Brixton Come Together

As soon as you emerge bleary eyed from the claustrophobic gloom of the underground you are hit with the familiar sounds and smells that make Brixton truly unique. Sizzling jerk chicken and buttery popcorn infuse with the aroma of the incense that burns constantly outside Iceland. I always wonder if the smiling stallholder sells as much incense as he burns. The delightfully eclectic hustle and bustle of the high street never ceases and nor would I want it to. Whether it’s eager evangelists preaching to the masses, a scruffy man drumming some makeshift bins, fervent activists calling for action or steel drummers serenading shoppers there is always something to grab the attention.

Last weekend was no exception but this time the hullaballoo was emanating from St Matthews Church and the call was for Brixton to Come Together. And come together we did in celebration and support of the local community and the wealth of arts, music, food and culture this colourful borough has to offer. Merry making aside the serious issue raised by the festival was water waste and management, especially pertinent in light of the devastating drought currently being suffered in Northeast Brazil. There was food for thought scattered informatively round the site as well as food for the hungry belly on offer by local businesses, not to mention food for the soul. This came in the form of a great line-up of live music running midday to midnight all weekend and continuing into the wee hours at various after parties.

My weekend highlight was Prince Fatty Soundsystem’s set, dropping some delicious dub with the talented (but puzzlingly un-horselike) MC Horseman dominating the mic to ensure everyone was on their feet for a hangover skank on Saturday afternoon. For me this was the moment when Brixton really came together. Despite the distinct social and cultural groups that have come to inhabit Brixton over the decades tribes faded into insignificance as leather-clad punks loosened their knees, hemp-wearing hippies swung their dreads, middle-aged mothers moved their hips, dreadlocked rastas jiggled their beanies and art students in tie-dye got their groove on. Even the odd Claphamite sipping a gin and tonic could be seen swaying cautiously to the beat.

The enormous effort involved, joy shared and awareness made over the weekend was as great as any festival and Brixton pulled it off for free. The success was due in no small part to the organisers, artists and caterers, but to complete the package a large dose of community spirit, unbridled enthusiasm and a passion for what makes Brixton a place many love to live in was the secret recipe to make “Brixton Come Together” do exactly what it said on the tin.

“I’m Still Standing“

Surviving Bestival 2013

Packing for a festival is difficult at the best of times. (Correction: packing for a British festival is difficult. Packing for a sun-soaked festival off the coast of Croatia or Spain is as easy as suncream, swimsuit, tent.) However this year we found ourselves packing for Bestival having hardly even unpacked from our recent jaunt through Eastern Europe. Luckily the clothes required for an outdoor festival on a windy island off the coast of England in the early reaches of autumn with a forecast of rain are polar (like the pun?) opposite to those just donned for the last month in 32 degree heat.

My very organised and professional boyfriend had secured a slot to DJ at the Hidden Disco over the weekend. On Saturday to be precise. Or so we thought until at lunchtime on Thursday upon re-reading an email we realised his slot was at 1pm the next day. Doh!

What ensued was a frenzied whirlwind of unpacking rucksacks, repacking rucksacks and a whizz round Lewisham’s finest locales to find a nautical themed costume (you can’t come to Bestival without some sort of fancy dress!) and some blank CDs to create a last minute set list to supplement the vinyl collection. We managed to leave the house eventually and had a fairly smooth journey despite the fact that about 48,000 people (crew, artists and traders included) had already made the trip to the Isle that Thursday.

Bestival Hoards

Smooth journey behind us, finding a camping spot in the dark while a tide of drunken, wonky-walking youths surged the other way towards the main action was a voyage in itself. It was particularly disheartening when every other person that was still able to string a sentence together had only the words “good luck” to impart as wisdom. And luck indeed we needed if we were to find a spot that wasn’t about 5 fields away from the actual festival site. It’s at times like this, when carrying multiple tents, bags and jellyfish costumes past rows and rows of pitched tents, that one realises quite how massive Bestival is. 50,000 punters have got to sleep somewhere I suppose!

Despite the shaky start, Bestival can’t help but inject the party vibe into even a weary traveller’s veins. The energy hits you in the face on arrival and I am yet to meet a Bestival-goer that doesn’t treat their fellow revellers with respect and a blast of mutual merriment. Even the weather can’t dampen spirits. Friday dawned wet and windy but we were still woken at 7am by an incongruously cheerful voice affirming “I F**king hate camping” while queuing for an all day breakfast bap.

The show must go on however so we set off in search of the hidden disco to report for DJ duties, hoping that the small bit of blue sky visible would elongate into a legitimate summer scorcher. The best-laid plans however were scuppered by the very hiddenness of the Hidden Disco.  The irony wasn’t lost on us as we frantically scoured the site for secret entrances concealed in phone boxes or behind trees. Nor was it lost on the half dozen security guards and stewards we appealed to who proffered some imaginative variations of “How should I know, it’s hidden!” when faced with our dilemma. Despite the various obstacles we “found” it eventually. Found being a loose term since it wasn’t even hidden at all! Perhaps this was a purposeful ploy, with the thought that if people assume it isn’t the Hidden Disco it makes it all the more elusive…but anyway. Fortunately the sound system was so crisp and loud the music succeeded in pumping away any remaining cloud and we were basking in some early September sun. A great start to the weekend.

