Bloggy O'Soul 2016

Prologue:

Festival season was arriving, and I wanted to go to Body and Soul.  In 2011 I had gotten in as a performer, and in 2014 I had gotten in on sheer entitlement.  Many other people might look on my history of playing at festivals and getting freebies as sure evidence that I have had a good run at things and am owed nothing.  What was clear to me was that my love of going to music festivals far outweighed my love of paying for tickets.  In 2014 Body and Soul sold out, and even if it wasn't, I was broke as a joke and could not afford to buy a ticket.  This was back when my career as a DJ was running dry and I had to resort to writing erotica to make ends meet.  These days I have a full-time job with regular hours and a regular paycheque, which makes it harder to justify that the universe owes me a complimentary weekend pass.

If I had to get in, then it would have to be earned.  And by earned, I mean blagged.  After some online research, I found the details of the agency handling the publicity for the festival.  They were e-mailed, and as a blogger/freelance photographer I would like a weeked pass for the festival, as my writing style is that of the man on the ground I would not require an access all areas pass, a common or garden one would do.  Fingers crossed they follow the links and be so enamored by my writing style that they overlook that the blog was not updated in almost two years.  They replied, thanking me for my interest in the festival, but unfortunately all press passes had already been allocated.

The weekend before Body and Soul I was helping a friend move some furniture, and he asked me if I was all set for the festival?  I started explaining that I didn't have a ticket and had made no arrangements for time off work, so it was looking highly unlikely.  He looked at me askance asking was I not playing this year?  Alas no, but to be fair I'm no longer as actively involved in the DJ scene as I once might have been, and dare I say it, am no longer relevant.  A few weeks previously another friend had asked would I fancy DJing with him in Cork on Friday the 17th, but I was non-committal as it would clash with the festival.  On the morning of the 16th I texted him saying that Body and Soul would not be happening for me this year and wondering if his offer still stood?  Sorry man, the gig has been pulled, problem with the managers of the venue, you know yourself.

Just before I went to bed on Thursday evening my phone went off.  It was Mr. Whippy, he was supposed to be doing a tag-team set with Lex Woo on the Saturday night of Body and Soul, but Lex had pulled out at the last minute due to either health problems, woman problems, or both.  Sorry for the short notice, but can you fill in?  You'll get a weekend pass for your troubles.


Friday:

Festival season is also swimming season, and as I could not miss a full weekend of training, was in the pool at 7am to get in a session before work. Then it was a matter of going to work and asking my boss to give me time off to go fluting around some fields in the midlands at short notice. After scoring a half day, I went home to find an e-mail from Mr. Whippy saying:

-I'm awful sorry Herringbone, but there is difficulty changing names on the lineup at this stage of the game, and they'll be ID-ing at accreditation, so I'd hate for you to waste your journey.

Sorry this seems to be so difficult,
W.

I replied:

-No worries Whippy, I've arranged time off work, so now I'm just going to get my shit together, then head up and see what happens.  If you can get Lex's passport/driver's license somehow ferried to the festival that'd be great, otherwise I will have to be ballsier than Ballsy McBallsface!
H.

As quickly as possible, I loaded up my van with a duvet, pillows, inflatable mattress, camera, films, flash, batteries, sufficient underwear and clothes.  Then gathering all the records used recently in my podcasts and putting them in my record bag, I was almost ready to go.  Then a slight depression came over me as I realised that all of this would be for naught if I couldn't get in.  To get over this, I sat down and watched two episodes of Peep Show on youtube, and feeling infinitely better about being a sad bastard white male, got into my van and hit the road.

The bulk of the journey was spent on the motorway as far as Mullingar, then at Delvin there was a sign for Body and Soul which sent me off on a twenty mile odyssey of country roads.  It turns out that this sign was misplaced and sending me in the wrong direction, but after several hours of motorway driving the humps and hollows, twists and turns of Irish backroads were a welcome diversion.  Greta is rear wheel drive, and the back tyres are a bit on the worn side which meant I had a wee bit of drift going on at some of the bends.  Somewhere out there is a twenty something Halford's hero in a Honda Civic who secretly dreams of being a thirty something IT worker in a Toyota Hiace.

