I hate
camping. I fucking hate it. You're always surrounded by midges and
grass and trees and fresh air and everything else that's wrong with
the world. I have twice endured festival camping in my short lifetime. One
time was Connect in 2007, where, for some daft reason, we pitched the tent on a hill. When
it came time to get some shut-eye (sleeping at a festival, eh? I'm
wild, me...), I experienced this recurring, unsettling feeling of
slowly sliding downwards headfirst every time I neared sleep. I
thought we were going to career head first into the next tent on the
hill - a scary prospect: its occupants were an Italian couple who
shagged each other relentlessly and without mercy every night and well into the morning.
Literally all night, every night. Not a wink of sleep was had between
both our tents but they were certainly enjoying themselves so fair
play.
The
other time I camped at a festival was the year previous at T In The
Park. On the Saturday morning, my pal (and Doune The Rabbit Hole companion) Wullie spewed in the tent and
ruined life. I'm not even going to go into details other than to say
that we'd both eaten Cornish pasties the day before and, by the look
of things that morning, his definitely had more carrot. After those occasions, I vowed to camp never again. Never again
unless I absolutely, unquestionably had to. Of course, this would
mean no more festivals.
So when
Dear Leader Peenko got in touch to say he'd quite like me to review
Doune The Rabbit Hole I jumped up and down and ran around the room
screaming with joy (figuratively). And not just because the line-up
looked pretty good, but because Doune The Rabbit Hole had this year
been moved to a site only a few miles away from my house, well within
driving distance. Or, to put it another way, within showering and
sleeping-in-a-warm-bed distance. So while you may now feel the first
two paragraphs you just read were a largely unnecessary preamble to
this one, they were written with the intention of providing enough
juxtaposition to allow you to discern just how overjoyed I was to be
able to go to a festival and go home at night for a shite in my own
house.
Wullie and myself arrived to find the place swarming with hippies.
Dreadlocks and tie dye everywhere, children being pushed around in
wheelbarrows and wearing dungarees made of felt. It was hell.
Actually,
it really wasn't. It was all very pleasant, but just a bit
disorganised. The volunteers were exceptionally friendly but most of
the ones we encountered didn't really have much of a clue. For
instance, on arrival we were issued with our wristbands and told to
go to the production office for press passes. Four hippies later we
were directed to the artist check-in caravan as this was where the
press passes apparently were, not the production office. Thankfully
the very helpful Lucy actually knew what was going on and informed us
that the wristbands we had initially received sufficed as press
passes too. We were in. Yay! Not that we would have needed a
wristband right enough seeing as it wasn't checked once all weekend.
We
managed to get hold of a programme which normally would allow you to
plan out the stuff you'd like to see, right? WRONG! The programme
didn't actually publish times of bands, only the order they were due
on stage. The 'timetable' included the disclaimer, “Time is an
illusion, fesitval time doubly so. These listings are provided only
as an approximate outline of concurrent stage happenings.” Which to
me translates as “we're too lazy to do this properly”. Couple
this laziness with the fact that bands were chopping and changing all
over the place, things got a bit chaotic, and nobody really seemed to
know what was going on or who the bands currently on stage were etc.
It probably wouldn't be much of a problem to most people there just to enjoy themselves but to a
reviewer who kinda needs to know exactly where and when bands are on,
it's a little bothersome.
But now
for the important part. The first band I saw on the main stage were
possibly called The Woven Tents though I can't be all that sure
because they weren't listed in the programme as playing at that time.
Whoever they were, I'd place them in the avant-garde sub-genre of
Carnival-Circus-Pop. It was all thoroughly enjoyable and rather
eccentric, swinging between utter mentalness and atmospheric
soundscapes in an instant. Definitely one for fans of Animal
Collective.
 |
| Behold, The Old Bear (Photo by Wullie Crainey) |
Staying
at the main stage, we have Behold, The Old Bear up next. It's
the first time I've heard them live and they're fantastic. Much like
it is in Mitchell Museum, frontman Raindeer's voice is pushed to
breaking point at the top of his register to great effect, giving a
really strained but passionate vocal sound. It's more straight up
than Mitchell Museum, something like a more outwardly rocky Spinto
Band. They're great to watch too, evidently having a lot of fun on
stage.
We
decided it might be time for some scran, but on the way we stopped
into the Baino Tent to be confronted by Pumajaw. Pinkie
Maclure is such a good singer there are few superlatives to describe
her. She has this deep, rich voice - not unlike Sarah Vaughan or even
some of Grace Jones' work. It's a pity it's wasted here though,
because their music is pretentious, self-indulgent and dull. After them it's up
the hill for some excellent Doune The Rabbit Stew from Wild Rover Food, followed shortly afterwards by the best (only) churros and chocolate I've ever had.
 |
| Aidan Moffat and Bill Wells (Photo by Wullie Crainey) |
One
thing I notice about Doune The Rabbit Hole is just how family
friendly it is. There's loads of children here, enjoying the mud and
music, running around like wee dafties and generally having a
brilliant time. “I'm meeting him tomorrow, and I plan to suck him
dry, and she pulled back up her knickers and she kissed my cock
goodbye” drawls Mr Moffat of Aidan Moffat and Bill Wells
during Glasgow Jubilee, as children dance atop of daddy's shoulders.
They're a class act, and live their award-winning album is really
brought to life. The Copper Top is the highlight though. It's one of
those strange songs that's a bit haunting and harrowing, yet inviting
at the same time. It's like being sat down on a comfy armchair beside
a roaring fire one freezing January night only to be told of a loved
one's imminent demise. Live, they don't tend to embellish the
material from Everything's Getting Older. There's no need, it's
beautiful as it is.
 |
| The Phantom Band (Photo by Wullie Crainey) |
And
finally on Friday we have The Phantom Band.
I'm a huge fan and have seen them many times but this is by far the
best they've ever sounded. There was often a real danger of some
songs sounding weedy in the past if the sound wasn't too great but
they've beefed up their live sound here to great effect. Folk Song
Oblivion was one of those songs but tonight it sounds huge and heavy,
like a good boot to the chest. Also sounding excellent was the
material from The Wants, in particular A Glamour and Mr Natural.
Rounding things off with a triumphant Crocodile was a nice touch. A
rather superb way to finish the first day.
(end
of part one...)
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