DJ Duct on the decks at the Hidden Disco

 Although a more regular small festival-goer, (preferring not to spend half my time waiting for people to meet us, waiting again for people to pee, and traipsing from one stage to another through crowds that would give London rush hour a run for its money), the plethora of non-musical entertainment, playful installations and general mayhem on offer makes Bestival a giant adult playground that entertains far beyond the huge line-ups offered. The most impressive feature by far was the port stage – an enormous old navy boat shipped in to provide an almost endless supply of heavy electronic music day and night with a host of DJs, dancers, fire-breathers and circus acts creating quite a spectacle and one hell of a party.

The Port Stage at sunset

I don’t feel as though I saw that many of the headlining acts but I wouldn’t want you to think it was because we were spending all our time waiting for people, queuing for loos and traipsing between stages. We were in fact navigating through mazes, hanging in hammocks, riding toboggans, exploring the ambient forest, painting naked men, getting married in the chapel, heckling comedians and making friends via the medium of walkie-talkie. This latter pursuit is not one offered by Bestival and we had to provide our own equipment, but I have half a mind to suggest they add it to their repertoire as it was genuinely the source of a good few hours of entertainment. On channel 7 we chanced upon a voice that stood out from the drone of security babble and a beautiful friendship was born from opposite ends of the festival site. Most of the talk was pure nonsense but a number of comically ingenious songs were exchanged eulogising sausages and also burgers(?) . Clearly no one was feeling so creative on sloppy Sunday afternoon. The radio-wave bond was so strong we made a plan to meet by the “Big L” of Bestival but the crowds for Elton John scuppered this plan so alas we will never put a face to those crooners on the other end of channel 7.

We did of course see some music over the course of the weekend but I was left with a confirmed conviction that smaller festivals are where the best performances are seen and heard. Not only are the artists less famous so still perform with the enthusiasm and energy that makes live music so invigorating (Snoop Dogg you we more S.H.I.T than P.I.M.P) but you also have a chance in hell of actually seeing the performer at close range without standing at the front for a few hours before they come on.  

All things said, Bestival you did us proud. As did the punters whose nautical costumes did not disappoint. We saw it all from sailors, pirates and deep-sea divers to flapping seagulls, flashing lighthouses, glowing jellyfish and even a team of David Seamans made an appearance. The level of innovation and effort made by the Bestival massive matched if not surpassed that of the festival curators’ who had clearly spent thousands on creating this marvellous maritime madhouse. I might have just about recovered in time for next year…

The Hitchhiker's guide to...Guca Trumpet Festival

Now, I’m a fan of Balkan Music. Or at least what we think of as Balkan: namely anything between Beirut’s hauntingly melancholic croonings that make the spirit both soar and break at the same time and Balkan Beatbox’s trumpety, jumpity deliciousness that gives one’s feet a life of their own. However one step inside Guca’s annual trumpet festival in Serbia served to redefine everything I thought I knew about Balkan music.

Every year, for one week only, a cacophony of brass, percussion and raucous revelry reverberates around this small town in southern Serbia.

On arrival it’s hard to know which sense to take in first. The ceaseless sound of trumpets, tubas, drums and trombones competing to be heard; the kaleidoscopic sight of polished brass blazing in the sun, the rich colours of the national costume and the coloured lights flashing on stages, funfair rides and gift laden stalls; the feel of the midsummer sun beating unforgivingly on your skin in time with the drummers’ strokes; or the olfactory overload of grilling meat.  Any meat. They grill everything from entire hog and lamb spit-roasts with teeth bared to burgers, kebabs, indefinable meat slabs and sausages of every shape, colour and size. It was enough to turn my recently converted omnivore friend back to being a veggie!

Sound intense? Intense it was but don’t let this put you off. The energy, pride and passion exuding from the entire spectacle epitomises the Serbian spirit. Everyone we met from stall owners and trumpet players to waiters and other revellers wanted to share their culture with us and drag us full pelt into the party.

Apparently there was some sort of official competition going on to find the best trumpet band of all, but word on the street was that it was voted void due to the winners being fixed. Only in Serbia eh! As far as I could tell the main action was happening in the streets and bars with hundreds (yes hundreds!) of bands, each dressed in their own unique uniforms, battling it out to make the most money, deafen the most people and generally get the most people dancing/running away. A quiet dinner with friends doesn’t exist in Guca during festival week – you will be surrounded and serenaded (sometimes straight into your ear) whether you like it or not:

Luckily like it we did. If you like trumpets, mayhem and meat, get yourself to Guca for an all you can eat (and more!) portion of legitimate Balkan Brass. The beer’s cheap too!