Paperjam

V Festival 2006: Part One

Gigs // Jim // 29th August 2006

Friday

Jesus, I’m not good in the mornings. I want to throw the fucking alarm clock across the room but I have to get up and finish (well, technically, start) packing my stuff. Somehow I get down to Alphonso’s breakfast emporium near Leamington station in time to watch everyone else get a big greasy breakfast off a bloke who is strongly reminiscent of Ken Masters out of Howards Way. I queasily ask for a glass of water and silently wish I hadn’t gone out for a tandoori with lager chasers last night.

Jane has bottled coming along to the V festival, the reasons are not entirely apparent, theories range from “had a better offer that doesn’t involve festival toilets”, through “being a complete lightweight” and finally “Jim, I’m busy this weekend, Jim. I have to stop the Ark of the Covenant from falling into the hands of the Nazis on Sunday. Jim.” Either way she has been kind enough to offer us a lift into Cov to get the coach up to Stafford, so I shouldn’t be nasty.

One set of pinpoint backseat directions later and we meet up with the others outside that big concrete elephant of a sports centre. Now we are all together I can do the introductions, however as their real names George, Julian, Dick, Anne and Timmy are coincidentally the same as Enid Blyton’s famous five and subject to copyright I am going to have to call them “Craig”, “Paul”, “Katherine”, “Malc” and “Rich”.

An al-fresco slash (to get in the mood for the rest of the weekend) and onto the bus, someone called Miss Towel hasn’t turned up, the driver hangs around for a bit and then drives up to Weston Park, pointing out halfway there where he used to live, right near a really big radio mast. Hmmmm.

Paul and Katherine are slightly delayed after their bus breaks down and it turns out that the driver doesn’t know where he is going, but soon we are all sorted and making the shoulder straining walk to the campsite. Some bloke is trying to get in with no ticket, but he does have a note from his mum (honestly).

The first campsite we come to is already packed so we head to the green campsite, some people have pitched their tents right next to the already dubious smelling toilets, must be a fetish of some sort – because it makes no sense at all.
We get a nice spot and get the tents up without too much hassle, I’ve borrowed one from Tall Paul which probably conforms to military standards of some kind. Just as we finish sorting the tents out it starts to rain. Really, really rain. We all take shelter while Paul manfully dons a see through raincoat (ideal for the pervy flasher who can't just manage all those fiddly buttons) and stands outside his tent pumping up an airbed.

We convene for beer, cards and smoking in Craig and Malc’s plush love-palace of a tent and then it is time to venture out to the bogs. On the way there are all manner of people turning up dressed for a night at Rio’s – getting cold, wet and muddy. One girl, all running mascara and muddy ankles, is crying “Nataschaaaa, I want to go home”. I pause briefly to laugh at her.

V Campsite: Rain, rain

There is nothing actually doing this evening, music wise, but the arena area is open for drinking and eating all sorts of shocking and shockingly expensive food. Plus there is a funfair that absolutely no-one is making any use of. They have the smallest roller coaster I have ever seen.

Hold on, have I spotted Morrissey’s band walking past? Probably not, but you never know. Bit more food and beer, Craig and Malc decide to go and try to and find their old mate Gary. I head back to plan out what bands to watch tomorrow using the programme that the charitable organisers are virtually giving away for just ten quid. Realise at this point that a torch is pretty much de rigour and pay a few quid for one, which turns out to have all the illuminative power of a wet match in a vacuum tube.

Gary and Malc think they’ve found Gary but it turns out it was just an impostor. Go to bed and sleep like a baby, earplugs are a great invention. The others are kept awake by some scouse lass who screeches on loudly for ages about all sorts prior to making sweet, sweet love in her tent at four in the morning. Once again: Earplugs, a great invention.

Saturday

Wake up to a slightly moist tent interior and cramp in my calves, but nothing too bad. A tension hangs in the air though, because, without wishing to be too course, it is time to take a dump. Several options for this scenario were discussed prior to the festival, they can be narrowed down to:
a) Negate the whole thing by dosing up on immodium and avoiding food.
b) Shit in a plastic bag in your tent (honestly this was suggested)
c) Breathing only through the mouth and braving the portaloo nightmare.

