He’s a Festival Head
Got his gear stashed in the car
A loaf of bread, a block of cheese
And twenty-four cans of Stella Artois.
Got a patched up tent and groundsheet
A gas bottle that lasts forever
Says he’s come down to the countryside
To get his shit together.
You’ll find him posing at the bar
Bathtub speed inside his brain
And a pocket full of chemicals.
He knows the bands, he knows the songs,
He knows everybody’s name
He’s always down the station
But he’s never caught the train.
He got his picture took with Helen
A Poison Electrick face
Said he loves the way she poses
With her Fender Precision bass.
He hangs out with the hippies
Who came from Amsterdam
Says their sonic groove reminds him
Of early version Can.
See him deep in conversation
With some freaks from the USA
He’d love to be in a band himself
If only he could play.
He’s got the threads that turn the heads
And must have cost a packet,
The faded jeans and polka dots
And the German rock star jacket.
He’s got the Johnny Thunders haircut
And the David Bowie pupil
Says he’s well into Freakbeat
And mid period Mott The Hoople.
You never see him with a chick,
He’s always on his own
Texting loads of bullshit
Into his mobile phone.
He’s always first in the line
When the tickets go on sale
Lives on a diet of all day breakfasts
And frothy real ale.
Talks the talk, walks the walk
Always feigns surprise
Takes his head out on a lead
To get some exercise.
He’s done Glastonbury, Reading
The Isle Of White and Leeds
Cropredy, The Big Chill,
And all points in between
Down with the kids at T In The Park,
Green Man and other places
Was at Weeley back in ‘71
With Rod Stewart & The Faces.
Took the Magic Bus to Marrakesh
Saw the Who down at Eel Pie
Hung out with John and Yoko
And helped Hendrix kiss the sky.
Knew Bolan when he was nothing
And played on ‘Let It Bleed’
Helped Malcolm form The Pistols
And Nick Cave The Bad Seeds.
Was at Woodstock, Monterey and Altamont
There’s no place he ain’t been
Taught Keith the riff to ‘Satisfaction’
And introduced Fred to Queen.
Crashed at Mick and Marianne’s
Gave Gary Numan ‘Cars’
Did PR for Gong and Hawkwind
And humped gear for The Spiders From Mars.
He’s everything to everyone
There’s nothing he ain’t done
No place he ain’t visited
And no prize he ain’t won,
The bloke you cross the field to avoid
The encounter that you dread
A walking, talking bullshit merchant
They call the Festival Head.