The Electric Picnic

This is sort of a sequel to anIceland piece and a Camden piece. There are also some photos here.

We are not going back to Iceland this year, problems kept mounting up, my parents are visiting the country that weekend, we could not find a fourth person after Graham dropped out, in the end they put the price up and Michael made the decision. Part of me is glad, you should not try to recapture moments like that, they will never match your memory and you cannot fully be a part of the event because you are always partially a part of what it was before.

I wonder if that makes any sense.

Late one Saturday night, when Iceland was in question but before it was abandoned, I get a text message from Michael, 'google electric picnic and call me in the morning'. I do this. It is a two day music festival in Ireland, the words 'Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' stand out, so do the words 'Mercury Rev', 'The Flaming Lips', and 'Hot Chip' that band I saw in Iceland and have failed to see since despite the fact their album has been a large part of the soundtrack to my summer. What also stands out is the date, the weekend of my birthday. I wonder, briefly, if I should stay and have some sort of celebration. Sod it! I shall flee the country.

In the end we do not fly out till Saturday and I turn thirty on the Friday resolutely stuck on British soil. It means nothing, all the anxiety was used up months ago, turning twenty-nine was a shock, thirty is an anticlimax. A decade less to live I rationalise and invite my friends out for drinks in Camden, me, a borrowed tent, and all my luggage in tow. I spend the night on Michael's sofa and we both fly out at some ungodly hour the following morning.

At Stanstead we meet the girls, Cathy, a friend of Michael's from work, and Philipa, a friend of Cathy's from back in Sligo. They seem despicably chipper despite claiming to have been out the night before too, perhaps it is the prospect of going home. I force down as much of a sandwich as I dare and doze off on the plane, by the time we arrive in Dublin I feel almost human again.

Ireland, at first glance, is a lot like England but cloudier. 'What can we tell the boys about Ireland,' says Cathy, 'we've got roads, houses¦' she tails off.

'Clouds.' I add. Looking ominously at the sky. The weather forecast for the weekend is hopeful but non-committal.

We hire a car and drive to the festival, stopping at Kildare for supplies and an early lunch. I get the obligatory pint of Guinness and we opt for supplies in the form of boxes of red wine.

We hit the queues about four miles out and Cathy rings her brother whilst Philipa jogs alongside the car in order to have a fag. We should park on the left hand side, instructs Cathy once off the phone, but once in the car park men in fluorescent jackets are directing traffic all the way to the right.

'You're in Ireland now,' explains Philipa, 'when your man tells you to turn right you smile and go "sure, great and then turn left anyway.'

Michael can't do it though, when an official tells an Englishman to go right, it is against everything in his nature to go left, the girls scream, but right we go and park exactly where we are told to. I cannot blame Michael, I doubt I could have done it either.

We unpack, repack, and haul our stuff the two miles in to the site entrance. As we get there a tout offers tickets, I politely decline but then, scrambling with increasing urgency through my pockets and wallet, realise I do not know where ticket actually is. Cathy saw someone pick a ticket off the road, perhaps it fell out of my back pocket. I try to think clearly. Perhaps I left it in my other wallet locked in the car with my passport and English money.

We dump the bags and I go back on my own to check. The sun is shining now, and I pass hundreds of people heading in to the festival, and I feel wretched. How could I be so stupid. The ticket is not in the car.

On the way back I pass two separate touts selling tickets, this is probably my next move, but, with access to two genuine Irish girls, I wait to see if I can get them to do it, perhaps one of them will be able to cry. 'I need a bit of luck now' I say as I approach where Michael is waiting. I don't believe in a god so I do not know who I am saying this to.

'Did you not get my call?' says Michael.

'I left my phone here.'

'We got the ticket.'

Relief doesn't come, just a numb weary thankfulness. Apparently Cathy spotted the guy she saw pick up the ticket and ran after him, it was mine, it has Michael's name on it. The guy worked for the Sunday Times and had tried to hand it in to the box office but they were not interested. I am too shell shocked to thank Cathy properly, but she immediately becomes my favourite person in the world by some margin.

'That happens to me a lot.' She says.

Cathy's brother Shane and sister Sarah meet us at the entrance and escort us to where they are camped, three tents buried in the middle of a sea of tightly packed tents that looks like a refugee camp off of Newsnight. I have not camped since the last time I went to a festival over ten years ago. I am to old for this shit. We set up our individual tents in whatever little patches of space we can find nearby. By the time we have done it we have already missed Hot Chip, I think I am destined to never see this band again.

The festival, which describes itself as a 'boutique festival' is a lot like a mini Glastonbury. They are a mere two and a half thousand people here and you can walk from one end to the other in five minutes. Michael and I head directly for the bar for a pint of lager, which puts a bit of a spring back into our step, and then to the Southern Comfort tent where a couple of overpriced cocktails continue to re-spring our steps until they might even be a bit over sprung. We catch a bit of Be Your Own Pet, a band Michael had heard were good. I can't say he was well informed, but they were very energetic.

