Festivals:

‘Festivals are the best because you can’t control anything; and for a control freak like me that’s a wonderful experience’

-        Jack Garrett

Time was, this time of the year. I would pack a bag.  I would buy some new CD’s, which I would play on the train journey.  I would spend a week at The Edinburgh Festival, do four shows a day and see the great artists of our time doing mundane things in back alleys.  Time was also, I would stand in the cold of the Mersey seafront; and see bands I absolutely hated and bands I could see for free.  I would then go home and file a review. Repeat the next day.

I’ve been to two festivals this year, neither was actually like this.  Firstly, I went to BBC Gardener’s World Live.  This, is the kind of thing I would have run a mile from a few years ago.  But, time changes and seeds grow.  I looked at the rows of gadgets to make life easier.  I bought a pair of gardening gloves, which I was told were rip proof.  They’re already ripped.  My wife laid claim to the contents of the free goodie bag, especially the tube of a well-known spray for aches and pains. 

Later on this Summer, we took our son to see CBBC Summer Social.  I stood at the front with him for a demonstration of Art Ninja’s, erm ninja skills.  We got his autograph later, he’s a nice man.  The thing that really got me though was thousands (and I mean thousands) of toddlers, singing along to Mr Tumble; with the kind of joyful adoration that is given to someone on the main stage on a wet Sunday at Glastonbury. 

I like a festival as much as the next person.  But as you can see, they are only a reflection of your organismic self.  Standing in a field, trying to hide my disdain for the arrogance of The Dandy Warhols seems like a million years ago.  See also: walking across Edinburgh, four times a day in drizzle.  Footsore and lonely.  See also, hiding myself in my flat as Africa Oye made my window’s rattle.  See also: nipping into Liverpool to see a friend’s band; avoiding the hordes of pissed up scallies that made up the audience.  Still, I got to see Laura Mvula free one year.  Admittedly, with pissed up scallies, but you can’t have everything. 

So, in that respect festivals are a reflection of your own interests.  At the same time, they reflect your own personality.  As much as I sang along with Laura Mvula, as I was ready for a kick-off with the teenage blurt who was throwing a beach ball around the audience.  I covered Sound City for a well-known music website.  For whatever reason, there was a point where they stopped publishing my stuff.  I still don’t know why, but no matter what exclusive I gave them; it remained unopened, silent, forgotten. 

That’s me, my personality.  I am reverential of music, despite the often passive role it plays in the background of my life.  I also consider myself an open and friendly person.  However, treat me with disdain or a lack of respect and I will cut you dead.  Evidence of this: my curt response for an offer to cover Sound City from said website.  You can get the gist, the motion of what I said. 

From that time though: a sense of what friendship truly is.  A friend’s wife (and I use the term, loosely) treated me with the warmth of advent in Siberia.  It was at this point, I started to realise the people whom I thought were my friends, weren’t actually my friends.  I actually started to realise that the people I shared a desk with; actually were.  I also met a musician, with whom I occasionally exchange emails.  He’s a beautiful nutter of a man, an extremely talented musician.  But at the same time, not a constant in my life. 

Ultimately then, festivals are a change of season.  There comes a time when the landfill indie circus packs up and the bijou hotdog van shutters up as the sun goes down.  I don’t think I could do a music festival for a full weekend.  Traipsing over the same piece of concrete, or the same blade of grass, pen sharpened, and piss boiling to see a band I’m already not that keen on.  They are the proverbial ‘young one’s game’.  You need a strong constitution, an aversion to overpriced beer and a tube of peppermint foot cream to see one through.

Other kinds of festival though? Bring it on.  At Gardener’s World, I sat and internally nodded as Monty Don said: ‘You don’t own a garden, you borrow it’.  Festivals are transient, mendacious things.  A weekend, that promises to live for a lifetime. They are however, a short space to celebrate before Autumn arrives in a brown car.  A season that noted philosopher John McCready (my Dad) says ‘has nothing to look forward to, except football and crumpets’.  They are a reflection of what you like, what you love and whom you love.  At the moment, this is raising my son to the best human being he can be.  Plus, solving the mystery of the failure of our Brussel Sprouts this year. 

Next Summer, hopefully we’ll find the answers.