Secret Garden - Huntingdon - 27-29/7/07
5/5
By: Alex Lee Thomson
We don't believe in doing things by half... or even two thirds come to think of it. No, we're about throwing ourselves into the mosh pits, scraping through the mud and living the experiences that music is designed to soundtrack. When we headed down to this year's Secret Garden Party for instance, the last thing on our minds was blending into the background... here, in actual fact, is what we did do. In detail. It's hard to leave the detail out as this is utterly, and without question, the best weekend of the year for a party fan, and it's the detail which makes it.
Friday 27th July 2007
19:00. Arrival at Huntingdon's Secret Garden Party where an eerie silence fills the air and we wonder where the party is. How secret is this bloody thing, we asked ourselves, as we struggle to find life... at which point we turn a corner and spy what looks like a lost hippie commune full of societies rejects, no doubt all drunk on real home made cider. Bath tub brew 1987? Possibly. There's a strange wobbly yellow blob in the sky that is spreading light everywhere and casting off heat, and after several minutes pondering on just what the heck it was, it's realised that it is none other than Mr Sun, who must have put one bitch of a hat on and had well and truly come out to play.
19:15. We run into Echo and the Bunnymen's tour manager and besides the triumphant return of Liverpool's best ever band... well, after the obvious... we reminisce about how great Larrikin Love were and how upset we all are that they've split up. Stories are shared, tears are had and bravely we set out to pitch our tent. No double-entendre implied, of course.
20:00. Tent pitched and a cider in our hand the only way onwards was Echo and the Bunnymen-wards. Some of us had grown up with the legendarily dark-pop band, others had found them more recently and loads had found them via Donnie Darko, but for whatever reasons we knew the band and their songs, the entire crowd loved them. McCullochs' voice was just how it had sounded coming from our old vinyls and as a band they looked great, all surging forward a constant line of classic 80s tunes that included 'Seven Seas', 'Nothing Lasts Forever' and of course the immortally astonishing 'Killing Moon'. We perch ourselves at the side of the Great Stage and watch the latter of these tunes from atop the amplifiers, peering across into the crowd from behind the bands' heads at what looks like an continuous field of dancing that disappears across the grassy knoll, all in sumptuous accord with the twist of a characteristic riff.
21:00. I'd seen The Noisettes a few times before, once on a rooftop in sunny Brighton and hours later in a dungeonous seaside hideaway... and both times I'd liked, liked but not loved, their headily scuffling take on rock 'n' roll. This time though, with a mammoth stage to fill, the band came to life shaking the giant teeth that had been hand crafted around the perimeter of it (so it looked like a fish's jaw, y'see) and stomping around with the bluster that only the best fronted bands can. They truly took command of the audience and ate away at the divide that had separated music fan from festival layabout, making people jig up and take notice until every last face-painted soul was in some way moving to the sound of whatever this band let loose.
21:45. We catch up with a panting Noisettes post-performance and display our unreserved admiration for one be-yatch of a show. Shingai is far from the dominant strider I witnessed on stage, graciously fallen onto the seat of their bus she had more the equanimity of a lost puppy than the hardcore rock front-woman who had just made my toes point right out of my slowly muddying trainers. We talk about the wonder of The Noisettes and their Shuffle remix as the Sea Buzzard squad inform us they must go and find the ringleaders of said electric reforming band... so naturally we follow.
22:30. After some losing of people, finding of people and general kafuffle, we at last find Monica and Seamus of Shuffle. They're both dressed as you'd expect them to be; Seamus in a striped bowtie and Monica in the most outrageously fantastic dress you would have ever seen somebody wearing stood in a dusty field. They're surrounded by other members of their collective and we all rejoice in the rather surprising delights of Alabama 3. No really, they're a lot better than any of us thought they'd be, far beyond the novelty that many people think is all the band is capable of; though after a few drinks a band that plays up-tempo country rock with a wonderfully bright stage dressing is sure to go down well. We roll with it and forget that Shingai was eager to greet Seamus and grab a naughty kiss from him.
Saturday 28th July
??:??. Around some point in the early morning, things get fuzzy. We're not sure really when, or more pressingly why, we decided that more drinks were needed... but what we do know is that at around our umpteenth goblet of ale we realised that the only thing that mattered in the world of Shuffle and Rockfeedback was a log. Not logs in general, but one log in particular. Once we understood that any news, no matter how squalid and terrible, would sound OK while being delivered from somebody with their foot rested up on top of a small log... we knew that it had to be part of the Shuffle live experience the following day. Oh how we praised the log in all its wooden glory.
