a ticket to ryde (the isle of wight festival, part one)

New Years’ Resolutions have never been my thing. This year, though, I almost broke with tradition, but instead made a collage of things-to-do-this-year. One of my ambitions was to go to a music festival. The closest I had got in the past were a couple of outings to the Monsters of Rock at Donington… it was a lot of fun, but this was pre-Download, it was still just a one day affair.

Last year, I had umm-ed and ahh-ed about the Isle of Wight Festival, but by the time I decided I really did want to go, it’d sold out. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake this year… especially as the first acts announced were the Friday night co-headliners: Placebo and The Prodigy.

To say I was already looking forward to June was an understatement. First up, the IoW festival, then a huge Foo Fighters’ show the following weekend at Hyde Park. The rest of the IoW line-up was confirmed over many weeks, however, I was particularly happy on the day that the Saturday and Sunday night headliners were announced… it was the Foo Fighters and Coldplay respectively. Cue much bouncing off the walls on my part.

My enthusing about the festival enticed Jean, a postgrad in my lab, and her housemates to book their tickets. She was also kind enough to borrow a large four-person tent from her aunt.

Ten days or so before the festival, things weren’t looking too good. Constant rain and unseasonably low temperatures weren’t what I had been hoping for, and I was checking the long-term forecast on a daily basis. Gradually it started to brighten up, and I became slightly more hopeful that my first festival experience wouldn’t be a complete washout. I’m not really one for the great outdoors at the best of times. I feared if I were cold and wet for four days, I would be completely insufferable. As it turned out, our biggest concern would be sunburn.

Thursday 8th June

In the hope of securing a decent pitch, we had collectively decided to head over to the island on the Thursday. The plan was for me to meet the others in Ryde, as I had the Fastcat crossing included in my ticket, whereas they had opted instead for the hovercraft.

The Fastcat docks at the far end of a pier… I think it was only the amount of crap I was carrying (heavy bag almost bursting at the seams, enough alcohol for four nights, and various pieces of tent) that made it seem like a very long pier. I lazily waited for the train to take me to the shore end, and wasn’t sure what reaction this would get me from the others. I felt better when Rachel, one of Jean’s housemates (and the only one of us to have been to the IoW festival before), told me how walking the length of the pier fully laden had nearly killed her last year. I felt like less of a slacker.

Double decker busses were lined up to take people to the festival site. Ours was open top, the sun was shining and we were already chilled out. It was a good way to travel.



As we entered the site, we were tagged with weekend camping wristbands. These were glittery and gold, the consensus was that they were pretty damn cool. Rachel knew the site, and was dismayed that many of the fields were already full. Another field was opened as we walked past it, and we decided that having our choice of pitch was preferable to fighting for space closer to the arena. Jean and I managed to erect the four person tent with a minimum of fuss, but the hot sun made it heavy going, and I would have killed for a nice cold Coke.

At this point, there were four of us with two tents, but this would later become eight people in four tents. Our little camp completed, we sat and watched with smug self-satisfaction as others struggled: first to find space, and to put up their tents.



Later, we wandered down to the Strawberry Fields, which was party central. Lots of bars, as well as stalls selling everything you could want at a music festival. I had to ask Jean to sub me some cash, after I was told that the cash machines were “still on the Ferry.”

Late into the evening, people were still arriving, and we felt thankful that we had been able to set up camp in daylight. I was amused at the range of crap that people carried, and what it said about them. I came to the conclusion that the most accurate measure of degeneracy seemed to be the camping equipment to alcohol ratio. I didn’t envy the neighbours-to-be of the man I saw struggling under the weight of three crates of beer and a groundsheet.

All the excitement of the day, combined with 90 minutes of sleep the night before, were catching up with me. I drank a glass of Bailey’s and ran a quick spider inspection before taking out my sleeping bag and crashing out around 10 pm. I felt like a wuss, but less so after we were woken by our chemically-enhanced neighbours at 5 am.

I’ll rant about them later.

placebo @ alexandra palace - april 11th

So I had a straight choice: pay twice face value for a ticket off eBay, or not go. I chose the former, and fortunately the show did at least live up to the inflated cost.

I’d never been to Alexandra Palace before (which may have had something to do with my mistaken stupid belief that it was in south London… Duh!), and I wasn’t sure what it would be like as a rock venue.

After realising where the venue actually was, I resigned myself to driving. I guess I’m getting old, but when I got there, the queue was already rather long, and the persistent, cold rain made the adjoining bar look all too appealing. My first impression was that building itself is beautiful, and it certainly made a nice change from places like Earl’s Court and Wembley, which are functional at best. When I got inside, my enthusiasm for the architecture waned… the stage was set up in a large hall, but just seemed rather detached from everything else around it.

