Ben McCormick’s Eastnor 2008
August 11th, 2008 by sparky
Thursday 31 July – It’s A Family Affair
We arrive road-tired after a lengthy, stop-start journey at the East Car park with the Family Camping field as our destination. Our kids aren’t great travelers and I’m already a mite frazzled as we cart our first load to the Box Office to pick up our wrist-bands. The good people at the Big Chill, traditionally one of the most family-friendly festivals in the UK, have asked me to keep a blog-like diary of this year’s event for the website and I decide to use the opportunity test out just how kind to the kid-laden it really is. Within moments I’m already wondering as the steward directs a clearly hassled-looking couple of parents towards the South Gate. My brain can’t cope with what a logistical undertaking this would be, but a judicious bit of name-dropping sorts us out and we begin the slog to the site.
It falls to me to do the tent-car park-tent relay, shuttling pushchair-loads of camping ‘essentials’ to and fro while ‘er indoors shepherds the kids to bed. We’re done by around 10.30pm and, even though there is some entertainment programmed, neither of us can muster up the energy. We sleep instead and ready ourselves for Big Chill day one.
Friday 1st August – Teach Your Children
One of the first things I learn about taking two kids to a festival is that you only get to do or hear or see snippets of anything. So a quickly scoffed breakfast of omelettes is followed by a fleeting glimpse of a kids’ entertainer and one or two songs or half-tracks by an act you really fancied seeing. My remit is to review the music at the festival, but even at this very early stage, it’s becoming clear that might be tricky. Predictably, much time is shared between the Kids Tent and Club Mum, billed as a place where both parents and children get to party, but in reality a glorified nursery in a tent. That’s no bad thing, mind you. In fact it becomes a welcome refuge over the next few days.
While trying to get our eldest child, Martha, to eat something that isn’t cake, I manage to catch my first act of the festival – Angus and Julia Stone. They are the perfect Friday afternoon tonic to what’s already been a hectic morning heading into Ledbury for more ‘essentials’. If you haven’t heard them, I suggest you do. The Aussie siblings are on superbly quirky, drawling form and they brighten up my afternoon immediately. I’m sorry to say I’m unable to name any of the songs they sing, distracted as I am by Martha trying to catch a wasp. To say nothing of my ignorance of their repertoire. But the gaps in my mind and the odd moments between fretting about my daughter’s well-being are punctuated by a lovely, rolling, story-telling sound that enchants the audience. I resolve to buy an album of theirs as we head off to the Kids Tent for Ansty Cowfold, whose debut CD I already own. For the kids, of course.
Ansty Cowfold perform delightfully whimsical cover versions of tracks more famous for their rougher edges, such as Tom Waits’s magnificently knockabout Underground. They are the perfect booking for the Kids Tent, entertaining the little ones while keeping the adults interested. I train-spot most of the tracks they play, including Jimi Hendrix’s Little Wing, Bill Withers’s Grandma’s Hands and Bob Dylan’s Copper Kettle. And with a stroke of genius, the lead singer invites the kids up on stage to grab an instrument and join in. Beats the ‘let me hear you say yo’ school of audience participation I’ve seen at more grown-up gigs. The band and kids rattle their way through a couple of Elvis numbers – Baby What You Want Me To Do and Mystery Train. Then the musicians leave us parents with the mayhem they’ve helped create.
We wander down to Club Mum afterwards where there’s not much going on, so we decide to walk across to the lake at the foot of the Castle Stage field. We stroll right past poor Federico Aubele, who seems to be playing some lovely stuff, but the children have been promised an ice cream, so I must forego another new musical experience. We have a brief look at the main stage, but no-one’s playing there at the moment. We decide to try and get some dinner down the nippers’ necks. Noodles are decided upon and we try valiantly, but it’s futile. They’ve just had ice cream and have also just found a couple of strangers to climb on. This they find hilarious, although this is not entirely echoed by the poor victims judging by the looks on their faces. I guess that’s the risk they take coming to a festival with this demographic. I apologise on their behalf for the umpteenth time today, but this is waved away. “I’ve two of my own this age,” says the bloke. “Mind, I left ‘em at home,” he adds, Birminghamly. I’m secretly insanely jealous at that point. John Metcalfe is making some terrific noises in the background, but it’s all I can do to make out one track in its entirety before having to rescue some other unsuspecting by-sitter from my offspring.
They’re now running about in excited little circles not knowing what to do with themselves, but I know there will be pay-back soon as neither of them have napped. Sure enough, just as I’m really starting to appreciate Little Dragon, who are just getting into their stride after a slow build-up, the little angels begin to flag badly and it’s time to take them back to the tent. I trudge off as slowly as possible, trying to eke out the last of the day’s music, but eventually, the Swedish folk-funksters drift out of earshot and I’m on child-watching duty while the missus goes to see Martha Wainwright. Both are out like lights by 7.15pm and I write up my notes and await my free pass for the night. Part of me is seriously considering calling it a night right there and then, but it’s only day one, so I guess I’ll soldier on into the night when my wife gets back.