??:??. Having only seen my spanking-new tent for all of the five minutes it took me to rouse it earlier in the day, and in my slightly inebriated state, I'll be honest in saying it took a few sweeps of the campsite to find the spot I could ultimately sleep off what I had already came to realise was humiliating drunkenness. Now kids, drinking is not cool and this is the kind of trouble you get yourself into... I stress that as believe me when I say; you don't want to be fumbling around in a cold, dark field half-cut for any length of time, let alone the hour and something it took me to find my tent at last.
05:00 (ish). The couple having angry-sex in the tent next to me wakes my alcohol-pickled body up but my head is quickly back into the sleeping bag for what seems like another 30 seconds.
09:00. The harsh, blaring sunlight that had been teasing through the ultra-thermal layers of my tent and sleeping bag began to make my new home hot... and I mean, really hot. There was nothing for it other than for Rockfeedback to do what it does best; get up, get dressed and go and check out some more music. Once the clouds had stopped spinning, of course.
10:00. We quickly realise that this festival isn't as much about the line up as it is being here. It's the people, the smells, the random door that's placed in the middle of a field, the bizarrely placed furry house that seems only to exist as a portal to a room where 'anything goes'. It's about the 'festival'.
14:00. After indulging in the wash of treats at our deposal we find hardcore girlie led band Hot Puppies. They're all wandering around their dressing room with massive grins, in part due to the nice weather, this in fact being one of the only festivals they're due to play that hasn't been a complete wash out. Also in part because they know they've got a whole new albums' worth of material to play today which we're told is going to be pretty darn spectacular. Their first album was good, raised with the bubblegum rock of the hippest alt bands of the early 90s but with an overture of glamorous, sometimes tongue-in-cheek, vocals; and the new album we're told is going to blow that away.
15:20. There's something going on atop the hill so we go and investigate to find people stood around watching the side of said hill, which after a brief moment of waiting round we realise is actually part of the infamous Suicide Sports Club, and pretty sharpish we get scared. Half naked men riding a broken, seat-less children's BMX down the incline into what looks like, and on later inspection very much was, very heavy metal dustbins for our amusement demonstrated just how little we'd evolved from the Roman times of similar such acts of mutilation. Still, it was ruddy funny when matey boy went straight past the cans and into the nearby lake. Chuckle, chuckle.
15:40. Shuffle are wondering around the Where The Wild Things Are stage, dressing into their black and green suits, applying fake moustaches and quite frankly, looking cool. Seamus and Vincent walk towards me with agenda, they're on a mission to go and hunt down the magical log from last night. Gosh, that incredible log still very much in mind.
15:50. We find the log burned, that recognisable dual stump peering at us from amid the ashes of what we hope was a worthwhile bonfire, its wood crisp and a pale shade of greyish black. The prospect of going on stage without it is at this point unthinkable so a replacement block is readily needed, and thus two sharply dressed band members and one sunburned ginger fan go hunting for wood. A suitable leaning-log is found and carried across the singed grass by this hefty armed Rockfeedbacker in time for the band to go onstage and attempt to pull people away from the bicycle death club into the worryingly empty tent.
16:00. Shuffles' new drummer Taan looks right at home in his matching suit and you can't imagine him having not been sat behind the kit up until now. The band begins to play and the time space continuum stops dead in its tracks. The whole of Huntingdon is watching this small dancefloor, well those not sat at home or watching Hot Puppies on the main stage that is, and though it takes a few songs for the band and crowd to warm up by time they do it's clear that this place needed Shuffle like it did sunlight and cider.
16:15. When they play their new song, 'Avenue', I'm dumbfounded. I'd always liked Shuffle as the casually random instrument experimenters they were, but this was an unashamed pop song with an instantly adorable harmony that somehow added structure to the mix-masters trademark shambolic nature and turned them into a band I could suddenly envisage taking over the world. Dancing erupts and the place fills up with people that couldn't believe their luck stumbling across such wonder, such delight and such ingeniously constructed electronic pop punk. We're name-checked as being the inspiration behind the log that became the centre piece of Seamus's performance, being a platform for him to become an even more interesting lead singer than his reputation already allows. We at this point feel rather chuffed.