The first support band did have some fans there, but you couldn’t help suspecting they’d bussed in their family and friends for the night. I’ve already forgotten their name, which probably says all you need to know about them. The second support band was White Rose Movement who were OK in a pretentious art student kind of way, but they never really rocked my world. Their bassist had the looks and all the right moves, until he started rocking out in front of the drums… I'd at least like a little foreplay before I see a guy’s arsecrack.

Placebo was great, although they concentrated mostly on material from their recently released Meds album. It was kind of a double-edged sword, as I’d like to have heard more of their older stuff, but with five studio albums, they’re spoilt for choice. I did at least manage to shove my way into the second row of sweaty bodies. The gig was fantastic, and during the encore, Alison Mosshart of The Kills joined the band for Meds.

I probably spent too much of the gig wondering why the hell I'd have an inexplicable crush on Stef. He is kind of cute, incredibly cool, and a bassist, but he's also rather scrawny (well, compared to me and my oversized arse) and very gay. I'm going to chalk it up to a naked torso and a thunderbird ;-)

just a quick note about toys...

It probably wouldn’t take too much imagination to work out what I typed into Google to find this site (which, unless you are Bibliogirl, isn’t particularly worksafe by the way!)

They sell sex toys, and their website has a menu down the side of the page. It's mostly quite standard fare (gift ideas, butt plugs, strap ons, special offers and the like); however, the first item on the list is “Adult Vibrators.”

I read down the rest of the list looking for the childrens' range… they don’t appear to stock them, though…

bass porn

Last June, I gave into the temptations of my mid-life crisis, and bought a second hand bass guitar. Until December, I even had lessons. I had a cute-but-married bass tutor called Steve; I acted like a child, and spent half the lessons laughing. It was good fun, but after about five weeks of cancelled lessons (sometimes his fault, sometimes mine), I realised I was getting on OK by myself. And I could spend the £15 a week on bass tab books instead.

I'm still practising on the damn thing, but my sloppy playing is annoying the (slight) perfectionist streak that seems to run through my family. I think I'm slowly getting less bad, but I'm nowhere near the point where I think I deserve a halfway decent instrument.

Yet.

I'll get there... Until then, I'm just resigned to late-night sessions of Googling for bass porn. Like this:



:-)

the secret machines

After seeing The Secret Machines in Amsterdam, I'd downloaded their Now Here Is Nowhere album from the iTunes store. I absolutely loved it, and really wanted to see them play live again.

I was considering heading up to London to see them at the Shepard's Bush Empire, when I suddenly realised they were playing a venue somewhat closer to home. (It's much closer... think five minute walk). I've been to the venue several times before, but in the past it's usually just been to see so-so bands for the sake of going out.

The show was billed as An Evening With The Secret Machines; it was just them, no support act. I don't know if the Foo Fighters paid them in lighting, but what they had was better suited to a larger venue with higher ceilings; it was unnervingly like staring into the sun. It was a minor grumble, though. The gig was great, spell-binding almost.

As much as I like gig-inspired road trips, on the way back, I realised how nice it was to see a band I really like, and be able to walk home and sleep in my own bed.

amsterdamned

I needed to get away from here.

January is always depressing, and I felt the need to escape from the cold and grey city that I currently call home. I also wanted to see the Foo Fighters again. Since seeing them at Earl’s Court, I’d bought the missing parts of their back catalogue, and was getting a little obsessed. I needed another fix.

I checked out their upcoming dates, the second leg of their European Tour, while considering the best destination. Although I knew it would be just as grey, and probably even colder, the winner was Amsterdam. A return bus fare of just GPB 9, a Foo Fighters gig, semi-legal drugs and sex shops galore – I figured it had to be better than staying at home.

I had been to Amsterdam before, but at the time of my last visit, I was only 18.The trip was a lot of fun, but potential misdemeanours were limited by my chaperone (my mother). It had also been bitterly cold in October; I tried not to dwell on the mind-buggering coldness that was likely for late January.

Also, I’ve always had a soft spot for the Dutch. Each Easter, my school hockey team would tour Holland. We’d stay with local families, and their children would take us out to bars, where we’d drink with the locals, and cycle back on borrowed bikes (thank God for wide cycle lanes…) The Dutch are also reputedly the tallest nation, which means I can go out in heels and not have quite so many short men give me strange looks.

