One of the most unique experiences I’ve ever had – mostly for the wrong reasons, of course, as you can read about – Blissfields 2015 led to my first music festival review, and it’s still my favourite one to date. Then again, it only has a single competitor as yet, my review of 2016’s Isle of Wight Festival, but even so, it’s bursting with humour as a ruptured skull erupts with blood and brain.
Below are some quotes from the full piece which you can read here. My favourite part of the review, and the festival itself, was Play from Your Fucking Heart, a play written by Jerry Hyde. My giddy God, I’ve never been so confused in all my life; it was like receiving telephone instructions for building Concorde from a man who speaks a sentence in Chinese and the next in Spanish while being sucked off by the most beautiful women you can imagine as she holds a spliff to your mouth – extraordinarily pleasurable, interesting and truly baffling, all at the same time.
Obviously, being a festival, the majority of people were youths, and they were split into two categories: blatantly middle-class, and middle-class gangster wannabes. By blatantly middle-class, I mean Abercrombie & Fitch polo shirts, receding hairlines, and smoking champagne flavoured shishas. Watching them dance was hilarious. It was as if they’d been pumped full of heroin, unable to move their limbs as they swayed like daddy’s yacht. Then there were the gangster wannabes, with their loose fitting clothes, microscopically small, black shoulder bags, and their bucket hats, adorned with marijuana leaves. I just wanted to grab them, saying, ‘We get it – you smoke weed.’ And thinking about it, there’s no doubt those bags are designed for anything other than carrying bags of weed from deal to deal. But if security had opened them up at Blissfields, they’d have most likely found an Innocent smoothie and a packet of macadamia nuts. And if you were arrested while wearing one, well, I can only assume you were caught with the worst goods imaginable – Aldi own brand food.
Surely there must be an age at which every actor realises whether they have made it or not. And chances are that if your hair is greying, your stage is a few feet of grass and your audience is drunk, stoned and sat on sofas in a tent, your career hasn’t quite gone as planned. But this didn’t faze the actors, who made Nicholas Cage’s acting style seem minimalist.
Percy’s dancing was reminiscent of Martin Sheen’s drug-fuelled trance during the opening scene of Apocalypse Now, and there was more hand clapping and hip jiggling than in Grease. And at least the music was good, with the keys player’s metal güiro tie stealing the limelight. Watching him vigorously scratch it to the beat like an ape with eczema was brilliant; who knew that clothes could be great musical instruments?