Live music: why do we frickin’ well bother?

As the festival season draws to its inevitable Tierce de Picardie, we’ve been pondering just why we put ourselves through the whole leaky tent/full-of-disinterested-GFNs (good for nothings)/living-in-squalor thing. Latitude, Indietracks and Glastonbury were all noteworthily awesome this year, but the weather was terminal at the former two. That, and the fact that the first was seeped in totally unatmospheric non-joy, more accurately recalled (in terms of y’know, vibe) by a repeated attempt at avoiding stepping on a small child named Magnolia. And then there was the Camden Crawl but hell, don’t start. So why do we love gigs, festivals and general outdoor music stuff? Why do we go to festivals? Hmm? Here’s just a snapshot:

mudfest

STEF SIEPEL
I hate tents. I just don’t see why anyone would willingly give up perfectly nice things as a hot shower and a mattress and label it as “fun”. Here (Amsterdam) for a club gig I usually have to travel two to three hours to get there and back. So why is it worth the train rides, the after midnight walks from the station to my home, or, more dreaded, those toilets at festivals? Because when you are there, you look at the person next to you and you both smile because you’re feeling the exact same thing at that very moment. Which could be the sweaty back from the beer-bellied lad in front of you, which is also a connecting point, or more usually joy, beats, fun, sadness or what not. Live music evokes and connects, in this age qualities that are getting rarer still.

muddierfest

RUSSELL WARFIELD
Playing a festival, in many respects, is bound to be a tough gig. Very few of the people in attendance will be there to see your band in particular; a great  number of the people in attendance will probably never even have heard of your band. People will be drunk, loud and notoriously anti-social (golden rule for festivals, by the way: watch music now, discuss music later). But if people act like this when they’ve paid in excess of a hundred quid to be stood in the rain watching some shit they hate, imagine how less fun a crowd at a free festival is.

I took the trip recently to my nation’s capital to enjoy a set from Camera Obscura as part of Cardiff’s free festival (imaginatively titled The Big Weekend). Before we saw the gentle Glaswegians, however, we managed to catch a set from a charming lady called Ebony Bones who appeared to have dressed from the wardrobe of Lady Gaga and stolen her thumping, sexy electronic beats from Peaches (both, you understand, in the best possible way). The types of people who descend on a free festival, however, seemed downright alienated by such shenanigans.

drunk person

Compromised of around fifty percent family-day-out-types and around fifty percent I’ll-drink-here-cuz-it’s-sunny-and-free-types, were largely unimpressed and unresponsive to Ebony Bones’ attempts at pumping the crowd. Hilarity culminated in a really ill-judged attempt at crowd participation which required people to “jump to the left, jump to the right, jump to the front, jump to the back…” (dissatisfied, Ebony prolonged the agony by “trying that again” for a second time). I stuck around long enough to see and enjoy Camera Obscura and got the fuck out of there before The Lightning Seeds had the chance to try and play Three Lions in front of a few thousand drunken Welsh people.

So, my point: next time you’re miserable at a festival, just be thankful it’s not a free one.

drunker person

DANIEL HARRISON
It’s a scenario that may well be familiar to many a hardy festival-goer: curled into a foetal ball in your leaking tent, soaked to the skin in wet clothes, shivering against the cold as you try to block out the sound of alcohol-fuelled decadence all around you. Well, if you’ve ever been to Oxegen anyway. Similarly, any regular gig-goer will be all too aware of the occupational hazards: artists being drowned out by deafening chatter, people deciding to push in front of you and stand on your toes to get a better view, mobile phones blocking your view for interminable stretches of time, etc. It’s enough to make you lose your faith in the human race, never mind the redemptive powers of live music. And yet we keep going back. We refuse to be defeated. Why? Because despite all the aggravation, the disappointments and the sore leg/back syndrome, it’s always worth it for that magical moment when it all comes together – when an artist stuns a crowd intoawed silence, when hundreds of like-minded souls lose themselves, when the only thing that matters is the moment.

Waterloo

It’s easy to forget when listening to your iPod in splendid isolation, but Rock ‘n’ Roll - nay, music in general – is, in its purest form, a communal experience.