Opting, unsurprising, for option c, clutching toilet rolls and wet wipes we plod up the muddy hill until we come to a fairly miserable looking queue next to a block of unpleasantly odious cubicles.

Suddenly one of the security/steward type blokes tells us that there are fresh toilets at the top of the hill. We’re not sure whether to trust him, but it is unlikely to be any worse than it is here so we troop up to the top of the campsite. Fortunately steward number 70 turns out to be an honest geezer and we get to enjoy a freshly hosed down and emptied toilet experience. Aaahhhh. I try to accrue some good toilet karma by wiping the seat with a wet wipe once I am done.

After planning out who and what we all want to see, we troop through the mud to the arena, it is raining a bit but nothing too bad, wellies are changing hands for five quid more than yesterday though. We hang around by some big shell shaped speakers playing some rather dubious music while we are waiting for security to open the stage area.

Just before half twelve the barriers come down and we head to the Union tent to catch our first band, The Dodgems. I get three bottles of lager for the price of one somehow and the band troop onto the stage to an initial audience of about two or three hundred at the most. They are three skinny blokes with extravagant haircuts and a skinhead on the drums. Oh dear this isn’t going to be very good. Oh no hang on, they’re brilliant. From the off The Dodgems seem to think that, rather than being in a tent in rainy Staffordshire, they are in fact playing at Altamont while the Hells Angels are doing the crowd in. Big rock poses and guitar heroics are the order of the day. The stand-out song is called Fashion Queen, during which I notice that we are all grinning like idiots as are the rest of the gradually growing crowd.

The Dodgems finish to an enthusiastic reception and make us all forget about the shitty weather. More beer (not at discount rates this time) as we wait for the next band to appear. The Grates have a drummer/guitarist/singer set up – leading to a White Stripe-sy sound with the singer jumping around like a hyperactive teenager, on a pogo stick, with a firework up her arse. Every now and again a bloke appears at the side of the stage to swig from a can of lager and play a few notes on a keyboard (that no-one can actually hear) before buggering off again. Nice work if you can get it. The beer must be kicking in as it seems that Craig has fallen in lust with the drummer. The Grates do a song about a “Motherfucker”, I admire their energy but I can’t really say that I am getting into it. “To be honest,” opines Craig, “This lot look like they have been let out for the day.” No-one argues with him. He is still giving the drummer some of those coy sideways glances though.

We head out of the Union tent and head round to the big old Channel 4 stage to catch a slice of mod heroes The Rifles. This lot are plenty of fun (as indeed they were at the Soundstation Festival a while back) and they crank out the catchy likes of Local Boy, She’s Got Standards and Repeated Offender which is as bouncy and fun as Kelly Brook on a trampoline. A bunch of lairy geezers with a blow up doll and matching “The lads on tour” shirts are already pissing in cups and throwing it about, they are going to be fun by this evening.

At Malc’s inspired suggestion we head back to the “Don’t like cider? Then fuck you” Strongbow stage for a bit of Hayseed Dixie and their comedy incest heavy metal covers vibe. On the way I go for a leak in the lovely urinals and enjoy a bit of the Dandy Warhols set while pissing surrounded by women waiting to get into the cubicles, sorry love, did I splash you there? What? Well, err, it is rather cold out here isn’t it?

We can’t actually get into the bouncer stronghold of the Strongbow stage but hang around outside and enjoy Hayseed Dixie doing the likes of War Pigs and a song about keeping poo in a jar, before they cut loose the old Duelling Banjos and all the “Squeal like a pig, boy” stuff gets an airing from absolutely everyone. Still it is very entertaining.

The weather seems to be clearing up, hooray. We pop into the cavernous JJB stage to check out Mercury nominated professional northerner Richard Hawley. His act consists of between-song banter along the lines of “My fookin wifes so fookin fat that she sweats fookin gravy. You fookin fooks.” Before launching into big crooning fifties style epics. In a word: Incongruous.

