Bestival

Bestival
Robin Hill, Isle of Wight
5th - 7th September 2008

My first British festival and probably my last. Admittedly after braving war-torn Serbia with the Exit Festival last year, opinion declared that Bestival on the Isle of Wight was going to be as challenging as a regional farmer's market. But severe weather warnings persisted, mothers insisted on wellington boots and ponchos, and a palpable sense of trepidation and fear was in the air when we stepped foot on England's beloved island. After an expensive trip down from the capital, this had better be worth it. And it seemed that fate was on our side as the sun broke through the clouds for the first time that day. It would be fine.

We should have turned around as soon as we arrived. People were leaving before it had started. Ye Gods, what lay ahead? It soon became clear. Rain, sorry, a monsoon of Indian proportions arrived. Coupled with knee deep mud, Besitval had turned into a lake of liquefied drugs and excrement. Pillheads clung to trees while aged hippies tried to stop their children from drowning. With 48 hours of relentless rain, God had decided to urinate on the last festival of the season with gay abandon. To think I was not going to bring my wellies! Parental, you were right and I will never doubt your judgement again! This was not for the faint hearted and by the time we found our friends ('just follow the hedge and look for a blue tent') we were soaked to the skin and ready for war. This was going to be a battle of hearts and minds, and a case of getting very, very drunk.

I hope I have set the scene, for it was not a pretty sight. The things I do for you, dear reader, in the name of art.

Friday night was an evening of see what happens. No one of particular interest was playing, so we just bumbled around the quagmire looking for light entertainment. A bit of Pendulem is never a bad start and they certainly packed a nu-Prodigy punch, although all a bit macabre for my dulcet tastes. Upon entering the Bollywood tent it was apparent that Layo and Bushwacka were blending some rather special beats and pulses. But the beyond capacity crowd was all a bit hectic and we got the hell out of there, finally finding salvation in the form of DJ Chromeo in the Big Top tent. The cheesy Canadian was pitch perfect, mixing up synthesizer vocals with funkalicious bass lines - the Big Top was on fire.

Next in this most crucial of venues (huge and indoor), were CSS, who seem to get critics frothing at the mouth but this was the second time I have seen them and I just don't get it. So that's that then. Moving swiftly on and lucky we did, as we caught the tail end of Alphabeat's set with their big tune 'Fascination'. Perfectly pitched pop, and a few smiles at last. Nothing of note to report after that. 

For me it was all about the Saturday. The order of the day read like my ideal festival playlist - Roots Manuva, Hot Chip, Amy Winehouse and Lethal Bizzle: cheese on toast, Putney funk, crack and East End grit. It was going to be fruity, and the order should probably have been in reverse. Anyway, Mr Manuva I will not dwell on. He probably sauntered on and swaggered through Slime and Reason like it was the best UK hip hop record ever. I would have quietly wept through 'Let The Spirit' and it would have been the perfect start to the evening's proceedings. Sadly I was asleep in my wet tent for reasons one shall not divulge in these hallowed pages.

Still, I managed to catch Hot Chip on the main stage at about 9.30pm which was a valiant effort, all things considered. These quirky chaps were very solid, and have clearly honed their craft since I first saw them on the Jools Holland show. Limited audience interaction aside, they more than made up for it with their fruity costumes. It just needed to be louder, as the classic tunes 'Over and Over' and 'Ready for the Floor' came on and I was starting to feel a little fuzzy.

A muted response greets the national treasure Amy Winehouse. Maybe it is always like this, but she comes on much later than scheduled to boos, insults to make your mother blush and general discontent. All very medieval. Amy finally finds the swing of things after the first two or three unheard-of-before songs, and there finally appears to be some atmosphere in the air. Her poor band are very much on cue and their tried and tested strategy is a success - play the tune and let Amy join in as and when she pleases. I close my eyes during 'Back to Black' and saviour the moment, all is going well for the Winehouse, she won't die, her voice will survive. Then I open my eyes to see a gaunt Chinese boy with bad skin on two huge screens. For Winehouse is no picture these days. Apparently her set has to be cut short because of her late arrival. But surely there are not that many songs to play, especially as she still does the tedious band introduction routine (to be fair, without her all singing and dancing 'boyz' it would be a very different show). The departing song is 'Rehab' and with a final No No No she flings her pint into the crowd and heads back to Camden, probably for a cup of green tea.

Luckily we caught the end of Lethal Bizzle's set, he was quite simply bringing the Red Bull tent down to its knees. As ever with hip hop the sound was diabolical but this was of little importance to everyone there - this boy will be huge. Onwards to the genteel calm and much needed respite of the Hurley Burley tea tent. We managed to get some seats, met some lovely people from Islington and had a jolly old time. The house band were inspired, giving what must of been a restrained, virtually acoustic performance in this relatively tiny setting, but even still prompting moments of genuine reggaeton shindiggery - and not a moment too soon. The highlight.

And so to bed / puddle. I don't know what happened on Sunday because we got the hell out of there. It was a question of hypothermia or London, and the Smoke won.