We amble back to meet the girls and pick up the rest of the rations from the car, the girls have brought a mini meths primer and a weekends supply of pot noodle. Michael and I have just brought cash. I listen to the Stereo MCs playing the main stage while we wait. They are exactly as I remember them from when, nearly fifteen years ago.

An hour or so later, back at the tents, I fill up a plastic bottle with wine and settle down to drink it whilst the girls construct cheese sandwiches. 'Come on,' says Michael, 'Arcade Fire.'

'Would you like some cheese?' offers Sarah.

'Who?' I say, and 'yes please.'

'Come on.' Says Michael.

'But¦ cheese.' I stammer.

'¦Arcade Fire.' He answers and heads off. I am handed my piece of cheese and run after him.

If you have not heard of Arcade Fire, and I had not, you will soon, the groundswell of popularity is enormous, half the festival must have crammed themselves into that tent. Stuck at the back the sound quality is bad but the music is good, great racing urgent anthems careening rapidly forward into huge choruses, this is music that hits you at the base primitive part of your brain, music that drags you along with it. The crowd sing along, I do not know the words and can not hear them, but clap and punch the air in time. The band hurtle through the songs like men desperate to tell you everything as soon as possible, they dance around the stage, get in each others way, and surrender themselves to the music just as the audience do. All too quickly, it is over.

We walk out reeling and consult the program, we try to catch the end of a band called The Caesars in the southern comfort tent but it turns out to be different lot called The Siam Collective, they make a cheery enough dance rock fusion thing and we pick up a demo CD for the drive home. We head off to the main stage and sit down way back to watch The Doves noodle their way through a few songs. Michael is a fan so eventually we have to move forwards a bit. They end and we wheedle our way down to the front for The Flaming Lips.

The Flaming Lips, after doing their own soundcheck, arrive dressed in furry animal costumes on a stage packed full of other people in furry animal costumes, except for Wayne the front-man who, in a white suit, descends onto the crowd in a giant inflatable bubble. They play skewed from centre pop songs and are wonderfully weird. At one point they apologise for being on at the same time as Kraftwork and launch into an impromptu version of Radioactivity. On each song Wayne demands we sing along and we do, the whole thing is immense fun

I gathered later that it lacked a certain something from the back, that the show seemed odd and the music never gripped. Up front it was perfect. So perfect that afterwards Michael admits to being somewhat overcome 'that's it', he says, 'that was the festival for me.' We head to the 'chill out' bit via some veggie Mexican food and, chilling out after a long day, promptly fall asleep on the grass. At some point I wake dew damp, wait for Michael to wake, and we wonder back to our respective tents where constant partying all across the camp ground doesn't quite keep me awake.

Sunday starts, annoyingly, at half past eight. The one concrete effect of getting older, I've found, is the irritating inability to sleep late. I suppose I'm making up for when I was a teenager. I find a not too horrible toilet and contribute to the squalor, then get a cup of coffee and a hot dog for breakfast. Michael ambles up to watch me eat the hotdog before buying a mars bar and heading back to bed. I go lay in my tent and read my book for a couple of hours before the Sligo lot get up.

As well as Philipa, Cathy, Sarah and Shane, there are two of Shane's friends Shamus and John. Shamus is sitting watching Philipa brew up her lunch on her little meths primer. 'I can't believe you took that thing all the way to England,' he says in a thick accent, 'you eejit, you dragged that all the way round Scotland and London just to bring it here. What a waste of effort.' He examines the miniature stove with disdain. 'Can I have a pot noodle when you're done?'

The boys are in their early twenties and are partying full on all weekend. To be honest I do not fit in and feel old, but they are good blokes and, when just sitting talking, none of that matters. The whole group seem to already be on first name terms with everybody in the surrounding tents, over the course of the weekend I get a strong impression that everybody in Ireland knows everybody else in Ireland, and if by chance they should meet someone they do not know, they move swiftly to rectify the situation. When stopping for lunch on the way home an article about a Sligo man is spotted in the paper, 'Ben O'Driscoll,' Shane reads, 'that's old Mrs O'Driscol's nephew.'

Michael and me are keen to see Dig! in the film tent, and starting the day laying on a beanbag watching a movie seems ideal, so come time, we abandon the Sligo crowd again and head over there. It would be nice to hang around together more but we have different agendas for the weekend and I am not sure they appreciate our company as much as we appreciate theirs, but that is probably your basic paranoia.

