Honestly? My brain is a mush. A mash. A mess.
I can recall walking up and down the path leading from the family camping site to the beach, and following the 22-piece Fallout Marching Band, with their array of rebel songs and Spiderman theme covers and anarchist New Orleans-style brass improv dual soloing, all the way to the very water’s edge where some of the toucans just carried straight on marching in… and following them up to the main stage, the Lighthouse Stage, where we swayed and made bird calls, and danced in the breaking sun on Saturday morning… and chatting with three members over a late night campfire, as we tried our hardest to convince my children (Daniel and Lauren) to carry out mischief beneath the very noses of the sweetheart security guards but… honestly?
My brain is a blank. A blink. A wonderment of blurry sounds and noises.
Here are the Fallout Marching Band.
And here are Daniel and Lauren.
But… honestly? My brain is shooting febrile tinsels of nonsense to my feet, and my legs are a mush. A mess. A mishap of fatigue and joy. I can recall how happy I was to hear that Daniel had joined the Bhangra mosh-pit that formed during the mighty beats and calling of the Bhangra Allstars, relentless in their exuberance and inspirational in their freedom, and I can recall how so pleased I was that Lauren was dancing only feet away from me during the indie oomph and clatter of Falmouth/Brighton band Holiday Ghosts.
Here. Here are the Allstars.
If I have selected the wrong image, please forgive me. Have I mentioned my fried brain already?
And here, here are Holiday Ghosts, looking suitably mysterious and moody. (They were anything but in reality)…
Holiday Ghosts reminded me of my long-lost Australian guitar-led sweethearts Bed Wettin’ Bad Boys and Royal Headache (and, more recently, Terry – as Clash Magazine once wrote, “You can imagine the likes of Everett True jumping on a plane to shoot the breeze with TERRY and ending up getting too close, only to be callously disowned when the big time hit”), gorgeous 60s and 70s and 80s and 90s psychedelic (and punk-influenced) guitar pop like Replacements and Teenage Fanclub (and can I even hear a little Shop Assistants in there?), the type of band who come along every few years or so and twang at my heartstrings so wonderfully…
But honestly? My brain is soul-food, fodder for cats and lesser people, a mishmash of crossed emotions and fiery walks. When I arrived, it felt like for a few hours I was in such the wrong place altogether. We’re in Cornwall, right? Flushing, just across the harbour from Falmouth; so why is every band a variant on jazz fusion and jazz funk or psychedelic Cornish indie? I don’t mind the latter but man… please! NO MORE JAZZ FUSION.
There are only two stages, but I also have two children present, most of whom require feeding every 15 minutes… and, wait? Have I mentioned the food queues or the wasps? Honestly? I don’t care. This is rare good fun, and at many, many points both strange and rhythmical – two of my very favourite aspects of music. Hello. I’m back again.
Here are some bands I took photographs of because I was enjoying myself. Please don’t ask me what they sounded like. My brain? A mushed messed-up mess or miasma of musical infractions and delight at being part of something so magical.
On the left, Lair – who look totally lively and fun. In the middle, Tealeaf – who look totally soulful and droning (IN A GOOD WAY, natch), Cornish and fun. On the right, Mellah – who stole our hearts with his disarming melancholy and fixation on death, and for the way he made us all howl (literally) like dogs. Beautiful.
Did I mention Fruit Band on the tiny Wood Stage yet? Oh man, but I should! So our kind of thing – the our kind of thing that is so much our kind of thing we could venture out any cold miserable night in Brighton down the Bee’s Mouth or Rosehill to see this our kind of thing any night – it hurt our feet and our faces to dance so hard, and smile so hard. Damn, this boy has energy! Damn, that is some out of sight dancing. I ask Lauren why she didn’t stay to watch. “Dad, I didn’t like the music [Suicide crossed with a little ‘Nightclubbing’ crossed with observational soulfulness – Ed’s note], he was singing out of tune, and HE WAS CRAZY!!” But these are all the reasons we loved him so! If Craig did remind me of anyone it was this feller Mattress we saw at the Railway Club at one of Nadia’s crazy nights last year, and I wrote this about Mattress back then:
“More fun than any of us deserve, Richard Hawley and Ian Svenonius reimagined as a disco king, and of course Alan Vega and Suicide with glittery gold suits and deadpan, humorous, observations. Everything links. My favourite moments are your favourite moments are everyone’s favourite moments. Pause. My favourite chords are your favourite chords are everyone’s favourite chords. Pause.”
… which makes me think that Fruit Band are nothing like Mattress actually. I guess I was just latching onto the brutal Grace Jones/Iggy Pop 20-minute beat. Dance? I’d say we did!
But then…
Ah shit. Save the best for last. Daisy Rickman. Mesmerising. Spellbound. Here she is, with some of her equally mesmeric and spellbinding band…
Her set felt way too short, but perhaps that’s how she likes it. All my friends told me it was much longer, but in my spellbound dazed slumber the lilting sounds of her band’s Cornish psychedelic and most strange folk music only seemed to last for 10 minutes before I was rudely wakened into a new haze and found myself tripping the country path down to the sea once again, to dream unbidden dreams, for as Susan Cooper put it, “The Dark Is Rising”…