I was looking for a gig, and then I found a gig…
The Wireless Festival, Hyde Park, 17th June 2007
It’s dull and overcast and the party spirit should have long since made its excuses and left for sunnier climes, but we’re British, and the desire for outdoors activities, nay pleasures, abound. Maybe it’s all that scouting and guiding and running up of flagpoles that we all enjoyed (with clenched teeth and goose pimples) when we were young and reckless. Good training for life, my elders said, and so it has proved, time and frostily, again...
It’s trying to crack a half assed smile when we arrive (the weather), and I am bravely sport nothing but a handkerchief-style, wrap-around cardigan (and vest top) with trainers in my personal attire, and am determined to get some fun out of this experience, God dammit.
So it is in a windblown grass-denuded landscape that myself and redwineaddict, another trooper of the ‘stiff upper lip’ kind, sit with our half pint of Pimms in plastic cups and absorb the wonders of the Japanese via Guantanamo Bay-style shenanigans of live wires, Polysics. Oh my God. Yes, orange catsuits and endless star jumps. Are they trying to distract us from the cacophonous music? It’s a bit like the end of the world with an electro clash soundtrack; choreographed by a half-mad, neurotic commandant. I did like the green guitars and the recorder solo though (or did I dream that?).
Where next? The XFM tent and Kate Nash of course- or Lily Allen’s little sister as sometimes known. A bit more on the sweet side and less of the acid-tongued songstress/’kick your ass if you look at me sideways’ vibe than Keith’s daughter but good value all the same. Caroline’s a victim was much enjoyed by the crowd and there was also something about butterflies, or birds or something. Birds I think it was, yes definitely, I liked that one. In fact I quite liked her performance overall, and was definitely, NOT AT ALL influenced by the fact that it was threatening to rain outside, oh no.
The next thing I remember is rubbery noodles and greasy black-bean sauce. And chemical toilets. What joys! A wierdly drunken bloke zigzagging between lines and jumping in front of people made queuing just that little bit more enthralling and joyful than usual. Glory be. The nuts and bolts of festival partaking really does get you down sometimes; especially when you’re old enough to fancy a nice cup of tea and chips over a joint or other illegal substance.
So on to the O2 VIP tent. La la la. Nice boys! Pretty boys! And a free drink. The Alverez Kings were a nice surprise for old ginnie and friend. Leather jacketed youthfulness and vigour encapsulated. The days of wine and plenty, hormone wise. Here on display. I could have gone up and said hi afterwards, but the prettiness, indie-boy factor was just too high for me. I couldn’t pretend I was anything other than enraptured. I’ve missed having a crush on someone far too young and unsuitable for me. The hidden passion, the angst-ridden soul searching. Just stick a red wig on me and call me Lulu.
And so to the main stage. The headline act. The Kaiser Chiefs- who I had so much fun with when they played the Astoria in April 2005. Oh how we jumped and laughed and giggled and waived our hands about with innocent glee. So much for that. The Kaisers, and I hate to say this, have morphed into unadulterated stadium-bait; underperforming, overcompensating, and yes, just no fun anymore- dressing like The Killer and pretending to be serious social commentators? ‘This is for all you fans out there’, give us a break. You’re getting way too big for your boots now. They shone briefly when Ricky Wilson, our former deity in the fun factory department, started mimicking one of the Polysics who had joined him on stage. But it was only short-lived. Spontaneity, thy name is definitely not Kaiser Chiefs. Kaiser Chiefs, thy performance is now leaden.
It’s dull and overcast and the party spirit should have long since made its excuses and left for sunnier climes, but we’re British, and the desire for outdoors activities, nay pleasures, abound. Maybe it’s all that scouting and guiding and running up of flagpoles that we all enjoyed (with clenched teeth and goose pimples) when we were young and reckless. Good training for life, my elders said, and so it has proved, time and frostily, again...
It’s trying to crack a half assed smile when we arrive (the weather), and I am bravely sport nothing but a handkerchief-style, wrap-around cardigan (and vest top) with trainers in my personal attire, and am determined to get some fun out of this experience, God dammit.
So it is in a windblown grass-denuded landscape that myself and redwineaddict, another trooper of the ‘stiff upper lip’ kind, sit with our half pint of Pimms in plastic cups and absorb the wonders of the Japanese via Guantanamo Bay-style shenanigans of live wires, Polysics. Oh my God. Yes, orange catsuits and endless star jumps. Are they trying to distract us from the cacophonous music? It’s a bit like the end of the world with an electro clash soundtrack; choreographed by a half-mad, neurotic commandant. I did like the green guitars and the recorder solo though (or did I dream that?).
Where next? The XFM tent and Kate Nash of course- or Lily Allen’s little sister as sometimes known. A bit more on the sweet side and less of the acid-tongued songstress/’kick your ass if you look at me sideways’ vibe than Keith’s daughter but good value all the same. Caroline’s a victim was much enjoyed by the crowd and there was also something about butterflies, or birds or something. Birds I think it was, yes definitely, I liked that one. In fact I quite liked her performance overall, and was definitely, NOT AT ALL influenced by the fact that it was threatening to rain outside, oh no.
The next thing I remember is rubbery noodles and greasy black-bean sauce. And chemical toilets. What joys! A wierdly drunken bloke zigzagging between lines and jumping in front of people made queuing just that little bit more enthralling and joyful than usual. Glory be. The nuts and bolts of festival partaking really does get you down sometimes; especially when you’re old enough to fancy a nice cup of tea and chips over a joint or other illegal substance.
So on to the O2 VIP tent. La la la. Nice boys! Pretty boys! And a free drink. The Alverez Kings were a nice surprise for old ginnie and friend. Leather jacketed youthfulness and vigour encapsulated. The days of wine and plenty, hormone wise. Here on display. I could have gone up and said hi afterwards, but the prettiness, indie-boy factor was just too high for me. I couldn’t pretend I was anything other than enraptured. I’ve missed having a crush on someone far too young and unsuitable for me. The hidden passion, the angst-ridden soul searching. Just stick a red wig on me and call me Lulu.
And so to the main stage. The headline act. The Kaiser Chiefs- who I had so much fun with when they played the Astoria in April 2005. Oh how we jumped and laughed and giggled and waived our hands about with innocent glee. So much for that. The Kaisers, and I hate to say this, have morphed into unadulterated stadium-bait; underperforming, overcompensating, and yes, just no fun anymore- dressing like The Killer and pretending to be serious social commentators? ‘This is for all you fans out there’, give us a break. You’re getting way too big for your boots now. They shone briefly when Ricky Wilson, our former deity in the fun factory department, started mimicking one of the Polysics who had joined him on stage. But it was only short-lived. Spontaneity, thy name is definitely not Kaiser Chiefs. Kaiser Chiefs, thy performance is now leaden.
posted by gin soaked girl @ 10:45 AM
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