I managed to score a ticket for the gig, and booked a couple of hotels. Rather than spend five nights in a mediocre hotel, I opted for two nights in a one star hotel, followed by three nights in a five star (it made sense, if only to me!) I spent the rest of the month counting down the days, grateful to have something to look forward to.

Some people wondered why I didn’t fly, but long road trips don’t bother me… I’d even go so far as to say I enjoy them. Frequent childhood holidays to South Africa largely cured me of my English perception of distance*. My pain barrier was completely broken by a long-but-fun Greyhound bus journey from Chicago to L.A. It took around 48 hours, and after that, nothing ever seemed so far.

*It maybe a slight exaggeration, but someone once pointed out to me that, in the US, some people will drive a couple of hundred miles to have dinner with friends. Whereas in the UK, if most people travel that kind of distance, they want to stay there for a couple of weeks, “to make the trip worthwhile.”

After getting up at an ungodly hour to ensure I got to London Victoria in time, I settled down on to the bus and relaxed as we drove out of London. The only disappointment I had was when I realised we were heading for the Channel Tunnel; I’d been hoping for a ride on the ferry. I’d been to Paris on the Eurostar, but it was my first time on the vehicle trains. I’ve also redefined my own worst nightmare… it would now be trying to drive a bus onto one of the carriages. I think when designing these vehicle cars, they took the maximum dimension for a passenger coach, and added about three inches on either side:




I couldn’t tell you how long the trip through the chunnel took. Both ways, I slept like a baby, and now dream of having a bed that mimics the bus-on-a-moving-train motion that so successfully rocked me to sleep.

Four countries, lots of farmland, a couple of rest-stops and countless Ikeas later, we arrived in Amsterdam. I got a taxi to my first hotel; I didn’t mind that it cost more than the London-Amsterdam part of my trip. It was cold and getting late, and I really didn’t fancy trying to navigate the tram network of an unfamiliar city in the dark. I checked in and sat with my guidebook, planning the next day’s amusements.

The Hotel Princess was OK, although suffered from having the stupidly steep staircases that seem to be typical of old Amsterdam buildings. The tatty, drafty attic room was exactly what I would have expected for the price. The American Hotel made for an interesting contrast. A beautiful, listed, art nouveau building, it had warm rooms and lovely bathrooms with more soft, white towels than even I could get through. The default TV channel was the feed from a camera mounted on the front of the building, facing into the square. It seemed odd, but somehow it worked.

Aside from Gig Day, I spent most of my time in Amsterdam shopping and eating. The only really touristy thing I did was one of the cheesy boat trips around the canals. And buy pre-rolled joints... still seems like a wonderful concept. I also had arguably the worst sex of my life. Never mind...





31/1/06

I arrived at the Heineken Music Hall around 1 pm, and joined the queue (well... the three or four people in front of me). Damn, it was cold! Before leaving home, I’d bought a jumbo pack of air-activated, self-adhesive heat pads; they’re meant for back pain, but having frozen my arse off in many queues over the years, they seemed like a worthwhile investment. Not a very glamorous solution (they look rather like sanitary towels, see pic, model's name unknown)... I wore most of a pack and, as well as amusing others in the queue, they did successfully stave off hypothermia.



I was wearing an ankle length fun fur coat (yes, it’s as tacky as it sounds… it’s also very warm), and a woman in the queue behind me couldn’t understand why I was still so cold. I flashed her the very short shorts I was wearing, and she looked at me with suitable pity (though, I suspect, for my stupidity and not my situation).

As time marched on, we realised the gig was to be filmed, probably for a future DVD release. A camera crew were hanging around, asking people if they spoke English, and they were pointed in my direction, I guess largely on the grounds that I am English. I declined to be interviewed, largely as I hate cameras, as well as the sound of my own voice. I’ve also learned that shit like this catches up with you. However, it was having a runny nose, being half frozen to death while dressed in a coat that made me look like an overweight teddy bear that swung it.

The nice security people opened the doors earlier than advertised, and we rushed inside to the comparative warmth of the hall. Five or so hours in the cold were rewarded with a position on the front barrier, dead centre.

The current FF stage show includes lots of lasers, but I prefer their description:



First up were Rye Coalition. Their tour blog makes for amusing reading, and it also made their attitude (angry and pissed off) make a little more sense. They didn’t really seem as one, and I was amused by their bass player, who seemed fed up, and rolled his eyeballs at his fellow band members antics with the disdain that only a bass player can.