I eventually got to the festival and went straight to accreditation to get my/Lex's wristband.  Being the genius that I am, I used Lex's real name then stood there as they went through page after page after page and could not find me.  Shit, what if the administration nightmare had blown over and now my real name is down on the list?  What was I supposed to say, that I was lying two minutes ago, but this is my real name?  After a few more minutes of this, I asked if my DJ name "Lex Woo" was written down by any chance?  Ah yeah, here it is, sorry about that, here's your wristband, have a good weekend!  Using someone else's pseudonym to get in to a festival, we are truly through the looking glass.

I drove through the boggy meadow that was performer's parking, and found a space in the hollow at the far end.  Then it was just a matter of digging out my muddy Meindls from underneath the rest of my crap, sticking on a hoody and heading in to the festival.  One of the first observations was that it was just a little bit more commercial than previous years with Bulmers, Vodaphone, and Absolut having prominent stages.  Any fears that it had lost sight of what it was about as a festival were put to bed, as I realised that any of the bands or DJs that I knew who were playing this weekend were not getting paid.  The Jamaican Village of Trenchtown had lots of red, gold, and green draped around, but only one Jamaican flag.  There was a nice funktion one system with great dispersion oozing out "Midnight Marauders" by Fat Freddy's drop, but it was not the same as having an actual JA style  DIY soundsystem playing real roots music.  As this faded out, the laptop DJ brought in The Specials' "Ghost Town" much to the delight of the crowd.  As much as I like both of those songs, they are more at home on a freshman stoner's spotify playlist than in a reggae sanctuary at an alternative music festival.

After a bit more wandering I found the Body Holidays' area where I'd be back to backing with Mr. Whippy the following night.  We'd be playing in the Big Barn, where they currently had set up as a mini cinema with the Muppet Show playing.  Up until that point there was worry about being able to deliver the goods.  My records had been hastily packed, I had no chance to practice a set, and now that the punters had a full night of the Muppet Show, anything I do would be guaranteed to be anti-climactic.  Then Rowlf came on and did a rendition of AA Milne's "Cottleston Pie".  Although this did not change any of the issues previously raised, it set me at ease.  Could it be that the message of the song is that no matter what complexities life throws at you there is a simple (albeit nonsensical) response?  Or that Rowlf's dulcet deadpan delivery was soothing in and of itself?  Or maybe it's that no matter how big or small you are, this combination of The Muppets and Winnie the Pooh is guaranteed to make you feel good all over every time.

Hearing some tasty and ballsy guitar rock streaming out of the Bulmer's tent, I wandered in to see what was going down.  It was The Shaker Hymn, and it was pretty embarassing to say this was my first time ever hearing them even though I'm friendly enough with two of the lads in the band.  The other bad part was that this was the end of their set and they sounded pretty darn good.  If I make a solemn pledge to go and see them the next time they're on in Cork, will that make me less of a bad person? 

The rest of the night was uneventful enough.  It was really just tramping about to get the feel of the place, hoping to stumble upon something engaging.  A later visit to Trenchtown payed off as the DJ was dropping dusty rocksteady that shuffled on quite nicely.  He was a long lean gentleman in a trilby hat and an Adidas tracky top, sticking to the tradition of playing the vocal then the instrumental version.  He'd occasionally get on the mic, and (thankfully) refrained from using misappropriated JA patois.  When he moved into some harder dancehall, I moseyed on some more. It was getting late, I was getting tired.  Sleepy time in van land beckoned.

Saturday:

As a morning person, I'm at my most productive in the AM.  This also means that once it gets bright, it's very hard for me to stay asleep.  So in spite of my best efforts to get well rested, at 8am I was tramping around the main site wearing the kurta and bobble hat that I had slept in.  One of the security guards asked if I had forgotten to get out of my pyjamas, and I said yes.  The Pachamama cafe was open and it wasn't quite clear if they were just opening up, or were still winding down from the night before.  None of this really mattered as a delightfully bleary eyed barista named Anna gave me a proper decent cup of coffee to help kickstart my day.  There was only twelve hours left until my set with Whippy kicked off, so me and my coffee sat down on the swinging benches around the now dead camp fire in the Body holidays area.  Before long, two wee girls and their parents came along.  By funny coincidence, the mother (who was just a few years older than me) was from a village just a few miles out the road from me, and had gone to school in my hometown.  We knew some of the same people, but it was apparent from the neutral South Dublin inflection that she had left small town Co. Waterford behind a long time ago.  Her fella was a furniture designer and all round cool dude, and their daughters Philippa and Spiderman were fucking hilarious.  I have a small army of nephews and nieces at this point, and playing with them is always the highlight of family gatherings for me.  In this culture saying that one likes children is something of a no-no for a single man, and it's a definite no-no for a single man who drives a van.  We played a few games of football with an imaginary ball, and if you think the offside rule slows down the action, then you can only imagine how much this is amplified when there are two preschool children who are both convinced they are in possession of the imaginary ball.  We then played hide and seek. 

