Festival Review: Bestival
Blaise Radley | 16th September 2017
How beholden we are, as a species of outdoors events lovers, to the whims of British meteorologists. How gut-wrenching the impact of the simple pair of words: “mixed bag”. How nervous an attitude can resolve itself when staring out your window at the sodden countryside, just days before journeying towards a festival. And, how easily assuaged such worries can be when finally walking through the main arena, aware that mud may follow, but unable to feel concerned when the weekend’s potential is ripe all around you.
Bestival has always seemed to want to bill itself as a mini-Glastonbury, an eclectic fusion of a medley of genres, alongside a bevy of intricately designed areas to lose yourself in when the music doesn’t appeal. Ultimately, however, the music should still be the central draw, and that’s certainly how it’s advertised. Presenting the line-up to friends and family then, I was somewhat surprised by the general apathy it seemed to instill. Throughout the list there are artists you’d want to see perform, but it’s rare that something truly exciting — Idles, HMLTD, and the Teklife showcase notwithstanding — jumps out.
A great example of this is with regards to hip-hop. A Tribe Called Quest are a fantastic central headliner, especially given that this tour tinged with tragedy will almost certainly be their last. Accordingly, you would imagine that there would be a reflective pool of hip-hop acts, ranging from UK gems to fellow East Coast compatriots. Sadly, on the British side of things, Wiley and Dizzee Rascal can’t help but evoke stifled yawns, Roots Manuva hasn’t felt essential in years, and Loyle Carner is this year’s omnipresent breakthrough act — it’s only Rejjie Snow that comes close to being truly offbeat. Conversely, the US is really only represented by the, admittedly brilliant, Danny Brown. Where’s the coherence in vision?
One thing can be said of The xx's friday night headline slot — they certainly played a set of The xx songs. If that's something you're passionate about — and I'm aware they still have a horde of adulating followers — then you were probably in for a treat. Otherwise, for those less enthused by their recent output there were mass-fluctuations in quality, outside of a genuinely offbeat acid house stint courtesy of Jamie xx. Having said that, Romy and Oliver had a great dynamic, playing off one another in a manner that's essential when so much of their music is reliant on vocal harmonies, and their subtly simple lighting set-up (in conjunction with various rotating mirrors) created a sense of depth and animacy often lost on the main stage. Realistically, this was a great study in the subjectivity of the reviewer — of the hundreds assembled, not another one seemed to be having anything less than a stellar time.
The night couldn't have been capped in a finer manner than with London's resident enigmas, HMLTD. Stripped of their usual ability to specifically curate each venue to their tastes, there was still a bold aesthetic inherent to their glam-rock-tinged post punk. Backed by a garish red screen, lead singer Henry Spychalski's lurid green ensemble couldn't help but appear somewhere between embodied meme and striking art. Not many bands could compete with the thudding bass erupting from any number of other venues at 130am, but thanks to their borderline esoteric mannerisms they managed to hit a slightly delirious sweetspot. Given each members' outlandish dress, it could all too easily fall into pastiche territory, but with influences ranging from Death Grips to the Talking Heads, their sonic noodlings continually enthralled and surprised. It's part performance piece, part dystopian nightmare; it might not always work, but it is always entertaining.
It's well known that Bestival struggled last year, supposedly selling 15,000 under its capacity, meaning the move to the smaller Lulworth site was one born of necessity rather than intention. Fortunately, there were resultant benefits from this restrained fit. The layout this year was far more egalitarian than I remember the Isle of Wight site being, curated around a central hub rather than a horizontal sprawl, with areas continually looping in and out of one another. From the main stage, with the giant inflatable Kanye head at your back, you could survey the lay of the land quite easily: to the West (arbitrarily assuming the main stage pointed Northwards) sat the giant disco ball and Big Top, to the East lay the impressive Castle, and to the South you could just about peep Bollywood.
Thursday kicked off with a relative bang, settling into the kind of groove indicative of a well-establish festival. Unlike most, my evening began with Stephanie Clift at one of the smaller stages, Club Dada. Blundering into a minor jewel is always immensely gratifying, and Clift’s charm was self-evident — her old-school-rock-tinged country twang was raucous enough to draw in a small, if immersed crowd. The only thing more satisfying was venturing to the sparsely packed Bollywood stage — replete with all the typically intricately-designed Indian fare you'd expect — for DJ Barely Legal, only to see the groove catch plenty of punters' ears and be swiftly surrounded by a horde of gyrating patrons before the set was even halfway done. We hit Bollywood at quite a weird point in the evening — no one was jawless yet, but an atmosphere was undeniably accumulating as I stood swigging in the midst of it.
Before things got too carried away, I felt the need to repent my many sins, and there was no better way to do that then with Oh My God it's the Church. Riding the line between comedic pastiche and genuinely talented gospel singers, those congregated on stage flitted from soul tunes, to Coolio, to rants carried by expletives far too severe for the average Christian. The central preacher's takedown of old religious values justified entry alone, but with a rousing organ and a chorus of deep-bellied voices, it managed to elevate itself above the sum of its parts.