BEN DUFTON
“Where are you trying to get to?!” I exclaim, as the umpteenth bleary-eyed man-child tries to barge through between me and my companions…

My back is soaked from someone’s spilled £4 pint and I’m constantly moving my feet to both keep from sinking into the quagmire and to ensure that I do not end up losing a toe, whilst at the same time ducking down into the shadows created by so many thousands of people to avoid burning the back of my neck.

portaloo

It felt like I had nearly broken my back on the long trek to first the queue and then the treasure hunt that is finding a space to live for the best part of a week.  Don’t even mention getting the tent up in the rain – the relief felt when it finally resembles a bivouac and I can crack open that first beer is quickly tempered by the fact that the beer is warm and I have four more days of drinking it.

The wanderers trip over the guy ropes and the private school kids get giddy over salvia and I finally got to sleep, but all too soon it’s sweltering as yesterdays deluge has given way to searing sunshine.  I can tell by the fact I can smell the long-drops half a mile away.

water gun

I milled around; I ate some beans and we were all ready to go.  I’ve packed my bag with the warmed beverages and, with a walking beer to ease my passage, made my way to my position…

“Where are you trying to get to?!” I exclaim, as the umpteenth bleary-eyed man-child tries to barge through between me and my companions.

“There’s no sp…”

The words die on my lips as the crowd’s Mexican roar surges front to back, heralding the arrival of the first of my reason for standing in the middle of a soggy field in the middle of nowhere – the first band of my festival is on stage.  I sing.  I dance.  I enjoy myself.  Nothing else matters.

Raygun

JOSEPH ROWAN
The answer to this question occurred to me only recently. The reason I still go to, still look forward to, still obsess over the line-ups to festivals is that they provide the best opportunity to pretend that music really is the most important thing in the world. For one, two, even three days music is no longer the thing that punctuates the boring parts of life: it is life itself. It’s what you talk about, think about, and spend all day enjoying and experiencing. Sure, the comedown afterwards is always brutal (at least, if you’re me), but it’s always worth it for that brief period of escapism which, for the most of us, is the closest we get to making music our full-time concern. That may sound depressing, but I really think festivals are wonderful, worthy things for this very reason. Everyone needs to be able to dream.

protalitarianism

PETER HARRIS
No other art form can illicit that gasping, goosebump-raising rush like live music can and no other medium of live music offers a better bang for buck ratio than a festival but for me, the bands aren’t always the most important aspect. It’s more about vibe, good organisation and surroundings and being part of a collective of like minds. For these reasons, large festivals and I shall never cross paths again. After severing ties with the like of V and Leeds/Reading in 2006, I was dragged out of retirement last year for the Muse headlined day of V festival. After pulling a muscle walking back to the car in what can only be described as sticky toffee pudding and witnessing countless acts of tw*tism, I said my second goodbye to this level of festival and no line-up or amount of coercion will bring me back.

mofotalitarianism

Small and cosy’s where it’s at for festivals and me. Supersonic, ATP, End of the Road, Dot to Dot etc – festivals organised by people who care about live music for people who care about live music. Festivals where you don’t have to fear being hit in the back of the head with wee-filled bottles, pitched from the hordes of countless morons.

MITCHELL STIRLING
Here are some rules, to be read out loud to the sorts of people who shouldn’t have be let through the festival gate in the first place.

1. Shut up.

2. If you must talk, do so at a volume in relation to the band playing and so only those who want to hear you can.

tototalitarianism

3. The one-metre gap between me and the person in front of me is not a space. I may be 6 ft. tall but my eyes aren’t 6ft off the ground.

4. Similarly if you are such a twat you need to wear some form of headgear, don’t angle it so the peak adds another four inches to your height or put your sunglasses on top of it.

5. If you are sitting on someone’s shoulders and a bottle of piss hits you, this is called karma.

6. If you are with someone who doesn’t want to see the act then do not spend your time rocking between perpendicular and 10º in order to converse with them.

7. The less you know about an act, the further from the stage you should stand.

8. No blankets or chairs in front of the sound tent.

schmotalitarianism

9. The only  time you’ll find me opening an umbrella at a festival would be if I’d already rammed it down someone’s throat. Wear a rain coat you selfish piece of shit.