-You have to find us. 
-Ok what do I have to do? 
-First you count. 
-How do I count? 
-You say 1, then 2, then 3 (pause), 4, and 5, then READY OR NOT, HERE I COME!
-Gottit! Ok, 1, 2 ....

After that we played a game of the selfish crocodile, where I was a happy zebra that got eaten by the selfish crocodile.  The friendly lion and friendly tiger managed to get away unscathed, and hopefully the happy zebra will forever be remembered as a martyr in their hearts.  I liked that the worst possible characteristic in their minds was selfishness rather than blood thirsty, treacherous, or crocodilic.  It said a lot about their upbringing, and almost made up for their lack of interest in dinosaurs or not knowing what noise a zebra makes.  As much fun as it was, I was hungry so said my goodbyes and wandered off to the walled garden to get some tastiness into me.

I ordered a papusa from a vegan foodstand and to my delight pronounced it correctly first go!  I explained to the staff that I always get nervous ordering new food stuffs as the slightest mispronunciation can lead to withering glances from the serving staff. They smiled to assure me that no they were not that type of smug condescending, so I then asked if the papusa contains "kwinoa".  It was fun to see their smiles drop as they realised they are exactly that brand of smug condescending.  I only came here for breakfast, but ended up teaching the staff a valuable life lesson, this has been a rich experience in so many ways.  Then a young man appeared next to me wearing the most unique woolly jumper I've ever seen.  It was sleeveless, with an opening at the back which (conveniently) let the world see his ornate back tattoo, but also had an overly convoluted funnel neck which was made using wools of increasing gauges.  If one should ever find oneself in a situation that required a warm chest, cool arms, and an aired out back, this was the exact item of clothing you'd need. He also had one of those leather pocket belts that new agers seem to love even though he was wearing jeans that had a full compliment of pockets.  He ordered a juice and after taking a sip, said: "Oh my god, that is exactly what my body needed" in the dryest, most unenthusiastic manner of speaking I've ever encountered.  Due to my rich and varied life experience, I was now familiar with the middle class reserve, and have also overheard hipster-ish detachment in coffee shops.  This was a combination of both that would have been considered sarcastic except that sarcasm entails some level intonation.  The other thing I noticed, was that it was working.  The girl behind the counter was hanging on his every monotone word, and he knew it.  Well played young man, well played.

I then wandered back to the van and changed into actual clothes for the day ahead.  It was now about one o'clock, so I took my bag of 45s and dropped them off at the Body Holidays lock-up.  Often at festivals when they try to set up an area that's full of ironic fun, it can end up falling flat on its face due to being the wrong shade of crappy and naff.  Toby and Jess Hatchett, the creative force behind Body Holidays, had the necessary insight to inject their creation with as much naff as possible, and the result was so much fun!  The staff all wore blue blazers reminiscent of the Butlins' red coats, had the streakiest fake tans going, and embraced the silliness with the utmost of seriousness.  Several times over the weekend I overheard people saying things along the lines of "That terrible holiday camp was f*cking brilliant!"  The important part of it was that they had lots of fun things on the go.  Swingball, table tennis, fusball, cornhole, bingo, sock wrestling, as well as My House music venue, the Big Barn, and a chillout/feeling burnt out area called Dire Straits.  Toby is a furniture maker based in West Cork, so everything was very well crafted and his attention to detail was impeccable (the stage door in My House was a kitchen cupboard, so bands would magically appear and disappear through this portal).  If there is anything to be learned from Body Holidays is that it's easy to have a clever or funny idea, but executing it well is quite another.  Hats off to team Hatchett!

