Here’s the first installment of guest writer Jack Phoenix’s account of his time at Bestival 2006. His personal view.
. . i’ve always enjoyed the grittiness of The Fall’s music, and the slightly disturbing eccentricity of Mark E. Smith’s lyrics and idiosyncratic vocal style . . . sure enough, the band’s back on form, and i wonder whether the large ceramic cockerell at front of stage has anything to do with Smith . .
Swiftness – Eight of Wands: Mercury in Sagittarius; clear; direct; swift communication; overcoming misunderstandings . . . The time has come for you to communicate your position clearly and firmly. If you are candid and respect yourself, misunderstandings will disappear . . . [Aleister Crowley Egyptian Thoth Tarot, exegesis by Ziegler]
. . . i’m up at 5am again having had little sleep . . since mid-June, every day has started with a walk on the beach with Thelonious . . . he gets increasingly excited as we approach the shore, & it’s hard not to feel exhilirated too by his enthusiasm . . . today the sun illuminates a few friendly-looking clouds . . . it’s gonna be a fine day . . .
. . . there’s an unexpected sight on East Cowes Parade this morning . . . an old, red, double-decker London bus is wating there incongruously . . round the front it’s showing Bestival 2006, as its destination . . another sign points to the driver’s seat, and says, simply, “Dave” . . .
. . . whilst Thelonious (a blue Bedlington terrier puppy – he’ll be five months old next Saturday) sniffs about the place, pausing to chew the odd bit of seaweed, i’m similarly absorbed with collecting beach treasure – those nuggets of frosted glass you find amongst the pebbles . . . it’s become a kind of ritual . . a meditation . . . and there are rules: if the edges aren’t smooth enough, if it’s not fully frosted, it isn’t yet ‘ripe’ . . you have to chuck it back in for the sea to do its magic, even if it’s a rare one, a deep blue or a pink . . .
. . . i’m excited, but i need to balance my mind . . . i’m really looking forward to the Bestival, but there’s no doubt that this year it is going to present a significant challenge for me . . .
. . . back home i managed to finish a rudimentary webpage before frantically packing a bag, dropping off the dog with my parents (he’s a kind of surrogate grandchild) and driving towards Robin Hill . . .
. . . i’m driving through Adgestone, to Newchurch then Arreton . . listening to the trombone towards the end of Dub Side of the Moon . . . feelings well up inside . . . it touches something deep, a transcendent feeling makes my hair stand on end, an electric pulse through my body, like the solid air before a lightning storm . . it’s almost too pleasant to bear and i’m soon feeling tears of joy in my eyes . . i know that i am already very tired – too tired – and that my emotions are going to go through some destructive testing . . .
. . . i park up in a secret place and walk up the downs . . . through a field of horses and chickens . . through woodland and over chalk down where butterflies frolic in the sunshine . . . i’m later than i intended, but i’m taking my time . . . i’m still not as fit as i’d like, and so every now & then i stop to pick up some feathers and add them to the collection in my hat band . . .
. . . it’s not too busy when i get there, and as i go in, it feels like coming home . . the arranged rendez-vous is The Chancers’ gig . . . so i make my way resolutely down the hill, having a quick shufti at the bandstand and the farmers market, and stop to chat to artist Tim Johnson who’s constructing some wicker igloos at the bottom of the hill with some chums . . . Tim, who’s a keen twitcher, identifies half a seagull poking out of my hatband . . . . . . on my way, a fancy dress reveller tells me i stand a good chance in the fancy dress competition . . except that this is what i wear on a daily basis, nothing that fancy for me today . . . cheeky cow . . .
. . . eventually i make it to the Blue Pavilion and whip the camera out . . . taking snaps gives me a sense of purpose this time, so that i don’t just end up staggering around in an intoxicated stupor like i did last year . . .