10.  If you are a Hoxton haircut type just don’t come.

KENNETH MCMURTRIE
Generally nowadays I no longer get enthused about the idea of seeing a band play live. Fifteen or so years ago this was not the case – I saw loads of gigs in my twenties (is 85 in one year a lot or a little?) and have a bunch of memorable ones from that time; getting lost in Strathclyde trying to find an Inspiral Carpets one, seeing Oasis in Edinburgh with fewer than 20 other punters just prior to Definitely, Maybe coming out, Supergrass being first on the bill in a practically empty Barrowlands supporting Ride on the Carnival Of Light tour, Napalm Death playing loud enough to dislodge a ceiling tile at the Glasgow Garage, the first of a number of Prisoners reformations in London and suchlike.

glowtalitarianism

Even at that time though the desire to cash in on a young band’s first flash of popularity by booking them in the biggest venue possible, with only enough tracks to their credit to last an hour and a one song encore, was clearly evident (and has probably always been part of the game). That combined with repetitious utterings such as “Gee we love the castle” or “Glasgow’s one of our favourite places in the world” and the abject failure of many groups to entertain as opposed to merely perform has therefore shaped my current cynicism, well before the preference to be seated at shows took a grip.

Given the prices charged (plus the grey area of booking fees) and the distinct possibility that what you get is a formulaic stage show I started to think about whether anyone would pay to see me in my day job and why I should be interested in doing so to look at someone else essentially doing theirs. This naturally has led me to pay to see no more than a handful of concerts in the last five years. Turbonegro spring to mind as one of the very few bands I’d rush toget a ticket for whenever they come to town specifically for the reason that they give great value for money.

NBF!

The Horrors are the newest band I’ve been keen to see and paid whatever was asked (not actually over the odds due to a sensible sized venue being used) but that was nearly two years ago and since then no-one’s sparked enough interest in me.

That said I’ve enjoyed the shows Muso’s have sent me to (Herman Dune in particular) – I’d just not have gone off my own back, especially given some of the ticket prices. Which brings me to Festivals. Attending a festival, particularly one of the new breed of urban ones (think Camden Crawl or Stag & Dagger) puts the value for money aspect squarely in the hands of the customer – you can shell out and see enough bands to make it work out at a very few pounds per act or you can get smashed in a field and not remember seeing anyone. I managed tenacts or more at the Glasgow Stag & Dagger so a paying fan seeing as many would have been doing so at £1.50 or less per group.

ahoy, its Jeremy Beadle (R.I.P.)

Summing up then this is not to say I avoid live shows completely as I’ve my eye on a couple I’d like to review plus have actually bought tickets for two gigs later this year, as I’ve wanted to see Devildriver for a couple of years now (plus at £18 for a five band bill it sits well value-wise) and on November 28th the criminally under-successful Goldenhour are reforming to headline a Mod All-dayer in Glasgow, I just choose more carefully and think that generally you risk seeing the same thing all the time and that many bands are actually better on the stereo than in person.

we've run out of puns, please insert your own

MATT BROWN
“Yes, yes, yes, it’s the summer festival, the truly detestable summer festival,” sang Edwyn Collins quite accurately, according to some. What makes us return to such events that can often resemble survival weekends and have us discussing the toilets as passionately as the bands we saw? Why do wear our plastic wristbands like badges of honour embarrassingly long after the event so we can share Masonic winks to fellow wearers in the bars and on the beaches for the remainder of the summer? Why do we pledge each year to remember to take a head torch in place of a set of juggling balls, only to make the same mistake next time?

Perhaps it’s the hope that the festival will provide that little bit of magic that we could ever experience anywhere else. Seeing a band we previously never cared about, waltz on and 30 minutes later having us vow to track down every white label import they may have even sneezed upon. Or casually watch an act that unbeknownst at the time turns into some iconic global market dominator and we can 10 years down the line shrug and say “Yeah, saw them warming up for Nitzer Ebb in ’94 in the Noisepain Tent…they were much better then.”

Perhaps Edwyn was right after all…