After dropping off my 45s I wandered up to the Absolut stage to catch some of Aoife O'Neill's set.  Aoife started djing with the Eclecto posse in Tralee last year (she was the Eclecto Box to Gary Fitz's Eclecto Balls), and has since moved to Cork city where she has been a regular fixture behind the decks for venues in the know.  Right now she was playing some really nice true school hip hop while brunch was being served at a full length table in front of the stage.  It was all going along very nicely when suddenly I started feeling all tingly.  "Intergalactic Throwdown" from Mad Dr. X was being mixed in, but it had been pitched down to the point that the upfront pounding bassline now sounded all warm and dubby.  It's one thing to hear a favourite song on a big system at a festival, but it is quite another to hear it being played in a way never thought possible.  Hats off to the braided lady, Aoife O'Neill, fair f*ckin' play to you!

The next item of interest was a panel discussion on Waking The Feminists featuring Margaretta D'arcy and a representative of women in Irish Theatre.  Margaretta kicks serious ass.  One of the most well worn clichées of late is people wanting "to start a conversation", which became trite and tired very quickly (and people are STILL using it).  Margaretta made it clear from the get go that she hoped to start blazing rows and arguments.  She compared herself to the mad woman in the attic in Jane Eyre who would burn down the entire house at the end, or the witch who cursed sleeping beauty for not being invited to the Christening.  The first time she was arrested was for showing solidarity with the Armagh Women's Prison Dirty Protest on International Women's Day.  She then found herself in prison with the dirty protestors, but unable to defecate for days.  This led to suspicions amongst the other prisoners that she was a government spy planted to infiltrate them.  Finally, after almost a week her bowels moved producing a turd the size of a grape, but it was enough for her to be accepted.  If Orange is the new Black steal that plot line, remember that you read it here first.  She was also outspoken in her opinion that the EU was a capatalist conspiracy to devalue women's unpaid work in the home, then get them out in the workplace where they would get paid less then men.  She then chastised the Women in Irish Theatre representative, saying that if women in theatre really wanted to be taken seriously, they would band together and do something radical that is worthy of getting sent to jail.  If you find yourself thinking "Well that's easy for her to say", then take a quick read of this.

The sun was coming out and not wanting to go back to the van to get sun screen, I sat in a shady spot in the walled garden, and caught some of Gilbert Steele's set in the Idle and Wild cocktail bar.  I've rarely met a DJ whose style I didn't like that I also didn't like as a person, and Gil ticks both of these boxes with much gusto.  When I first met him, I assumed that Gilbert Steele was a Max Power style pseudonym (as it happens Gil is a massive Simpson's fan) so our first ever conversation went along the lines of:
-Your real name is Gilbert Steele?!
-Yes.
-REALLY?!  Your name really is Gilbert Steele?!
-Yes.
-As in, your actual birth cert given name is Gilbert Steele?!
-Yes.
This is not the actual transcript, as in real life I kept repeating myself over and over in that manner for over half an hour.  This was several years ago in The Realt Dearg, and Gil has since gone on to become one of Cork's most respected and beloved DJs.  At Body and Soul he was dropping some really tasty mid tempo stuff, working from Mr. Scruff, to Tee Scott, to Jamie Principle, which was relaxing enough to allow people sit down and soak it up, but energetic enough to give the garden a party atmosphere.  Gilbert Steele: Great guy, great name, great DJ!

As lovely as all of this was, time had been ticking away and I still had a bag of records waaay over in my van that would need to be brought to the Body Holiday area.  In Cork, I'm known for playing laid-back sets.  If you want a DJ to keep the crowd in their seats, I'm your man!  If you want a DJ to keep the crowd rocking all night, maybe you should call someone else.  People would be wanting to dance up here, and there were so many factors that were bothering my head.  I'm gigging less than once a month, so currently don't have a working set. Also my record bag was packed in a rush, so was unsure whether I'd be able to build a set from what was in there.  Worst case scenario I could end up playing to an empty tent, and if that happens, just suck it up.

When I got to the big barn, the DJ was blasting out classics from the Doors, Stooges, and Talking Heads, and the crowd were hopping!  This would be a tough act to follow, and there was no way I'd be able to keep that energy going.  After some finagling to get the turntables set up, I kicked off with some vehrrry mellow dub reggae.  After moving in to funk and soul gems, I noticed something weird about the crowd.  They weren't leaving, in fact they were staying, dancing, and enjoying themselves all at the same time.  I made a move into latin jams and cumbias to turn up the heat, and things really started popping.  From there it made sense to go into afro bangers and disco silliness and keep things moving along.  Someone had asked me earlier if I had any Pointer Sisters, and I said yes but it's a Sesame Street record and will mess with people's heads if I play it. "C is for Cookie" is an absolute weapon of a track with beautiful female backing vocals, proper disco strings, heavy drums, and Cookie Monster doing lead vocals.  As with all great weapons, it comes with great responsibility, and has to be deployed with expert judgement and sensitivity.  These are all characteristics that I'm fairly certain I don't have, but if there ever was a time to give cookies to the masses, this was it!  It had the desired effect, and after playing some more novelty disco records, I took things down a notch by  venturing into boogie territory.  If there was a standout moment from that set, it was Vicki Sue Robinson's "Hot Summer Night".  The steady groove and constant vocal references to dancing on a hot summer night resonated with the crowd, making for a beautiful mental snapshot that I cannot find the necessary words to do it justice.  Shortly afterwards I handed the headphones over to Whippy, and headed out to get a coffee and some headspace.

