, the younger crowd’s opinion will soon echo the disdainful judgment of the audience members at Push. One Night Only? Here’s hoping.