Looks like the rain is back, but never mind we are heading back into the dark sanctuary of the union tent where the smell of poppers is rife and I trip over at least four or five indie kids who are “resting” on the rather damp floor. Paul has recommended that we check out Jim Noir, who might be a bloke or a band, we just don’t know. A bunch of gnomes are set up and then the band takes the stage fronted by the woolly hated Mr Noir. From the start they are great, very, very laid back indie music with a whimsical edge to it that is absolutely impossible to dislike. The Key of C is virtually somnambulistic but so damn catchy it hurts. My Patch is likewise and the rest of the set has us more enthusiastic than Michael Jackson in a Wacky Warehouse. We are all making a mental note to get on the internet as soon as we get home for a bit of Noir action. Hang about Craig’s spotted Pete Doherty as we leave the tent, why he didn’t chin him there and then (or at least spit in his general direction) is a matter of some discussion.

Another enjoyable trip to the lake of piss passing for the gents before returning to the Union for a little bit of the fantastically named Liam Frost and the Slowdown Family. Unfortunately they don’t live up to their amazing name, Liam is an intense chap in a suit that could do with a trip to Sketchleys. The music seems bit folk-rock and the high point is a bloke who comes on to play the trumpet, waits for ages looking a bit nervous and then, when his big moment arrives, is completely inaudible over the racket coming out of the rest of his Slowdown brethren. Worry a bit about Liam’s cardio-vascular health and then leg it outside for a breather.

Rich and I decide to check out Oceansize who are almost certainly on some kind of loyalty scheme at their local guitar shop. In the course of the half hour set they get through about two and a half songs; Massive epics involving up to five guitarists building what would have once been described as “sonic cathedrals of sound” in a rock/ambient stylee. Rich is impressed, I am reminded of Sigur Ros a bit but fairly entertained too. Eeuuurrgghhh, a condom thrown from the back of the crowd has landed on my shoulder, thankfully it is unused. Could have been worse, some little treasure is throwing lit fags stageward. Tosser.

Some of the indie kids in front of me regard my Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now lyrics t-shirt for a while before one of them commends it as being “Gangster” I am very confused by this but somewhere, not all that far away, Morrissey is probably delighted.

The rain is getting a bit unrelenting now, time to head back through the quagmire to get some waterproof clothes on. Walking past the main stage we catch a bit of Paul Weller and his completely unfeasible hair doing Come Together, except it isn’t, it is a song that sounds almost exactly the same as Come Together, shameless Mr Weller.

Coming back I learn that I’ve missed Weller doing A Town Called Malice, which I am pretty gutted about. What on earth is going on in the JJB tent? It is packed out, the bouncers are stopping anyone else going in and the crowd are going crazy. All for the mad sounds of... Gomez! Well they do say that every dog has his day.

They are taking a long time to set up for BellX1 there are all sorts of keyboards, laptops and bits and pieces all over the place. This should be interesting. They come on and start playing a sort of vaguely electronic 80’s pop thing. The singer thinks he is Martin Fry or something. He acts like things aren’t working properly and bangs a solitary drum bathed in a red spotlight. Christ this is rubbish. We leave rapidly.

Fatigue and leg-ache are setting in as we stroll through even more mud to the food bit near the Channel 4 stage. Starsailor are finishing off as we pass, the singer seems to be wanking himself silly screaming “STAR-SAIL-ERRRR. STAR-SAIL-ERRRR” repeatedly to the assembled masses. Sigh.

After a medicinal bottle of water and a nice sit down. Rich and I hang around to see The Charlatans. Blimey they are looking a bit rough, to say the least. “Puffy” is the first word that springs to mind when Tim Burgess’s ravaged visage appears on one of the big screens. Heavy night Tim?

It’s a dispassionate, will this do? Greatest hits kind of approach from The Charlatans. They are perfectly fine but just don’t seem all that bothered, makes me think of a really good wedding band. Having said that I am well chuffed when they do the totally ace Can’t Get Out Of Bed and have one of those rose tinted moments when I think back to completely failing to get off with that really cool girl who “borrowed” my copy when I was a naive nineteen year-old. Happy days indeed.

North Country Boy brings mention of the superior Mark and Lard version, while The Only One I Know has us trying to work out exactly how old this lot must be by now. Burgess is starting to look a bit green now, he might well need a bucket, or at least hair of the dog.