After getting a coffee, I hung around outside the Big Barn and soaked up Whippy's set.  Seeing him and his magical ice-cream van for the first time in Galway market ten years ago had a major impact on me.  Since then he has been a mentor, friend, and occasional co-conspirator.  A real highlight of his set was a version excursion based around James Brown's "Paid the cost to be the boss" which went down really well with the crowd.  Lots of Afro jams and plenty of funk, soul, and hip-hop workouts later, I felt the cool night air creep in so ventured back inside to get my bobble hat from my record bag. "Do you fancy going one on one for a while".  The bulk of my scorchers had already been played, and Whippy had waaay more records with him than I did, but shur why not?  "Sure, but I play to win, bitch!"  The one on one session was a lot of fun, initially there were very obvious instances of us trying to outdo one another, but as it went on our main concern was to keep the dancefloor heaving.  It was like playing a game of scrabble as although I could plan my next move, that plan could quickly be scuppered by whatever he played.  It was really intense, in the best possible way, as we both kept fishing out the bangers to keep the dancers, and each other on our toes.  All good things had to come to an end, and the power went in the tent.  This was fortunate as I had only about five unplayed records left in my bag.  When the power came back on, Whippy took over the controls, and once again I headed off for coffee and headspace.


Sunday:

I woke up late and it had been raining all night.  My records were over in Body Holidays, and I had aches and pains all over from the previous nights DJing and dancing.  My original plan was to hang around until four or so, and then head away on down to Cork.  Sunday Times were closing out the Wonderlust Stage that night, but hanging around a music festival on a rainy Sunday, tired, sore, and sober can only be so much fun.  It was now two o'clock, so if I was to walk in get my records, then head back to the van, I could be on the way home by three.  So after a trudge through the sludge, slinging a heavy record bag onto my already aching shoulders, and trudging back through sludgier sludge, I was ready to hit the road.  The key turned, the engine roared into life, and the backwheels spun about in the mud as I sat in the one spot.  I repositioned my cargo so that the paving slabs and record bags were over the back axle which would hopefully help gain some traction.  This made no difference at all, so I headed up and found three lads who were getting ready to leave to see if they'd give me a push.  They gave me a push, but it made no difference.  We even tried putting the paving slabs just under the tyres and tried to get the van up on top of them for more traction, but nada.  I thanked them for their help and went back to pondering.  There was a crew Hilux parked up next to the portacabin, so I went up and asked if they'd give me a tow out of the hole, but it was being used for another job.  There'd be tractors coming along at some point and they'd pull me out.  So I went back to my van and sat there waiting for the cavalry of tractors that would come over the horizon at any moment.  It was then that I saw a Land Rover Defender at the other side of the field, and its owner was getting something out of the back.

Walking over with my fingers crossed that (a) he'd have a tow rope, (b) he'd be willing to help, and (c) that he wasn't too fucked up to do such.  With all three boxes ticked, he drove over to me and hooked the tow sling to the eye on the front of my van, with the other end going around his hitch.  He fired up the engine, eased forward, and ping, the hook snapped off the sling!  All was not lost as the sling was still intact.  So he reversed back to me, then doubled and tripled the sling over to join our two vehicles together.  We got into our respective drivers seats, he started moving forward, and I was following behind him.  Success!!!  The tripled over sling was not only sufficiently strong, it was also alarmingly short.  The front of my van was less than a foot away from his tow hitch, meaning that if he braked suddenly, poor Greta's face would be properly smashed in.  He stuck his arm out the window to signal he was about to stop, and Greta's face lived to tell the tale. We undid the sling, and I went to drive off, only to find more wheely muddy spinny fun.  This time I wasn't down in a hollow, and a group of bystanding lads with cans started pushing me to get me going.  Once I got moving, I resisted the urge to get out of the van and thank them all individually, but just kept going and going and going until I was far beyond Body and Soul, fields and mud.