Friday Night, Saturday Morning
Jo returns from what she describes as a ‘great and highly theatrical’ performance by Martha Wainwright, assumes babysitting detail and I’m on my marks and away. I bound off into the night in my new waterproof boots like a bumptious boy scout out on an orienteering outing. I overshoot the Open Air stage and find myself outside the Rizla Arena listening to Greg Wilson lay down some disco edits. There’s a cracking atmosphere in the enclosed space, but I rule out queuing up to get in and take a quick wander round the Village Green where all I can make out is moody nu-jazz hip hop courtesy of Ninja Tune and funky house from the Sauza Tent, so it’s back to the Open Air stage for Roisín Murphy. Now I used to quite like Moloko back in the day, so I give it a chance, but to these ears, it sounds like someone indulging in progressive house karaoke. I last about 15 minutes, but I’m not really feeling the vibe. Almost as an afterthought, I decide to check out the Disco Shed. This proves to be an inspired choice. I’m greeted by Paddy Peepshow and The Funky Gibbon’s funky disco masterclass and am lapping it up as eagerly as I am the Cider Bus medium cider. When Count Skylarkin and DJ Indecision take to the shed-clad decks, it kicks the place right off. Rhythm and blues meets rocksteady, calls round for ska and rock and roll to see if they’re playing out before heading round to drum ‘n’ bass’s place for a party right out of the top drawer. It’s a joy to witness, but the ciders, lack of sleep and long day are taking their toll, so I wander home, beaten and exhausted, but grinning from ear to ear.
Saturday 2nd August – So Cold The Night
Ouch. One too many ciders leaves me nursing a heavy hangover and has allowed in the cold I’ve been fighting off for a few weeks. I feel dreadful. Rather fortunately, the eldest is tired out too and wants to sleep, so I get a few undeserved extra hours in bed. When I’ve finally shaken off the cobwebs, we all head to the Castle Stage again and find refuge in the shade of the few small trees at the top of the field. By now, my cold is moving up a few gears. I find out I’ve just missed Lykke Li, which is disappointing, but the overbearing sense of nausea I’m feeling is soon swept away by the Mercury-nominated Portico Quartet. I know very little of this modern jazz ensemble, but they’re making me smile amid the gloom of illness, wired-ness and child weariness. Perhaps the difficult time signatures and odd instrumentation – they play Hangs, for crying out loud – are fitting my disjointed mood perfectly. Despite how that sounds, it’s deceptively soothing to these ears. It puts me in great spirits for today’s ‘must-see’, to wit, the Hot 8 Brass Band.
We arrive at the Open Air stage, where we catch the last of the Agnostic Mountain Gospel Choir, who I’m ashamed to say I pay little attention to as I’m caught up trying to stop Martha jumping knee-first on a poor girl’s shins and our youngest, Ruby, from undoing the Velcro on a stricken woman’s ankle-brace. They are finally distracted by a large green balloon donated to our cause by a kindly brace-wearing teenager. Who says the youth of today are selfish, inconsiderate louts? Not me, that’s for sure, as this balloon keeps the nippers transfixed for the next hour. Hot 8 eventually take to the stage after what seems an age, and they start promisingly enough. Their first track chimes in at around 20 minutes and is brash and repetitive by the end. Maybe it’s the harshness of the brass that’s reacting badly with my cold-hangover combo, but they’re not doing a great deal for me. Their second – a cover of Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing – gets the audience up and dancing, but to me, with my dad hat on, it just seems embarrassing in front of the kids. By the time they finish their third and final track, I’m pleased to be getting out of there and rueing the decision not to check out Rachel Unthank and the Winterset instead. We leave the Open Air stage and seek solace from the sun in the shady, sleepy surrounds of the Castle Stage field’s wood-burning pizza restaurant. Again, I end up eating more than planned as Martha refuses to eat anything.
As we traipse back across the field to take the now exhausted kids to bed, TM Juke and The Jack Baker Trio have begun entertaining the masses. It sounds great. Really fantastic. I wish I could stay around, but tiring kids and a worsening cold force me back to the tent. I entertain vague notions of going back out to watch the Still Black, Still Proud tribute to James Brown, but I can’t manage it and sleep soundly till 8.00 the next morning.
Sunday 3rd August – Hallelujah!