Enough of this, time is drawing night for the main event of the day (for me at least), headline act, Morrissey. Craig, Rich and I congregate at a decent spot well in front of the mixing desk, the others aren’t looking all that enthusiastic but to be fair they are manfully willing to give it a go. Their stoicism is rewarded when Mozzer and band take to the stage to the strains of You’ll Never Walk Alone, he sings a couple of disparaging lines about the English weather and then they absolutely crash into the opening chords of Panic. The place goes fairly mad, everyone is singing and jumping around as much as the onset of trench foot will allow. This is totally brilliant - “Hang the DJ,” Mozz yells, “Anyone will do,” he adds.

He keeps up the momentum with a jaunty First Of The Gang To Die and then announces that because of the catchy nature of the chorus to The Youngest Was The Most Loved that absolutely no-one should sing along. Ho ho.

There is more banter about the cold icy hand of the past on his shoulder prefacing an outing of the laugh-tastic Girlfriend In A Coma. I really wasn’t expecting to hear this much Smiths stuff but I’m not complaining, the shirt is off already and heading into the crowd, a quick replacement and he is back.

Hang on. What the fuck is going on here? A text number has appeared on the screens and an awkward looking Morrissey is reading from a bit of paper. Moaning that his new single won’t get played on the radio and that we should all text in to get hold of a copy which will include the version that he is about to perform.

I am not at all happy about this and the crowd near me are all a bit non-plussed to say the least. Well, your heroes always let you down at some point don’t they? (although I’ve previously counted the Maladjusted album as the mistake that I am prepared to overlook). It doesn’t help matters that the song in question is the fairly naff In The Future When All’s Well. Mozz tries to reclaim some credibility by repeating the mantra “Blair: No. Bush: No” several times. But it’s no good I am in a bit of a mood.

He starts to score some points back with more Smiths action in the the form of Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before. The emotion of it all is too much for the others and they head off to nurse sore feet and have another quick look round for Gary.

Current favourite Life Is A Pigsty is great, helped greatly by the fact that the rainstorm noises on the record are being played out for real. I reflect that I am watching Morrissey in the pissing rain standing in a muddy field, knowing that everyone is going to say “How ironic,” and laugh smugly when I tell them about it next week.

The only Morrissey solo track off anything prior to You Are The Quarry is the rather strange choice of We’ll Let You Know. From here we get a pounding Irish Blood, English Heart and scale the mountain of total campness with At Last I Am Born. Another shirt goes into the crowd and the members of the band are all introduced in a rather painful fashion before we conclude with a little treat for everyone: How Soon is Now. A girl near me is so excited that she starts sobbing loudly, which is the idea I suppose. There is something odd about couples hugging and singing the bit about “So you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home and you cry and you want to die.” I suppose it is reassuring to them in some way.

Morrissey is off and seems genuinely happy about the whole thing, thanking the crowd and expressing love of the undying kind. I forget about my previously dark mood and the hideous text farrago. The crowd are shouting for more, but we have hit eleven pm and there is no encore. “That’s Life…” sings Sinatra as the lights come up and the roadies start pulling down the big backdrop of Oscar Wilde.

Overall I am fairly satisfied, really don’t understand why we didn’t get anything off Vauxhall and I or any of the earlier stuff. But still he was on fine humorous form, even if the scary camp uncle act was getting a bit pantomime at times. The Smiths songs were all fantastic and Panic as an opener was just tremendous.

Back in the campsite Paul is VERY LOUDLY telling everyone how rubbish and embarrassing he thought Morrissey was. I can’t be bothered to argue but I am happy to concede that the whole text thing was just awful and has clouded my opinions somewhat.
We sit round chatting for a while while Paul yells about this and that, Craig, Malc and Rich head off to have another look for Gary, they are starting to get a bit worried about the poor lad’s whereabouts and ask around to see if anyone else knows where he might be.

Crikey it is getting cold, time to mop out the tent, put some more clothes on and manoeuvre myself into the sleeping bag. Which, in the confined, dark conditions of my tent is a bit like trying to get a condom on, drunk, one handed and wearing a blindfold - awkward, frustrating and time consuming but ultimately rewarding. That is until you suddenly realise that you need to go for a pee. Bollocks.