Canterbury Fayre - Mount Ephraim Gardens, Hernhill, Kent - 22-24/8/03
1/5
By: James Faherty
As far as festivals go, the Canterbury Fayre isn't laid-back. It's comatose.
Situated in the obscure, Mediterranean-esque orchards of Mount Ephraim Gardens, Hernhill, Kent, where apples, plums and organic pears are grown (and pilfered by hungry hippies), it provides a wilfully secluded and other-worldly setting - as opposed to most other such outdoor-events set in a big, crappy field, near a dingy, dead-end town.
But then you wouldn't expect the Canterbury Fayre to conform to the restrictive regulations of a 'normal' festival - because that's precisely what it isn't. Arriving there early Friday afternoon, the first thing that strikes you is the (lack of) magnitude of the operation: a very limited number of well-mannered and, behold, polite security guards littered around the site, a tiny Main Stage, and a camping-area seemingly only sizeable enough to fit a handful of Wombles into.
A further glance, however, and you notice the armada of VW camper-vans and live-in automobiles, which in turn dictate the typical Canterbury Fayre-goer: the post-hippies of the Woodstock generation, many with whole families now, but still sporting the trademark tie-dye shirts, baggy hemp clothing, and long frizzled hair we've come to know and despise the smell of. As such, the average age of visitors slots keenly into the 30-50 bracket, with very little teenagers present and the odd, token pensioner here and there (yes, all with Led Zeppelin logos emblazoned across their disintegrating T-shirts).
Kicking things off in the Whirl-y-gig dance tent - Whirl-y-gig being the premier, 'one and all' monthly club in King's Cross, London - were dance act, Loop Guru, whose soaring twin vocals nest over a stream of laid-back world-based grooves... A variant to Yorkshire's are they still together?, Brit-rock act Shed Seven, who look old, yet play young, and - testament to the boys' career - dust off and clobber us with 'Change Giver'-era, student-friendly gems, fleetingly revealing anthemic-joy in a searing 'Going For Gold'.
Slightly after 9pm, Friday's headliners Inspiral Carpets grace the stage to a flurry of psychedelic feedback, and plough straight into their trademark bizarre-o indie, punctuated with zappy portions of zealous organ. Capping off a summer of return-to-the-fore live-appearances, perhaps tonight is the wrinklies' most triumphant hour - they provide their distinct mesh of crunchy guitars, poppy synths and repeated loops and the response is rapt. Conversely, however, the crowd at the back seem a bit static - lost by this moment in a pungent stench of cannabis... Feeling... sleepy...
Saturday, 3.30pm, John Otway and his 'Big Band' parade onto the Main Stage after a limited set from Theo Travis (who also headlined the Croissant Neuf Circus stage on Sunday night, along with Richard Sinclair).
Now, the thing about Otway is, well, he's bloody mad; not in the kind of 'Big Brother' hopefuls 'I'm so crazy, look at how mad I am,' way. He's actually insane. Examples: a blazing rendition of 'Crazy Horses', which the crowd, the biggest of the festival yet, go berserk for (twats). And there is a truck-load of madcap, 'barmy' comedy present - in fact, one could say the music is peripheral to the whole stage-show, as it were, of Otway. For one particular song, his microphone is attached 'round his head via the means of a springy bent coat-hanger, which provokes him to start rambling about the band's current sponsorship: 'A big thank-you to Sketchleys, who've provided us with 365 coat-hangers for this year's tour.' Nut-bar.
Meanwhile, back in the Whirl-y-gig tent, the Kumba Mela Experiment are beating out their Asian-influenced, sitar-heavy dub (as you do), which, to the amassed crowd, proves spellbinding. Dancing ensues. Escape. So, back to the Main stage, and the Incredible String Band are just firing up, playing their trademark and unsettling mix of folk and traditional, rhythmic-based acoustic rock, with just two guitarists and one female violinist onstage. Save for a few eyebrow-aloft key-changes here and there, and tales of dogs and warm cider, this is ultimately one for the adoring elders.
Break needed, and a worthy addition to the Fayre is the inclusion of a Chill-Out zone, situated opposite the Dance Tent. Inside, the bright UV décor dazzles, while the array of tattered chairs and stained sofas mean one can truly unwind, beer-in-hand, from the now-inescapable heat. A snack-bar and giant Jenga © keeps the young'uns at bay and the amicable ambience and rotor of DJ's (playing anything from Bowie to Chicane) allow for the perfect exile-parlour at times of wonky onstage performances.
Though it's getting dark, so it must be that time - step forth, Robert Plant: but, please, not too much new stuff...
We're in luck. Despite twisted cover-versions and his own, latest material - encapsulating soaring melodies, amidst a definitive stoner-buzz, and deep, cavernous feedback - we get a coupla classics (a climactic 'Whole Lotta Love'; 'Morning Dew'; 'Ramble On'). The songs themselves are drawn out and fleshy, often with jazzy time-signatures, and the band as tight as airport-security, feeding off each other's individual transfixed licks with fire in eyes. The skies a perfect, deep and dark blue, this serves as the obvious, compulsive highlight.
Sunday... and Scotland's very own Cosmic Rough Riders are getting ready to, er, rock the Main Stage. Opener 'Waiting for Summertime' confirms the mood; lazy, hazy schmindie with gusto. The grazing crowd await further tunes from the Scots, and get the intricate likes of 'Now That You Know' and 'The Pain Inside', and lap it up.
At 5.15pm, we hear Bob Weir with his band Ratdog, hammering out heavy blues with a distinctive southern groove. At 6.46pm, I had a cinnamon donut. A little later, and the black sheep of this festival's bill, The Buzzcocks arrive onstage, embarrassingly looking as if they were expecting more rapturous applause that they were afforded.
In spite of the lulling response, Pete Shelley and band play with infused tautness their fast, three-chord punk; out-of-tune vocals and don't-give-a-danish-pastry punk attitude, but, for most, this is too heavy, too out-of-context - that even inclusive of the usually rousing 'Ever Fallen In Love...' as prime-closer.
Ah, and so on to Love, fresh from entrancing performances at Glasto and Guilfest earlier in the summer, to here, finalising Canterbury's Sunday night bill. A nip in the air - the only unsavoury weather all weekend - can be the only outside-factor to dampen the mood, even though, tonight, Love are the untouchables.
Aged and classic, Arthur Lee simply oozes effortless cool, and the rest of his brightly-coloured Forever Changes Orchestra are all set to go, strings and brass in tow. Primarily, and rewardingly, they knock out the quintessential, 60's-penned odes ('My Little Red Book', before the diving into of a zesty 'A House Is Not A Hotel'), and, throughout, Lee croons in his inimitable and, frankly, camp way (but you just know the ladies love him).
And, collectively, it's an insatiable joy, a myriad of blaring cheers and applause serving as the reward and capping off to three days of an elated time-out in an orchard. Who'd have thought it: the merging of pong-ridden hippies and the mainstream colliding to form the perfect, if wearingly eclectic, weekend escape.
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