I awake still ill (this lasts a few more days), but the lack of hangover makes everything much more bearable. I resolve to see more stuff today and set off well before noon to explore the site. Sadly, I lose the family while going to the toilet. Part of me is delighted. However, instead of heading for the nearest bar, I wander around the site foodless and delirious trying to find the wife and kids while acts start playing everywhere. I do manage to catch John Hegley and the Popticians in the Kids Tent, one of the places I expect to see the family. It’s been a long time since I heard this band and they’re still pretty fresh and, frankly, ideal children’s entertainment. Shame the kids aren’t here, I muse, but I spend a bit of time in nostalgic reverie listening to John and his troupe sing songs about glasses and contact lenses. He plays the appreciative audience really well and I wander off thinking how well this has been programmed and how disappointing it is that my kids have missed it. Perhaps it would have been a bit grown-up for them.
I eventually find them watching the Magic Roundabout in the Media Mix tent, which seems way too grown-up for them. The new, CGI Magic Roundabout eschews all the niceties of the version shown during my childhood in favour of an all-action approach that would make even the great Chuck Norris flinch. It’s so violent that even the DVD dies, leaving a crowd of disappointed but slightly freaked out kids and some cheated-looking but relieved parents. We lighten the mood by grabbing an ice cream and head for the Open Air stage for the traditional Sunday afternoon knees-up with Norman Jay. Yet again, Sir Norman manages to bring out the sunshine on a cloudy day. He spins a wide variety of styles all guaranteed to put smiles on punters’ faces, but I can’t help thinking he’s over-egging the pudding somewhat by thanking the audience every now and then. “Ooh, look, I’ve done another ace mix. Thank you very much, layzangenelmen.” He doesn’t miss the opportunity to plug his latest compilation either, but I guess he’s earned it after so many years keeping the masses dancing.
Today’s must-see are on after Sir Norm. Orchestra Baobab are who I’ve been looking forward to catching all weekend. There’s a significant gap between the acts, so the kids indulge in their latest ruse – disappearing completely. They’re roaming much further from the comfort of the picnic blanket and more than once they’re nearly flattened by passers-by. This new development, along with my worsening condition (OK, so it’s only a cold), is beginning to wear me out. I also begin to have deep sympathy with poor, unsuspecting fellow Chillers recovering from the previous night’s excesses. Some of the poor sods are being treated to a double-whammy of overly energetic children jumping on their tired, aching limbs while a sniffling, snot-ridden father clutching a sodden handkerchief splutters virulent apologies. Right in their faces. They seem not to mind, but I reckon they’re too polite and tired to protest. That or they’re unable to move.
Luckily, well for me anyway, Orchestra Baobab produce one of the most diverting, vibrant and proficient hour’s worth of music I’ve heard all weekend and I’m smiling again. Through the suffering, of course. From the moment they strike up, people are transported into a Dakar nightclub of yore, but it’s outdoors in Herefordshire and the sun is beginning to shine. Hips sway, limbs lilt and hands wave as collective cares are swept away by the refreshing noises coming from the stage. I try to involve the kids, but they’re still more interested in running off. I manage to keep them within eyesight and enjoy my first full set of the weekend. Rumbling basslines, flighty guitar licks and rousing rhythms fill me with enthusiasm for the remains of the day. I almost feel well again.
Bouyed by my new-found chirpiness, we make a bee-line for the Club Tent. We’ve missed Nitin Sawney unfortunately, but we catch the Asian Dub Foundation soundsystem in full swagger. With the sides open, the club tent has a much more welcoming atmosphere, and when we take our kids in, they’re pounced upon by childless, wide-eyed, blink-free ravers eager to engage with people on their level. One girl in particular dances with and lavishes attention on both the little ones and they are quite rightly going berserk. I’ve gone beyond worrying and am actually really enjoying myself. It’s all too brief, however, as we need to try and feed them again. We opt for expensive pizza and pasta, but it’s no good. They’ve tasted cake and ice cream and won’t touch anything else. After a quick visit to the (charging!) Victorian Funfair, complete with suitably surly attendants (not much Victorian about that, I thought), we head back for the last time. Peatbog Faeries make our last wander across the Castle Stage a pleasant one, but for me, the music and the festival is over for another year. Sunday night is Jo’s night out and it’s my turn to babysit. As she heads off to take in the breathtaking performance by Leonard Cohen, I hunker down in our Bell Tent for the night. As I sit writing up the day’s notes, I can hear Pete Shelley and the Buzzcocks striving manfully to recreate the sneering sounds of the Seventies, but they’re struggling a bit. “It’ll be time catching up with ‘em, I expect,” I think to myself. And I realise this now applies to me too. Maybe I’m getting too old for all this. Perhaps the kids are too young for all this. Or is it a combination of the two? As the night wears on, I hear Hallelujah in the background, then fireworks, then more Hallelujah. Leonard Cohen is 73 and is still captivating an audience, so if he can do it, so can I. It’s actually a lovely end to what has been an incredibly full and family-friendly festival.