16:45. So busy was I congratulating the band, and of course latest member Taan, on their triumphant set that the arrival of Leeds drum-escapists The Hair went almost unnoticed. Their ever more amiable lead singer Sam bangs a beer in my hand as I talk with their hard workin' manager about how brilliant this collection of northern musicians are. Rockfeedback learns of their recent success with new single 'Disco / Retro' and how they've wangled their video onto the main stage (minutes before Chilli Peppers) at the northern leg of this years' Carling Weekend. Excitement is brewing around them as the log is removed from stage and the faint tears can be seen around the Shuffle massive.
17:00. The Hair are next on the Wild Things Stage and the only thing amiss about their arrival is the lack of crowd, disappointingly been drawn the short-straw in time slots at the point when most people are hitting the beer tents or grabbing a bite to eat from the myriad of vegetarian carts. We almost feel bad for pointing out that humans eat meat, it's just what we do, but each to their own so they say, thus for shits n' giggles we too explore the joys of, erm, tofu. Narrowly avoiding vomit we settle in for The Hair who don't let the small and hesitant crowd from getting in their way of possessing the moment. Their music is provocatively blasting down our ear canals to the tune of 'Stocks' and 'Ghosts', but it's 'Left Foot, Right Foot' that really get us going, until the stampede of their concurrent drum slaughtering 'Hooker' that sets them apart from this nu-rave that we've heard so much about, caps the performance off with flashing luminosity and rambunction.
17:50. I run into friends (yes, I have some normal ones) and a lot of drinking is done. Being mostly into goth music, they're a little out of place and synch with the festival and find it hard to unravel into the occasion but a few half shandys later and we're all buzzing. We walk through the random door a few times and lay around listening to the Celtic and Cockney poetry of the Fools stage while one solitary rain drop falls at our side, at which point the eccentric compere of the stage declared that he'd had a word with the big man upstairs and we'd be fine, which to his word, we were.
??:??. We half-inch some brew and casually drink it behind a porta-cabin that appears to be the dressing room of New Young Pont Club, and reminiscent of schoolboys cowering by the bike shed, we hastily vanquish our assorted loot in preparation for their show.
22:00. The Sunshine Underground are gyrating around the Great Stage in excitement for the band, as are we, until a few songs in we realise that New Young Pony Club aren't the blistering live extravaganza we'd been told they were, as much as Butlins' Red Coats on hyperdrive with a mismatch of styles and dated live routine. Feet are tapped, heads bowed and castled, but by the end we're utterly bored out of our faces and welcome the Undergrounds' set with pleasure.
23:00. By time The Sunshine Underground make it on stage it's pouring it down, like really bucketing, but the audience is on tenterhooks in anticipation for the band who've done so much good the past 12 months that they make sure their reputation precedes them. People know the songs and the night is memorable with the band expelling the better half of their debut album, 'Raise The Alarm' to a sodden but satisfied spectate.
23:30. The band leave the stage and people check their watches to find it had only been a mere half hour since the electric-anthemers raised the alarm and broke cow bells across the fishes mouth. We'd only just managed to get into the crowd itself when the final songs were drawn out, marvels they were, 'Borders' still being too good for us normal folk to comprehend, yet in their short time you knew they'd won over a few more fans with their northern dance-o-fonica.
Sunday 29th July
00:15. Now kids, you wouldn't believe it, but by quarter past twelve we were tightly tucked up in bed and ready for dreamy nighty snoozy snooze as any responsible festival goer should be... OK, so we were still recovering from the night before and the day that followed, but nevertheless we were fast asleep through most of the downpour that attacked the Huntingdon fields which ruined the night for all but the select few who rose above it and danced in the mud regardless throughout the night. Score one, us.
09:00. With an early bed comes and early rise, so early actually there was sod all to do. After rambling around a bit I was happy to discover a lost corner of the hill where people had been up all night singing, drinking, and... well, it's a festival, you figure it out. Around a table was an innumerable cloud of hazed and bewildered partiers who had been awake for several days and found comfort in the ability to sit down, chill out and sing a long to a group of gypsy folk guitarists who not only played their own improvised tuned but a medley of covers including a rather shaky, but nevertheless inspiring, rendition of 'Hit Me Baby' which found the hippie breakfast club in arms of harmony.
09:30. Having bored of the gypsy site we find food; meaty, hot food, to sort ourselves out with and almost in unison agree that more bed rest is required if we're to fully cope with the arduous day of very little decent bands ahead of us.
