“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!

A Gig Review well overdue

(Written months ago, yet hidden away in the drafts folder til now)

London activites have taken a place on the back burner of late as work seems to have taken over my life somewhat. However I managed to make it to an impromtu gig in the dark depths of Borderline, off Tottenham Court Road, to see an American band who have just released their debut album. Young The Giant have the sort of energy on stage that makes you want to get right on up there and bang some pots and pans together just to be a part of the jamboree going on on stage.

Described as Alternative Rock, a which really gives you very little sense of what they are about, this fivesome have a powerful, epic sound that would be just as effective on a big stage at a festival as it was on a small stage in a cosy London Venue. In fact, at times it was a case of too many big fish on a small stage as there were a few heart stoppping moments when it looked as thought the lead singer was going to be delivered a hefty black eye by the enthusiastic guitar thrusting of the lead guitarist.

Sameer the lead singer has an incredible voice; sometimes sounding like Brendan Flowers, sometimes making long strong notes, and sometimes singing with a beautiful softness that shows his voice can do more than just create these loud and slightly ethereal sounds made even more echoey by the help of a special mic.

Despite being officially indie, the bassline created by the lively drummer and the addition of an energetically handled tambourine by Sameer, throughout the entire gig I was jigging up and down in a manner more in keeping with a gypsy swing gig than a rock one. For me Young the Giant managed to pull off the right amount of rock to enthuse the crowd with power, but for those of us that would not normally choose to go to a full out rock/indie gig, they had the energy, quirkiness and musical variety to keep my bouncing until the last chord struck and the band bounced off stage with the same energy they entered with.

Arty Farty

From ethereal wedding dresses in an old power station in Wapping I moved onto animalistic nakedness in an old Crypt in St Pancras for Totem Body at the Crypt Gallery. The main reason for checking out this exhibition was that my friend's boyfriend is one of the featured artists and, more importantly, it was a great opportunity to get up close and very personal to to the very much naked body of said friend!

Totem Body is a showcase of the work of 15 artists, all of which use a diverse range of media to explore the human body and its indigenous and tribal aspects. The gallery itself is a great space, with that familiar musty smell of decrepit underground chambers and still bearing remnants of broken tombstones to remind you of the fact you are actually in a crypt underneath St Pancras church. I'm pretty sure one of the rooms is actually still in use as a family tomb which is a little creepy, but adds to the effect I suppose. 

I really enjoyed the variety of styles on offer, ranging from the monograph prints of animals by John Simpson, to the tribal totems by Janet Waring. I particularly liked how she mixed typical tribalish objects such as feathers, shells and wood, with the odd household item, sometimes as utilitarian and banal as rubber gloves or a toenail brush! 

Janet Waring's Totem complete
with rubber gloves

A dashing monograph by John Simpson,
with the main subject being a good friend of mine! 

The highlight of the exhibition was of course the fact that my friend was hanging up (with it all hanging out...) on a wall in a crypt in her birthday suit. But I don't think it is due to this bias that John's prints were actually my favourite of the whole exhibition. It is more because the rustic simplicity of the wood effect prints really appealed to me, and the amazing likeness to life of his animals was really rather impressive.

My favourite of the prints.

My first trip to Wapping

London really is (and perhaps always will be) an unknown entity to me. No matter how much I try to explore, there are always new places to go and new things to see. My mind boggles! I suppose it is the nature of a big city with a dynamic cultural scene, and you can't be expected to know every little things that's on offer, so I shouldn't take it to heart.

So another new discovery for me this week was Wapping. Who would have thought that a stone's throw from Canary wharf and the rest of the imposing City skyline is a little haven in the form of the canal basin in Wapping. I think it's beauty was enhanced somewhat for me by the gorgeous weather, the peaceful birdsong and the fact that there was a raucous sailing lesson going on. The shouts of excitement of the enthusiastic young sailors was slightly infectious, and to see them happily splashing around in little Pico's - the boat in which I learned to sail - added some pleasant nostalgia to the appeal of the scene.

After cooing over some fearless ducklings learning to swim in the sleek green waters of the canal, we moved onwards, as we were really there to visit the Wapping Project - an imposing reminder of the former life that Wapping led as a maritime hub before its decline in the 19th century.
The Wapping Project is a rejuvenated hydraulic power station, with many of the pipes, pulleys, hooks and other paraphernalia that were once in use still hanging in their original places, adding to the maritime and industrial feel while simultaneously managing to look like modern art. And art it is I suppose, as aesthetics are key here and art is the order of the day, (as well as food and drink judging by how packed out the restaurant was by 7pm). The feel is glamour meets industrialism, and it works a treat.

Not knowing what I was coming to the Wapping Project for it all seemed rather mysterious as, having paid our five pounds, we were ushered through a door into a darkened room, atmospherically lit and inhabited by a solitary boat and its boatman. The former boiler room has been flooded by the fire brigade for this particular installation, and the results are very effective. Lit only by a line of light-bulbs set just above the water level so as to double their warm glow with their own reflection, the old boiler room was transformed into an inviting chamber of intrigue. Dominating the space is the main attraction, a huge inverted dome of white silk worn by the glowing blue torso of a mannequin lighting it eerily from below.