Thanks to:  Mr. Whippy, Toby and Jess Hatchett (and all the Body Holidays crew), my boss for giving me time off work at no notice, the friendly dread that owned the Defender, and Jason Looney for the bail out.

Apprentice Picnician

Prologue:

The deal for an Electric Picnic ticket was acting as a driver for Dublin based electronic artist Adultrock.  This meant collecting him and his girlfriend (who I sort of know) on Friday evening and dropping them home on Sunday night.  While this would mean having to do a ridiculous amount of driving to and from the festival, as well as dictating when I would arrive and when I would leave, it would also mean a free ticket to a sold out festival.  The festival was in Co. Laois, which is not too much of a trek from Cork, but I would have to drive past the festival to go to Dublin on a Friday evening to get the cream of rush hour traffic and then drive back down to the Picnic in even more heavy traffic (rush hour traffic plus festival traffic multiplied by I've been driving for three hours already).  The only way this situation could be tweaked to perfection is the addition of an overheating engine.  The handy trick if one notices an overheating engine is to turn on the heating and fan full whack and then bring the vehicle to a garage as soon as possible.  This trip to the garage had been postponed and procrastinated with about three months now, as I had exchanged sound mechanical advice for the vain hope that whatever was going wrong under the bonnet would magically fix itself if left alone for long enough.  I applied this same logic to an inguinal hernia a few years back, and can still remember the horrified look on the specialist's face when she asked: "So when did you notice something was wrong?" "About a year ago."  "?!?!?!?"  So I gunned Greta Greenbus (the Groove Space Hiace) down the motorway for three hours with the heating up and the windows down while the sun blazed through the windscreen.  Fortunately the needle stayed out of the red and the engine refrained from spewing out plumes of smoke and steam.  Naturally I deluded myself and said that there is nothing the matter here, I just happen to be driving a four wheeled air conditioned sauna, that's all.


Friday:

The other worry was that I didn't really know the couple I'd be ferrying to and from the Picnic, and if they turned out to be insufferable arses, the relatively short drive from their gaff to the festival could turn out to be painfully long and drawn out.  Fortunately they were the world's nicest people, and when we arrived onsite, I went my separate ways as I didn't want to contaminate their inherent loveliness with my own insufferable arsiness.  My game plan for the the festival was not to have a game plan and just wander around, soaking up the atmosphere, hoping to happen upon something tasty.  There was only one group I HAD to see that weekend, so it was nice to have a loose timetable for the bulk of the time, as the real festival experience consists of finding unheard of groups and djs on the periphery and having life affirming moments as a result.  So after a good aimless wander, I hit upon a bayou tinged, blues-rock three piece on the trailer park stage.  The singer had the look of the exact type of person you want on your side should a brawl break out in a biker bar.  Long hair, arms like tree trunks, hands like hams, a beard that could have given birth to ZZ top and a gravelly voice to match.  He belted out variations on the theme "I feel fucked up and am drinking far too much since you walked out on me" (presumably because he had been drinking too much to begin with).   The band was tight, and having just three pieces meant that their lean and mean sound had the right amount of raw grit that really hit the spot.  I saw the singer onsite later on that weekend accompanied by what appeared to be his partner and young child, which made me question the authenticity of his blues.