16:30. Recollections of The Noisettes, Echo and the Bunnymen and Sunshine Underground were now but memories, and with very little left to inspire us we casually strolled around and tried to get back into the mood of the festival. Sadly, more ciders are partaken and so when we finally realise that Shuffle have already started their DJ set at Pagoda, we race across the disastrously thick muddy floor to a small wooden pier where a whit of rock 'n' roll fans hang on every record in the bands eclectic collection that's hollered across the airwaves. The DJ set includes Nina Simone, The Noisettes and pretty much everything in between. It's honestly one of the most fruitful and bizarre mixes I've heard for quite some years and only a handful of records are on my recognition list, one of them being a shameless but well executed spinning of their own notorious 7"er 'What's That You Got'. It goes down well and time slips by precociously.
18:00. For the first time in two and a bit days the other side of the river is calling us. The immaculate voice of Kate Walsh is hovering above the water and though the tent stank of straw and beer, the purchasing of crumpets and this unravelling songsmith-ette puts things into perspective and at last things slow down. The rock, paper, scissors tournament was raging just feet away but in our redden surrounds a sombre beauty and idealist escape was cushioning our decent from borderline alcoholism into an avoidance that fell at the feet of this faultless woman.
18:20. Slightly weary and beginning to flag, myself and two Rockfeedback compadres begin to long for home with little left on the festival bill to occupy our time. Why the organisers had dedicated the final day to mediocrity, making little attempt to provide decent acts for the final few hours, was beyond us, and having already tasted the diverse carnival treats including free face painting and superhero costume dressing, a sudden and saddening tedium came across us. To be fair, one of the biggest billed acts, Kate Nash, had failed to turn up due to a last minute video shoot (whatever, kate). She would have at least provided a last minute surge of excitement, even if she's now just a poppy shadow of the person she was last year. Nobody was surprised by her lack of attendance and most people felt like it was the death-nail in her descent towards the screw-'em mentality of the mainstream. Nice one, Kate.
18:45. Bored I say? That was until we spy a hula-hoop cast to the ground, ownerless and teasingly seductive. It's played around with a bit, my own terrible attempts at skipping are devastatingly poor, and then we all climbed inside. Joking at first we wondered how long we could stay in it for. Half an hour the female of our tribe motioned and it was settled... half an hour would we remain with the hula-hoop, for better or worse.
19:50. The half hour had come and gone and the hoop had turned into more entertainment than we ever dreamed. People were so eager to meet the 'people who lived in a hoop', taking our picture or grabbing the hoop and leading us places, that none of us wanted to leave. A new challenge was set; the first person to leave the hoop is a smelly fuddy-duddy, which quite frankly none of us wanted to be.
20:00. I need a wee, and so the first real test of the loop comes into play. Would I back out in search of privacy? No way. Would they cower at the thought of squeezing into a porta-loo with me? Sadly not. And so we ventured where very few people have gone before; into the worlds worst, most shit-stained toilets as a group so I could relieve myself. The door didn't close, but damn it I was at a festival, living in a hula-hoop... what did I care if somebody saw Mr Winky?
20:05. It's the next persons turn to urinate, and a quick shuffle puts him in centre stage in time for the group of tourists who insisted on taking our picture while he was mid-flow.
20:10. The ladies turn. We all have to squat and look around as though not in the least bit aroused. What? Don't judge!
22:00. The tent is packed away while we're all rather jolly, leaving behind the tent pegs but still rather proud that we did it all from the confines of a plastic ring... and we, trance-like, walk away from the arena. Slightly upset that the sun was closing on what had turned out to be one of the most memorable festivals of our, or certainly my, life. The line-up wasn't spectacular by any stretch, but with big line-ups comes big crowds, overpricing, open expanses of mud and relentless commercialism. It was nice to spend some time in a place where people met up to just be themselves, free from the constraints of normality. Being British it's sometimes hard to completely let go and lose inhibition but in a place like the Secret Garden Party, you can be who you want to be without worry of outcast. It's given us all a lesson in humility, the best times being spent doing outrageously stupid things, and there's an awe of richness in the clear summer night that the festival has a purpose beyond that of any other, and that's to be a place of liberty. I'll certainly be back next year, and hopefully by then the sunburn line on my arm wont spell out the phrase 'I am a shuffle, shuffle hippie' where marker pen had been the day before.
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