Thursday night’s headliner, Jamie T, is an artist I've not seen live since his Kings and Queens tour, and after one reasonably solid album (Carry on the Grudge) and one completely lackluster affair (last year's Trick) it was fascinating to see how rammed full The Box was fifteen minutes before his set. At one point I was towards the front, but the rhythmic push was enough to make me leave — three different girls accused me of shoving them, provoking some speedy backpedalling. Despite opening with two recent stinkers — all highly subjective of course — launching into 'Operation' followed shortly after by 'Salvador' showed an understanding of the mass audience before him. It’s just sad to see Jamie at a point in his career where he's only ever sufficient, rather than electric. The response from the tightly-packed crowd was uproarious, but that says more about being a Thursday night headliner than it does about his performance.
Saturday morning gave rise to the long-missed warmth of the Summer sun, and so it only felt appropriate to see the London African Gospel Choir's rendition of Paul Simon's masterful Graceland. The barks of "cultural appropriation!" that dogged the album's release have presumably only grown more pronounced, but it still stands as an edifice to careful craftsmanship, even if it's a slightly uncomfortable one. Of course, all of that was far from the minds of the dedicated morning boogiers, as dappled rays of light fell across the ever-smiling singers. If cultural reappropriation can both acknowledge the push-and-pull of creative partnerships, and part the overcast skies, truly, what more can you ask for — just tell that to the four middle-aged white men wearing dashikis in the front row.
After another deadening downpour — so whiplash-inducing were the changes from sweltering heat to chilling rain that it was easy to imagine two warring Gods fighting for the fates of the peasants beneath them — Rejjie Snow's barebones set came as a welcome reset. Backed only by a DJ in a manner befitting an artist with an obvious awareness of his forebears, Snow's voice cut through each beat with a richness and clarity often lacking in his contemporaries. However, thanks to the rain there was nary a soul in sight, though if you threw your gaze towards even the flimsiest piece of shelter you could glimpse many a sardine.
After managing to wring out a small glass of water from my joggers (I tried to imagine it half full), it only seemed right to indulge in Danny Brown’s brand of psychedelia. His walking on stage to the tune of Black Sabbath's 'Iron Man' says it all really, especially since he immediately launched into 'Die Like a Rockstar'. The set drew largely from his older records, which is somewhat understandable — tracks like 'Dope Song' and 'Dip' are far more likely to play to an inebriated main stage crowd than the abrasive Atrocity Exhibition. However, that's not to say we didn’t witness some of the “morning after” Danny, a far more introspective beast, with tracks like ‘When it Rain’ and ‘Ain’t it Funny’, rounding out a set interested in both the heights of ecstasy, and the inevitable ensuing troughs.
The next four hours were kept suitably silly by the Teklife crew, a veritable footwork institution that was shockingly short on feet. Perhaps eternal tech-house knobhead Patrick Topping swiped the masses away, but to see such innovative DJs performing to a scant handful was depressing. Supposedly there was meant to be some definition between sets, but the reality was far looser, with DJ Paypal, DJ Taye and DJ Spinn going back to back to back for the duration. Together they crafted a journey into the depths of 160 bpm music, mixing with such finesse you'd have sworn it was all one long kick drum fuelled dream, even if DJ Rashad would’ve been disappointed by the limited number of people ‘In Da Club Before Eleven O' Clock’.
Waking on Friday to the somewhat predictable melody of raindrops — the clouds had looked pregnant for the duration of Thursday's festivities — there was a distinctly festival-specific pleasure to be taken from the screeches and groans emerging from the surrounding campers. Rainfall is part and parcel of such events, and it's safe to say it didn't dampen the mood for my first act of the day: Bestival mainstays Dub Pistols. They might sound dated — and they certainly looked it — but their titularly promised bass sent visible ripples across the welly-wearing masses, lifting any lingering hangovers whilst providing a shot of no-nonsense fun to kick-off the festival proper.
With darkness ever-circling from above, it was Romare alongside his live ensemble that guided us through the dusky twilight, falling at the perfect waypoint between electronic music and jazz outfit. Backlit by an array of impressionistic black and white imagery, their grooving experimentations continually coaxed the crowd into dancing before forcing them to stop and step back momentarily, never feeling the need to be slaves to audience expectations. There was a structure to this jam session though, and what these guys do really is wonderful to watch unfold. Whether they're on the bill or not, make sure to catch them at your next festival — sign a petition if you have to.