From their tour journals:

We made our way down to the stage, but Jon [one of their guitarists] was nowhere to be found. We waited for a few minutes, but our set was supposed to have started. The lights went down and the fans started cheering. I guess the rest of the band thought it was a good idea to go out there, but I knew better. After about 30 more seconds and no Jon, I knew I had to go out there and say something. So, I went to the mic, introduced the band, and asked it anyone had seen our guitar player. All of sudden here comes Jon running on to the stage with his yellow beer socks pulled up to his knees. He kicked into “Clutch the Pearls” the second he got his guitar strapped on. . There was no monitor sound for the first song. There was another blunder somewhere too, delays in counting in songs. Nothing that would be too noticeable by anyone but a few [keep telling yourself that...]. But I always feel the need to be as honest I can with our faithful readers.

Next were The Secret Machines. I’d never heard of them before, but was pleasantly surprised. Although pretentious (and then some, see below), they had a great sound, and fantastic songs… I made a mental note to check out their stuff when I got home.

To anyone who thinks the pretentious tag may be unfair, you can read more like this on their website:

Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever said to a loved one. Now recall the instant you realize you can’t take it back. Your stomach drops; your mouth tastes metallic. What is done can’t be undone. A short time later you’re defiant—feeling that you don’t need anyone and will die alone. That naïve, insolent, singular moment is thoroughly explored and set to crystalline music on Ten Silver Drops, the new album from the propulsive trio Secret Machines.

I don’t think that was supposed to make me howl with laughter. Oh. Dear. God.

Before the FFs hit the stage in London, you could feel the anticipation and excitement in the air… not so in Amsterdam. Here, the audience seemed really laid back and mellow, and I honestly don’t think it had anything to do with the occasional cloud of sweet-smelling smoke that wafted over the audience. When the house lights eventually dimmed, a cheer went up, and there was a little pushing and shoving, but it was all... well, rather civilised.

This time, starting the show on the barrier, I could at least concentrate on the stage instead of trying to pre-empt the movement of the crowd and slam people out of my way. My spine tingled at the opening chords of In Your Honour, and I smiled as I sang along, grateful for the best view in the house.

They played all the songs that I've recently come to love... a particular favourite being Stacked Actors. Monkeywrench and DOA were also highlights.

For some unknown reason, an audience member threw a carrot onstage. Dave looked rather puzzled, and made some comment along the lines of, “of all the weird shit… well, you’re certainly a very healthy audience!” Then someone threw bread...



I also suspected that Dave was, quite possibly, a little tipsy. Everlong was sung with “up the butt” added to most of the lines. I couldn’t help thinking that all he needed was a Metallica T-shirt and a life-size cardboard cut-out of Beavis by his side.

Dave introduced Big Me by taking the piss out of some poor guy in the audience. I suspect Dave's laughter, and the guilty look on his face, meant that even he knew he'd overstepped the line and was officially being an arsehole. Maybe I wouldn't have minded as much if I actually rated the song...

During the encore, Taylor took the lead vocals for Cold Day in the Sun, with Dave heading to the rear to smack the shit out of Taylor's drums.



All in all, a damn good show :-)

And if you're not totally bored yet, there are more photo's here.

A quick note about the internet:

This is the first show I’ve been to where I’ve found bootleg videos online (such as this one), shot by people standing close to me. I thought this was cute and amusing. Until I stumbled across a short clip of Everlong (the quiet, pseudo-acoustic bit). The moment it started to play, I realised it was shot by someone who must have been standing pretty much next to me. And I could hear myself singing along. Really, really badly.

*winces*

The bus journey back to London was less relaxing than the outbound one. I've been told that the braking distance for a bus is around three times longer than for a car. The bastard of a driver insisted on sitting about 15 feet off the vehicle in front of him, and braking every 10 seconds or so. I was just glad to get home, seething, but unscathed.

The other downer about the journey home was French Customs (and I'm not talking about abusing the English). We were ordered off the bus with our baggage, while it was searched by humourless officials armed with guns and sniffer dogs. The bus had AMSTERDAM - LONDON emblazoned on the front and both sides... Although I could understand the temptation, could anyone be that dumb??

We were also sent through English passport control [located on the French side, so that any alleged asylum seekers could be detained on that side of the channel]. There were several men on the bus who I would guess were not (western) European by birth. They collectively seemed to think it most unreasonable that the guy with:
a) a non-EU passport
b) one-way ticket and
c) no work permit or visa
was not allowed to continue his journey. Duh!

After the long journey, I was glad to be home, but less than happy when I realised that in my absence, tickets for the Placebo gigs I would like to have gone to had:

- been announced,
- gone on sale, and
- sold out.

This leaves me either ticketless, or at the mercy of the fucking-bastard eBay touts.

Long post, I know. Sorry!