After more wandering around, I found myself back at the trailer park stage witnessing the awesome spectacle of Dundalk's finest comedic funksters "The Trampz".  I had caught them previously at the Volvo Ocean race in 2009 and had enjoyed them enough then to stick around for their show.  The majority of the band were kitted out in smoking jackets, shades, polo neck shirts and tacky gold chains, and in the middle of this uber smoove style was a feral young man wearing nothing but a pair of ragged jeans, rocking out as if his life depended on it.  When they finished up whatever song they had been playing (I'm relying totally on my dodgy memory, so lots of details will be missing) the singer addressed the crowd in a thick Dundalk accent: "We are the Trampz.  This is Electric Picnic. And this, this is a man with no shirt.  Man with no shirt, you have earned the respect of The Trampz, now be gone."  The singer then caught his feral accomplice by the scruff of the neck and flung him forcefully off the front of the stage.  If this was Hollywood, he would have been caught by the cheering masses who would have borne him aloft and crowd-surfed him to safety.  As this was a field in Co. Laois, he landed facedown in the mud where he lay motionless for a wee while as onlookers looked on worriedly.  "This next song is called Sex Machine.  (Huge Cheer)  It's not the James Brown song.  It's a song about having sex.  With a machine.  Yeah, a sex machine!"  The humour of their lyrics and onstage getup was underscored by incredibly funky and danceable grooves, with the percussionist occasionally interjecting with Kiedis-style rapping reminiscent of the socks on cocks Chilli Peppers (before they went under the bridge of credible and intelligent song-writing).  Later on in the set the singer reached in to the crowd saying "Hee-yor Batman, let's be havin' you".  He then pulled up a skinny guy in an Adam west style Batman outfit, who lacked a cape so wore a crappy grey zip up hoodie over his shoulders, and whose saggy navy bat nappy suggested that this Batsuit may once have been owned by Adam West himself.  He danced about onstage with the band for that number and just like the shirtless man, Batman was forcefully ejected from the stage.  Fortunately this ritual humiliation was accompanied by the drummer and bassist playing the 60s theme tune, so that makes everything alright.

There was a bit more wandering and I spent a wee while in Trenchtown soaking up some disco-boogie courtesy of Mr. Whippy.  At around one o'clock I decided to call it a night and head back to the van where I would inflate my mattress and turn in for the night.  This is what I was really looking forward to, as there would be none of the hassle of setting up a tent, and as I was in the crew car park I was far from the revelling masses and would be guaranteed a good night's sleep.  This was upset greatly when I walked down past the row of cars to a hiace with the back door left wide open.  As it was dark it was unclear what colour it was, so I was praying like a motherfucker that this was someone else's van.  When Adultrock had played at the Body and Soul festival earlier that summer, he had the misfortune of having his laptop stolen.  This had turned out to be something of a blessing, as he now to had to make a new set using a synthesiser and sequencer which was more physically involving and aurally satisfying than working with Ableton Live and a midi controller.  A synthesiser and sequencer that he had assumed would be safe in my van which had been left unlocked, unattended and wide open with a few hours now.  Who knows, maybe if all his gear gets stolen again, this would also turn out to be something of a blessing, right?  A quick scan inside showed that both of his cases were still there and had not been interfered with.  The only thing that had been stolen were a few cans of cider which really shows that you do get a different class of scumbag at Electric Picnic. 

All that was left for me to do was pump up my mattress and get some sleep.  I awoke about two hours later to find myself lying uncomfortably on a fully deflated mattress on the hard plywood floor.  Thinking perhaps that the problem was not tightening the valve properly, I reinflated the mattress and got another two hours sleep.  Realising now that there was a puncture, I toyed with the idea of pumping it up every two hours, as I would only have to do it twice more to clock up a respectable eight hour sleep.  Instead I opted to take my duvet and pillows up to the front of the van as it would be like sleeping on a sofa.  A sofa that is a wee bit too short and not all that comfortable.  A sofa that has a gap in the middle for the handbrake and gear lever, who would take turns over the course of the night to try to sodomise me.  A sofa that is located directly in front of a huge curtain-less window that would give me the full benefit of the morning sun in a few hours.  Yeah, this ought to suffice.


Saturday:

After confirming that nothing had been stolen and safely transporting the gear to the lock up, I got on with the extremely important business of wandering around Electric Picnic on Saturday.  At Trenchtown I found a slightly foggy Mr Whippy listening to Marcus Valle and making a brew on a camping stove.  After a lengthy conversation which was largely comprised of double entendres and outright obscenities, he invited me to hop on board and spin a few.  Not having brought any records with me, it was a bit of a thrill to try and piece together a set from someone else's collection, using only the finest of guess work to figure out what would go well with what.  Being able to pull off a reasonably cohesive set that largely consisted of songs that I was unfamiliar with, exemplifies why I'm one of the most respected selectors in my city, or is conclusive proof that I am undoubtedly one of the greatest bluffers to ever get behind a set of 1210s.  After doing this for an hour or so I had to wander on, as the Whippy Wagon was too small to contain my immense talent.  That is bullshit.  The reality is that I'm too tall to stand upright in the ice-cream van, and being hunched over was taking its toll on my posture (which had already taken a beating at the hands of my van's seating).  Saturday afternoon was reasonably aimless, I caught a wee bit of Kevin McAleer doing a set as Gaeilge, and did my best to try to find which stall had the nicest tea (every cup of tea of the weekend was just a little bit too dusty for my tastes). 

