Here’s the next installment of guest writer Jack Phoenix’s account of his time at Bestival 2006. His personal view.
. . . i miss out the Pet Shop Boys entirely . . . at times Neil Tennant seems so dispassionate & uninterested in what he’s performing that i fail to see why i should be interested either . . & i don’t like his whiny voice . . . someone said the PSBs are meant to be ironic or something . . . yeah, well, great . . . but i like my music passionate & involved . . . i love satire, but irony leaves me cold . . . but then i was never going to be seduced by the pop end of the spectrum, & of the main stage acts, for me only The Fall and John Martyn were truly unmissable . . .
. . . with Sal & Simon i check out the Insect Museum – an extraordinary piece of detailed & sustained whimsy . . . you peek through little lenses to view mechanical beetles being tamed like lions, & other flights of entomological fancy . . . trippy enough without chemical enhancement, i can’t imagine what i’d’ve made of it last year . . . the team behind it are holding an Insect Circus at Hoxton Hall in December . . . check it out . . .
. . . next The Bees in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Tent . . it’s 2am, but it’s still oversubscribed . . i’m jostled so much i can’t get a single photo & have to scarper for fear of being crushed . . there’s even a crowd outside the tent, but we can’t make out much because of competition from the sound systems of late night vendors . . wouldn’t they like to hear The Bees too? . . apparently not, though the fans inside are singing along en masse . . there are even people climbing up tent poles to get a look . . . soon a bunch of security guards pile into the tent with emergency crash barriers . . . it’s crazy to put on such a popular national & local band in such a tiny venue . . .
. . . late night: i’m in an unnamed tent admiring a band . . a muddled conversation with a tripped out friend leaves me incensed . . i exit swiftly, burning with a terrible rage inside . . a rage so fiery i think i might collapse or spontaneously combust . . it won’t subside, so i find myself wondering why i should leave somewhere i was enjoying myself . . i return minutes later for another hectic, muddled exchange . . . it’s time to go home & reflect . . . i’m too tired, & darkness & the isolation of my own intensity overwhelm me again . . . . later i feel cleansed through the cathartic expression of pent up rage . . then i worry that i’ve put him on a terrible downer . . . days later he tells me he remembers little or nothing . . .
More later …