It wouldn't be unreasonable to think that a heavy cloud might have hung over A Tribe Called Quest's headline set on Saturday night, what with the tragic loss of Phife Dawg last year, but the remaining members seemed intent on providing the most appropriate send-off possible — namely a warm back and forth that simultaneously respected the hole left behind. Phife's verses were let to play out in the only way they could; a single mic stand stood stationary at centre stage as an omnipresent reminder of his stature. The set itself can only be described as relentless — barely had Q-Tip's solo cut 'Let's Ride' begun to peter out before they’d launched into the pummelling 'Dis Generation'. By the time the thudding bassline of ‘Excursions’ rang out, it was clear this wasn’t going to be some nostalgia circlejerk, especially with Q-Tip managing to make sitting on the stage’s edge the most imposing thing imaginable.
Even without Phife, their movements felt synchronous, not only finishing each other’s bars, but following the path of one another’s dance moves. Songs were chopped-up, repurposed, acapella'd and fundamentally altered in a manner that felt wholly unique, even if it was a set they’d obviously been touring for quite some time. Taking cues from the block parties that birthed the genre, their performance felt like a joyously improvised take, a bunch of youthful vagabonds overflowing with artistry. This wasn't a reunion done for money, or to grasp at past glories — everything on stage was a tribute, and it was a beautifully handled one at that.
After witnessing a minor exodus from the campsite courtesy of the transformation that had occurred from swamp into slip'n'slide last night, we began Sunday with a slower pace in The People's Front Room which cultivated a lounge vibe perfectly, complete with a no shoes policy, wall-to-wall rugs, and, most importantly, well-worn sofas. After sludging through mires of mud it was pleasant to cool off somewhere that you didn't begin to sink from sight as soon as you were inert. With a wholly appropriate blend of jazz outfits, short storytellers, comedic acoustic jaunts and ukulele covers of Neutral Milk Hotel, and with many performers multi-roling, the intimacy created was such that it felt like stumbling into a particularly creative household — probably somewhere like Totnes or Glastonbury. Even if Bestival's line-up wasn't as rounded this year as in years past, it's always the oddities on the peripheries that manage to both surprise and engage.
I was meant to cleanly segue from one wholesome act to another, specifically Loyle Carner, but upon leaving the pocket Universe we'd resided in for several hours, we discovered that most of the stages had been closed due to the weather, with only vague answers of "later" greeting our probing questions. Fortunately, the arena was only shut for around an hour, and although the main stage kicked back off with Circa Waves, it's pretty safe to say it didn't really get grooving until Soulwax's impressive live set (or perhaps I'm just enamoured with the concept of three drummers on stage). I've always considered Soulwax a largely electro affair, and, though that's certainly true, there were plenty of post-punk and new wave elements incorporated too — think LCD Soundsystem if they were actually around in the late 80s. Meanwhile — and I don't mean to relegate them to an addendum — Let's Eat Grandma provided a more sultry synthesiser concoction, acting as the perfect after meal mint for the weighty meal provided by Soulwax.
All of these synth-savvy acts were, of course, a lead-in for Sunday night's headliners, The Pet Shop Boys. Appearing from behind rotating illuminated discs in an appropriately campy fashion, they made it immediately obvious how visually oriented the performance was to be: confetti doused the audience, dry ice gushed over the stage, hundreds of glowsticks launched around the crowd, and there was plenty of dubious silver headgear. Bestival's Sunday night classic slot has been host to plenty of vintage acts over the years — Stevie Wonder and Elton John to name a couple — and it's safe to say the Pet Shop Boys fit this mould very well. Playing a set of instantly recognisable music for their duration, it was never anything less than delirious fun, and never anything more. The audience had come to indulge their nostalgic pop tastes, and Neil and Chris made sure those tastes were sated in every sense.
A swift counterpoint to such pop excesses was provided by the indomitable Idles. As the title of Idles' debut album Brutalism suggests, there's a fury innate to every action they take on stage, thankfully coupled with a wry wink. Even if the rest of their set exists in the shadow of 'Mother' and 'Well Done' (especially with the latter's improvised third verse ripped from Zed Bias 'Neighbourhood'), those tracks are such towering testaments to Idles’ ability to scribe social satire with a heart and a smile that it barely qualifies as a negative. Frontman, Joe Talbot, carried himself with all the charisma and volitude you'd expect from a punk frontman, without ever seeming hackneyed; spitting upwards in a manner that could only coat himself, and stalking around the stage with his mic stand violently jutting against his shoulder, they provided a volatile closing set for my festival.
Fourteen years in, Bestival has carved a comfortable corner amongst its peers — namely, it's the sort of alternative music festival you’d feel comfortable bringing home to your parents. At the start of this piece that might have seemed like a knock, but it's easy to forget what a degree of warmth that suggests, what a sense of inclusivity such a festival must evoke. It's a festival where you can hear someone praise an outlet for its vegan custard creams, and also have a disgruntled youth stare you down whilst you explain you don't want any pingers. Line-ups come and go, but the passionate ethos driving every aspect of Bestival's curation has always been a steady constant. It might not blow your socks off, but it's an assuredly good time for just about everyone; Bestival's niche is that it has no niche.