Dig! does not show, apparently the disc is broken, we amble over to the Southern
Comfort tent where we fail to find a good reason not to have a couple more overpriced cocktails. We see Clor, yet another rock techno fusion thing, but pretty good nonetheless.

'I have a good buzz on now.' I say as we walk out. Michael agrees. We sit in the sun and have a pie and a pint of Guinness and remark to each other that all is right with the world before heading to another tent to watch Roisin Murphy, who the Sligo lot were very keen on.

After one song a guy asks us who it is. 'Roisin Murphy,' we reply.

'Nah,' he says, 'that ain't her.'

We check our programs. 'No, it's definitely Roisin Murphy.'

'Who's this?' he asks someone else.

'Roisin Murphy,' they reply.

It is not Roisin Murphy, it is Husky Rescue, whatever happened to Roisin Murphy remains a mystery. Apart from a very exciting hairstyle on the guitarist Husky Rescue prove a little insipid. We head to yet another tent to see Mr Scruff who is less than half the way through a massive three hour set, but then all he has to do is put records on so maybe it's not that impressive. We dance a bit, and then sit outside a bit, and then wonder back to the tents to refill the wine bottles before heading, yet again, to the Southern Comfort stage to see The Subways who Michael reckons will be good.

It is only five in the afternoon.

'That is not the Subways set-up', says Michael eyeing a second drum kit suspiciously.

I consult my program. 'Well it can't be the band before,' I say, 'because they're already late. Perhaps it's JJ72.'

Michael says it is definitely not JJ72.

The band that eventually walk on stage are a four piece, two drummers up front either side of the stage, a guitarist in the middle, and a guy working some electronic kit behind him.

'Hello', says one of drummers in a Norwegian accent, 'are we going to have a rock show or a jazz performance here.' He persuades the crowd to cheer, and we the crowd are in a good mood so we cheer.

Then they play. This is not anything I can describe well, this is rock dub techno metal punk something. Above all this is very good. When not pounding out the rhythm the two drummers take turns to stand on their drum kits and welly up the crowd, shouting out and urging us into the mood. There are no vocals apart from a few samples, there is a sort of pulsating throbbing soundscape, and there is real showmanship. When they started the tent was half empty but by the time they finish it is packed full, looking back I can see hands in the air all the way outside. I hear stories later of people running off to other tents to gather their friends because they absolutely had to see this band. After they disappear there are genuine calls for an encore, but the next act are already running late and it is futile. Not until a few days later do I discover that they were called Ralph Myerz And The Jack Herron Band.

'I can't believe we've seen so many good bands,' I remark to Michael sitting on the grass afterwards, 'and we've still got Mercury Rev and Nick Cave to come.'

We hang around for JJ72 but they don't really do anything for us, so we wonder off and watch a bit of Lemon Jelly, who are good, but overlap Mercury Rev and priorities are priorities. Mercury Rev played at the only other festival I have been to, back then they were near the bottom of the bill and had a very different line up but the atmosphere was identical. They are one of those bands that inspire love, utter unconditional adoration, you can feel it rise from the crowd. Up there, near the front, I experience something I have never fully seen before, the audience reaction forcing a good performance out of the band. Mercury Rev barely tour anymore, some of them do not tour at all, and when they first come on they work through the songs in an uninspired pedestrian manner, but the crowd do not care, we sing every line, we exude love, no matter what the band may think this music is magic to us, and we intend to convey our gratitude. After a while this reaction has a very real effect, jackets come off, people start moving around more, the band simply play better. For the only time in the whole festival I feel part of something rather than simply present for something, it feels good.

And last of all, Nick Cave. Michael leaves me for Nick Cave, I dragged him down to see them at Alexandra Palace only a week before where they were hampered by poor acoustics, but this is my band, the band that saw me through my adolescence, the one band I love above all others. I remain alone down the front as the crowd gathers density around me, there is a rising sense of anticipation as roadies scuttle about the stage. I know the name of every single member of the Bad Seeds, I know what they play, I know how long they've been in the band and who they replaced, I know where they'll be standing. This is my band.

I have seen several Nick Cave shows over the years but this may well have been the best, the sound quality is excellent, the band are in fine form, and Nick is in good voice and energetic. He prowls about the stage like a man possessed, leaning over the crowd like a demented preacher, offering salvation with one hand, casting damnation with the other. The band pound and crash behind him like an elemental force. When they rumble into Tupelo, a song, topically enough, about a flood in Mississippi, the first and only drops of rain all weekend fall. It does not seem at all unlikely, standing down there at the front, that Nick Cave can command the weather at will, so powerful is the music, so authoritative is his presence. Standing there, caught between the desire to photograph everything and to put the camera down and just experience the moment, I remember what it is to be a fan. Passionate and uncomplicated. This is my band. Mine and hundreds of others, but at that moment, all mine.