Some small talk over the first of last Friday's cans in Stradbally led to the usual enquiry about arrival times. "Just after eight this morning," was one surprising and impressive response. I asked if they knew that the gates weren't opening until nine. "Ah, yeah, we weren't going to miss a minute of this, though."
Like the wasps that buzzed round desperately seeking sweet sustenance to prolong their summer on the wing, the festivallers swarmed in early, keen to grasp this final fling, a splint on the last leg of summer’s sessions. It was always going to be large.
The accusation that Festival Republic introduced a Ryanair pricing structure (cheap tickets, extortionate trolley service) felt justified as I supped on a €6.50 pint. I consoled myself with plans of sneaking in cans of body-temperature beer and Buckfast decanters; the game was afoot!
Scanning the schedule, I noticed David McWilliams's political cabaret that was kicking off at 7pm. I circled it, struck it through and wrote "avoid at all costs" above it. Jaysus, that MindField can be a minefield.
Down in the Trailer Park a crew of rappers from Sligo, who were more Hardy Bucks than Ol' Dirty Bastard, got everyone in the crowd to empty out a drop of their drink for Séamus Heaney before launching into a thumpin' track about WB Yeats. No such magnanimous gestures from The Clan. This Side Up got us chanting "These boys are feckin' class", while it was "Wu-Tang ain't nothin' to fuck with" from the gangstas. Dropping the beats in a Shligo shtyle just seemed to fit better and had a humorous homeliness to it. Geansaí Rap.
TREE-HOGGERS
Those sniffing out the Rave in the Woods like het-up hogs tracking a particularly pungent truffle weren't thrown off the scent by a major sponsor sticking their name on the sylvanian asylum. It was chock-a-block for Klock's marathon four-hour set (on deck almost as long as Donal D). The crowd amongst the pines are hardcore and, as much as they rose to the choons, the lasers cutting through the branches and smoke whipped them into a frothing frenzy. Many's the buzzer woke up on Saturday afternoon with a sore neck from hours spent staring into the psychedelicised canopy, repeating the mantra, "That's fuckin' deadly!"
Their inability to move their heads properly for the next two days was christened the Klock Crick by medical staff, who prescribed heavy doses of Miriam O'Callaghan and Mary O'Rourke down in the MindField for the ailment. Not because it would do anything for a pain in the neck, but because they'd be damned if they were going to be the only ones in Stradbally not having fun.
The joy on people's faces as they beheld the wonders of the Body and Soul area is always a pleasure to witness, and it's here you'll still find the beating heart of Electric Picnic. The teeth-gnashing and anguish about the capacity being cranked up again for next year has already begun, but we should probably get over it. Electric Picnic is a wonderful thing, and although many of us feel we have some stake in it, we don't. It no more belongs to the buzzer in the woods than it does to the author in the MindField or the Theatre of Food gourmand. If there comes a time when we don't like it, we just won't go anymore. I can't see that happening anytime soon.
For some it was nothing more than a boisterous hen night with some large Bunsen burners, but watching Björk push the boundaries of music and performance was a surprising highlight for me.
I’ve been feeling awfully poorly all week, though – it must’ve been a dodgy 10th birthday bun. And my sleep has been haunted by the campsite shouts of “Alan!” and “Steve!” – a Partridgesque in-joke that carried on throughout the weekend. I hope and pray that both Alan and Steve are located before next year.
Safe travels, don’t die.
ayearoffestivalsinireland.com
