Lots of bands with 'wolf' in the name.
I went to my first festival at the weekend, in a garden built by a Victorian atheist to entice people away from church on a Sunday. He ran free coach trips from nearby towns. They'd deck the woods with Vauxhall lamps, and the writer Thomas Hardy declared it 'Quite the prettiest site I ever saw in my life' (there was a young lady involved, there usually is with Hardy). There are woods and small enclosures, bats and follies, and peacocks apparently not fussed by large crowds or basslines, including tiny baby peacocks with proud fuzzy brown crests.
I saw The Mountain Goats again. They'd adopted a drummer, and were playing their sensitive reflective noodlings as SOLID ROCK, and enjoying themselves so much. The lead had an expression the whole time as though he was about to say 'Yaha!' and sometimes did.
For a couple of songs there was a general sing-along. Much of their stuff is very autobiographical; it was strange to hear a crowd reminiscing about the lead's miserable childhood, in the first person. I myself joined in for 'Up the Wolves' (you have to get 'wolf' in somewhere), bellowing the triumphantly merciless line 'It's going to take you people years / to recover from all of the damage' under the open sky.
I've not seen any band as many times. When the lead unclipped the capo from the mike stand, I knew what song it would be - it was the one I didn't hear at the South Bank because he couldn't find his capo. And someone from the back shouted the title as a request, and instead of saying 'Hang on, I was just about to', the lead said 'Why not?' and tumbled into it.
It was, on the whole, too loud. I think I have touchier hearing than some people (sample conversation: 'Someone's playing Blondie.' 'Your hearing's better than mine.' 'Yes, and I have earplugs in.'). During Yo La Tengo, the guitar wailing was punctuated by floodlights shone straight into the audience. So I ended up 'watching' them by standing with my back to them, with my eyes shut and earplugs in. It felt more as though I was protesting their human rights abuses, so I left.
I did not have a Mongolian Sky Massage or eat any Goan fish curry.
It was an odd blend of emotional openness and filth. Possibly the one enabled the other, a feeling that we were all sharing the same grime, lying on the same ground (we weren't, I'd borrowed a caravan). There was a wishing line strung between two bushes and I left a wish on it. Other fluttering bits of paper spoke of leaving unwanted hangups here in the garden, or coming back next year with a baby. Next to me, a solemn and beautiful hipster was carefully inscribed her own wish. It felt intrusive to look at it, I waited until she'd walked away: 'I wish my boyfriend didn't need to pee so often, we're spending half our time at the loos.'
Posted on Dreamwidth also (http://slightlycanted.dreamwidth.org/733.html, with
comments so far). Comment wherever you'd like to.
I saw The Mountain Goats again. They'd adopted a drummer, and were playing their sensitive reflective noodlings as SOLID ROCK, and enjoying themselves so much. The lead had an expression the whole time as though he was about to say 'Yaha!' and sometimes did.
For a couple of songs there was a general sing-along. Much of their stuff is very autobiographical; it was strange to hear a crowd reminiscing about the lead's miserable childhood, in the first person. I myself joined in for 'Up the Wolves' (you have to get 'wolf' in somewhere), bellowing the triumphantly merciless line 'It's going to take you people years / to recover from all of the damage' under the open sky.
I've not seen any band as many times. When the lead unclipped the capo from the mike stand, I knew what song it would be - it was the one I didn't hear at the South Bank because he couldn't find his capo. And someone from the back shouted the title as a request, and instead of saying 'Hang on, I was just about to', the lead said 'Why not?' and tumbled into it.
It was, on the whole, too loud. I think I have touchier hearing than some people (sample conversation: 'Someone's playing Blondie.' 'Your hearing's better than mine.' 'Yes, and I have earplugs in.'). During Yo La Tengo, the guitar wailing was punctuated by floodlights shone straight into the audience. So I ended up 'watching' them by standing with my back to them, with my eyes shut and earplugs in. It felt more as though I was protesting their human rights abuses, so I left.
I did not have a Mongolian Sky Massage or eat any Goan fish curry.
It was an odd blend of emotional openness and filth. Possibly the one enabled the other, a feeling that we were all sharing the same grime, lying on the same ground (we weren't, I'd borrowed a caravan). There was a wishing line strung between two bushes and I left a wish on it. Other fluttering bits of paper spoke of leaving unwanted hangups here in the garden, or coming back next year with a baby. Next to me, a solemn and beautiful hipster was carefully inscribed her own wish. It felt intrusive to look at it, I waited until she'd walked away: 'I wish my boyfriend didn't need to pee so often, we're spending half our time at the loos.'
Posted on Dreamwidth also (http://slightlycanted.dreamwidth.org/733.html, with
comments so far). Comment wherever you'd like to.