. . . the amplification is intense – but fortunately i packed some ear plugs, so i can stand right by the speakers with my ears stuffed with polystyrene foam, and enjoy the not unpleasant sensation of the bass frequencies making my trousers vibrate whilst i watch the band . . . Island band The Chancers, who’ve won a podcast competition, look pretty relaxed and seem to be enjoying themselves . . they’re joined on their final number by guest Heather McCallum on flute . . . there’s a sizeable crowd by now, and an eccentric assortment of mainly chubby girls in technicolor afro-wigs are inspired to dance . . . all in all, a real blast and wonderful start to the weekend . . .
next i take in the more ethereal soundscapes of Motion Pictures in The Rock ‘n’ Roll Tent . . this tent is sponsored by Jack Daniels, whereas the Blue Pavilion is courtesy of Rizla cigarette papers . . all we need is a tobacco marquee and a codeine gazebo, and i’ve got half of my substance addictions covered . . . Pictures are followed by a startling contrast: Cowes Punks Fingermonster, who deliver a real blast of a set, despite the bassist’s loss of a string halfway through . . . . Chaz had promised to come on and cavort in a papier mache number he’s specially constructed for the occasion, but there’s no sign of him anywhere . . . but there are already a few brave souls who’ve loosened up enough to whirl and dance . . .
. . . i wander over to the Voodoo inspired Big Top, admiring the skull decor, and catch the end of Jeremy Walmsley set . . it’s heartfelt and artfully constructed and performed, but a bit limp and wan after the energy of Fingermonster, and he looks like the teenage nerd everyone bullied at school . . .
. . . i’m starting to feel a bit anxious about not being able to catch everything . . i remind myself that, save some rapid cloning, it’s gonna be physically impossible: there’s just too much on simultaneously . . . best to just relax and take in highlights, with a bit of random sampling in between, as the fancy takes me . . . i did the same last year, but with even less planning, and a lot more staggering about and falling over . . .
. . . next up it’s The Fall on the mainstage, one of the few bands i really, really would have been upset to miss . . . i last saw them in London in 1988 0r 9 as part of the Curious Oranj tour . . . i’ve always enjoyed the grittiness of their music, and the slightly disturbing eccentricity of Mark E. Smith’s lyrics and idiosyncratic vocal style . . sure enough, the band’s back on form, and i wonder whether the large ceramic cock at front of stage has anything to do with Smith . . . i’m standing next to a whole bunch of mates, including Jez of Happy Feet Productions, and Jack of The Chancers . . . DJ Russ is also a keen Fall fan, but even the novices seem to dig it . . . Smith’s face looks increasingly grizzled, but he seems to be enjoying himself . . . again, deep feelings rise up . . . memories from nearly half a lifetime ago in London, a time when i played bass guitar in an indie band, fell in love and went mad . . . i turn to Jez: ‘i’m feeling pretty overwhelmed’ i say . . there’s a kind of mad intensity and a tragic grandeur to what The Fall does that moves me in strange ways . . . luckily i’ve got my sunglasses on, even though it’s getting dark . . . no one can see what’s going on in my eyes . . . we’re grooving away to the darkest, brightest demonic, pounding beat . . . when i came back to earth, i came back as an immigrant-ah . . . strangeways . . . strangeways . . .
. . . later i catch Cooly Haste & the gang on the bandstand, admiring his deft verbal paradiddles . . . . and then with one encounter an old wound opens up again and that keen sense of disappointment . . . it’s only day one and i’ve already been up 16 hours . . . i’m really too tired and should have gone home ages ago . . . i’m starting to feel really shit . . .
. . . i manage to make it through to the dizzy excitements of Gogol Bordello on the mainstage . . . but i really am feeling so bad by now . . i can’t see or find anyone i know . . not even Baltic Boy who’s down from London &, when he’s not just looking handsome, makes a living as an escort . . . i make my way back to the car and a waiting bed as soon as it’s over . . . i’ve been from the heights of euphoric ecstasy to a suicidal despair in the course of a single day . . i should be used to it by now, but i’m not . . . it’s times like that these that i would have reached for a drink or a drug . . and now i can’t . . . ever . . . not without the risk of it spiralling out of control to the point where i am facing certain death again . . .
. . i try to remind myself that these feelings too will pass, and that all will be well that all will be well . . but i’m so tired my resistance is low, and i’m cracking up, thinking that there’s no way i can possibly come back for Saturday’s highlights . . . i’ve had enough of everything . . of the struggle to survive & remain optimistic . . of the sense of being an outsider permanently on the fringes of everything . . my mood has crashed hopelessly, violently to rock bottom . . .
. . . why am i so disappointed? . . . why do i expect the best of other people as i do of myself? . . . why do i keep expecting people to strive, as i do, to behave like decent human beings . . to be generous, to love one another and treat one another with compassion and understanding? . . . because that’s the sort of absolute twat i am – that’s why . . .
We’ll be creating a new flickr space for all of our photos from Bestival (when we can find the time)