We exchanged our shoes for wellies and hopped into the boat (in my case very unelegantly) and the boatman pushed us off and gently rowed us around the room, allowing us to see the structure from all angles. It was a peaceful experience and eerie too, as the atmospheric music and the stoic silence of the boatman made it all rather mysterious. The clear reflection of the dress in the water was occasionally disturbed by the ripples from the oar and the boat's smooth movement. 

Waves are key to this installation - suitably titled Yohji Making Waves -  as the dress is in fact one of the designer Yohji Yamamoto's famed wedding dresses, set up in this way to portray how his designs diverged from the conventional fashion lines, thus making waves among his contemporaries in the fashion world.

Despite not knowing all these details before I experienced it, the overall effect was awing all the same, and I came out feeling soothed in some way, as well as intrigued to know more about the background. I don't think it mattered that I went in without prior knowledge because the installation is powerful enough alone to make its own statement. The Wapping Project is definitely worth a visit, even if just to have a drink at the funky wine bar. And I definitely intend on returning to Wapping for a proper explore as the history of the place sounds pretty fascinating - smugglers and executions and all. 

Cultural Dilemma #1

So it turns out I'm not really a museum person. Not that I'm adverse to museums - I have wiled away many a happy school trip running around with a clipboard trying to complete all the assignments/sketches/questions as quickly as possible in order to go and check out the fun stuff like the shop, the launchpad, or the giant dinosaur skeleton in the atrium - but I just can't seem to find that inquisitive part of me that wants to read every single placard about every single toothpick, toilet bowl or shoe sole that ever came out of every century that ever came to pass. I think of myself as more of a browser in these things. I like to dip in and out and only read about the things that fascinate me the most. Like the bed of Ware for example. The hugest bed in history, and currently residing in the V and A museum, having been of historical interest almost as soon as it was made. I am slightly ashamed to say that this was the most memorable object from my museum visit today. But let us not belittle the importance of this bed. It made it into a Shakespeare play after all, which just goes to show its significance; you know you've made it if you are alluded to by Shakespeare.

But back to the topic of browsing museums. I came to the conclusion today that a museum to me is a bit like shopping in TK Maxx. For one you need to give yourself a fair whack of time if you are going to do it properly, and in order to do it properly you have to be really in the mood to persevere trawling through item after item of mediocrity (or appalling ugliness) before lighting upon a real gem that makes the entire visit worthwhile. And gems you do find, in both TK Maxx and museums.

Despite my visit to the V and A this afternoon being a little on the brief side, I did actually leave with the feeling that the visit was worthwhile, if not for the most conventional of reasons (the bed of ware being one of them). Due to my unemployment status making cash somewhat scarce, I rejected the offer of a photography exhibition for a mere £7.50(!) and  opted for a tour of the free part of the collection. Despite making a rather whistle-stop tour around the majority of the artifacts, I was struck, as I always am when in such buildings, by the awe inspiring and almost eerie solemness that pervades grand and cavernous museums. It is a half comforting, half humbling experience, hearing your footsteps rebound in the hollow silence that intermingles with the distant echoes from the busy atrium. So for me it seems, it isn't what is on display at a museum, or the knowledge to be gained, so much as the experience of escaping the hustle and bustle of the city outside, to ensconce oneself in the soothing and shady halls, feel the coolness of the marble on your skin and the comforting permanence and security of the past and its relics surrounding you.

Youth Unemployment

So swings the pendulum of life. After weeks (perhaps even months) of neglecting to live like a tourist and complaining about my working life taking over all other aspects of my existence, I find myself in a spell of unemployment. It will probably be short-lived, but for now the delicious prospect of idleness and all the possibilities such a gift of time offers, fills me with anticipation and promise of adventure. Time is quite literally my oyster.

The idea of unemployment, to someone who has been lucky enough never to have been unwillingly placed in such a position for longer than a week or two, is really rather glorious. Made especially sweet by the fact that the past 4 months have been a crazy haze of at times long and unsociable working hours and frequent six day weeks - "normality", apparently, for those who work in the TV industry, but life consuming all the same.

Knowing how much I was looking forward to some time off, I am determined to make the most of it. And after watching Julie and Julia last night, and then proceeding to fritter away the next 4 hours of my life by watching the entire series so far of Made in Chelsea (and I wish I could pretend it was all for the sake of background research for work), inspired me to set myself a similar (if less rigorous) goal to Julie of Julie and Julia (mainly to stop myself from getting addicted to any more ridiculously-terrible-but-addictive-in-their-ridiculousness TV shows.) I want to make the most of living in London and actually having the time to appreciate it. So, the challenge is set; to grab by the balls all that London has to offer and check out at least one new London sight/activity/venue/show/event/exhibition/whatever(!) every day that I'm here and unemployed.  Let's see how that goes! I'll keep you posted....