Firstly and foremost, thanks to everyone who worked the Latitude Festival 2010, it was a pleasure to be part of, to be allowed to go fucking nuts and explore those beautiful surroundings, better still that we got to play in front all those brilliant people. And to those people who we met along the way, those who witnessed the obvious chaos of our Crooked Cart gig, who took part, showed their support, enjoyed our music and general madness, and to all those who turned out at the Sunrise Arena on Saturday to witness some proper Fight Folk – massive appreciation, thank you. Keep in touch innit.
Old Blue Last in Shoreditch this Sunday – Free Entry – Come fucking ‘ave it, again!
It’s been a good few years since I’d really ‘had it’ at a Festival – long time since I’d felt that transformation that takes place inside a person when life becomes a bizarre carnival of strange faces and free spirited madness. It doesn’t happen to everyone in the same way, but it does happen nevertheless. Worker bee’s morphing into wandering earth creatures – nice to know that that part of us is still in attendance, hasn’t been completely quashed by the awfulness of the New World. This is where people find parts of themselves they forgot existed. The place where feet are better dirtied, hair matted, faces painted, finger nails full of camp fire soot and strangers making friends with other strangers, smiling for the simplicity of a moment, because there needn’t be any other reason. Better still that here at Latitude it felt entirely genuine.
I must admit I haven’t had the pleasure of the mainstream Festivals for quite some time, but one thing about Latitude that set it apart from the other festivals I’ve been to in the past, and this includes the small ‘independents’ we’ve played over the last few years, is that there was no trace of the intrusive advertisements that congest and drown the senses day after day, the presence of commercials that have long since threatened the very essence that once made festivals like Glastonbury what it was, and now is not. As well the aggressive stewarding and ridiculously strict rules on drink and drug use, they were simply not presence. The affect upon every single living creature was immediate and postive, and whether they knew it or not, it was in part due to the absence of these strict lines within which we normally have to live life between, the bastard trailer’s stuffing their latest and greatest produce down people’s throats without them even having known. The result was not negative or dangerous, but a free form atmosphere of friendliness and willing carelessness that was given precedence over all else. It ran through the pine forests, over the lake, up and across the winding paths and across each field in one continual and chaotic motion. It seemed people were genuinely happy. No one was being sold anything, except for that which they had already bought into. There were no policemen, no placards or flags or speaker system announcements sporting the usual Vodaphone’s, Orange’s, o2’s or general signs of warning – no festival insurance policies being aggressively sold to some scared hippy whose mind had been bent out of shape by herbal highs or inhaling one too many joss sticks. There didn’t appear to be any rules at all, and everyone reacted positively to this. Even the stewards appeared pleased to be on hand, willing to laugh alongside the wasted and weary and wonderfully high as flying kites – service with a smile, so very rare.
As I’ve said, I’m unrehearsed in these ways of full-on festival survival. I had no tent, no food, no drink, a change of socks and a few tatty t-shirts. I was of the festival goer class that wanders wasted on day one, tripping over tent wires, glass eyed and ecstatic to be witness to this collection of weird and wonderful sights and sounds. If this was a village, which it kind of was, then I was one of its idiots. With just my artist pass and a loose plan of Crooked Cart guerilla gigs throughout Friday daytime, leading up to our official gig at the Sunrise Arena on Saturday, it was no surprise that as soon we landed on site, at around 1am Thursday evening, Bob and I took it upon ourselves to charm / blag some industrial strength Cider and get to work – meeting, greeting and bleating wildly to every creature that happened to catch our eye. The Crooked Cart Guerilla gig kicked off around 4pm Friday afternoon, a little later than we’d expected, but Cider and other such chemicals meant by this time we were very much feral, had been turned into animals at home in this new land – glorious anarchy, just as it should always be.
From then on, the rest is pretty hazy. All I know for sure is that by 8am Saturday morning it was very obvious that all of us had spent Friday going completely fucking mental. Perhaps we had peaked too early. Had we done too much, too quickly and all in one greedy go. I guess it was never gonna happen any other way, and so we all decided it must have been a good thing – now we were not only present at this festival, we were part of its spirit. By midday Saturday, despite my vomit, our collective shakes, paranoia’s and glitches of body and mind, we managed to pull off the gig at Sunrise Arena, and to the biggest crowd we’ve ever played in front of. It was fucking great, and so we celebrated the weekend proper, Medway style innit.
Festival highlights:
Bob being blown over by the wind – fucking hilarious
Bob trying to stab me in the neck with a Tent Peg during some drug induced psychotic episode – frighteningly real
Hg and I getting down and dirty to Beyonce in the Dance Tent – bizarre
Kristin Hersh reading extracts from her diary in the Literary Tent – gorgeous and genius
Anyway, enough of my silly rambling – if you were at Latitude or any other festival for that matter, let us know what your highlights were.
Xxx
Mr CroOk.