My only must-see act for the festival was Waterford's "The Dead Heavys" who were playing the mainstage in The Body and Soul arena.  It would be admirable to hype them up here and give them a favourable write-up as ones to watch for this year (all of which would be true), but my main reason for wanting to see them is that my identical twin brother is the bass player.  I say identical, but really we look nothing alike, and when I say twin, he's actually two years older than me.  When he first told me that he was joining an indie rock group, I ate the ear off him for having no ambition.  Surely for a bassplayer that's as fine and funky as he is, joining such a group would be a step backward?  My words have since been eaten and nicely digested several times over, having heard the wondrously groovy psychedelic pop that has become their trademark sound.  Their sound was good and their set was tight, and it was great to see lots of people stop by to see what was happening, then stay on to get down.  By their last song the natural amphitheater was full and heaving along nicely with the group.  After their set I hung out with Jim, wandering around and chatting about this and that.  I don't go home all that often, and as he has a partner and two young children (Jim "Family Man" O'Brien) we don't get to have too many extended conversations.  To give him his due, he is the one who turned me on to funk, and my first experiences of DJing were opening up for a band he was in many moons ago (they had many name changes and were essentially the forerunners of The Dead Heavys).  When we walked back to the campsite so that he could get a hoody, I realised that it was cold, that I was tired, and that I had enough fun for one day.   I said goodbye to my brother as he turned towards the festival and I headed back to Greta.  Turning in shortly after Cinderella time would give me a hell of a nights sleep, and would ensure that I would be super fresh for Sunday's meanderings.


Sunday:

After clocking up a respectable nights sleep, Sunday morning greeted me with a pounding headache.  I drank about a litre of water, got a bit more shut eye and came to two hours later with the headache gnomes still beating my skull with their little mallets.  Adultrock had texted me asking if I could meet him at the lock up to put his gear back in my van.  That he still trusted my competency after the previous escapades shows how much of a better person he is than I.  Had the roles been reversed, my response would have been along the lines of fuck you and your van, I'm walking back to Dublin and carrying all this shit by myself, please stay away from me forever you incompetent fucktard.  After loading the van and triple checking that all the doors were locked, I took a spin in to Stradbally to score some panadol and find a porcelain bowl to squat over.  I won't go into a detailed description of how bad the portaloos were at the Picnic, but when a filling station's jacks seems heavenly and inviting, it's fair to say that one's standards have been lowered considerably.

As I made my way back from the carpark towards the festival, I bumped into the ever affable and extraordinarily talented Jus'me, who was waiting for the rest of the Unscene Collective to arrive so that he could check his gear in.  As they were all coming from different parts of the south and west of Ireland, they had all rendezvoused in some god awful town not too far from the Picnic, had some car swapping antics and now half of them seemed to have gone AWOL in the fashion of a rural Irish hip-hop Spinal Tap.  The rest of the collective seemed remarkably cool and collected about the affair which suggested that this carry-on happens a lot.  In need of my first cup of tea of the day (I don't care how dusty it is, I need my tea) I wandered on saying I'd catch their set later.  After numerous cups of tea, some very good vegetarian curry and a festival standard burrito, I settled down at the Comedy Tent where Eric Lalor made me laugh aloud the way a comedian should.  Saturday's meanderings had involved a few stop offs at the comedy tent, where I witnessed household name comedians deliver tragically unfunny sets that verged on anti-humour (there will be no naming, shaming or bad mouthing, being a piss-poor comedian is its own punishment).  Eric is a graduate of Des Bishop's Joy N The Hood, but his comedic talent has certainly matured with a well wrought set where the punchlines were sneaky southpaws that hit with alarming regularity.  He was followed by an obnoxious household name comedian, so I took this as my cue to shuffle on.

The Unscene Showcase really hit hard.  It began with Deviant and Mikey Fingers scratching tastefully over beats.  A lot of turntablists dedicate years to perfecting tricknology that is devoid of musicality and is wankier than the wankiest jazz.  These west coast deck monkeys kept things sensible, musical and groovable and only pulling out the fancy scratches when absolutely necessary.  Seeing Deviant hold down a rhythmic baby scratch while Mikey did some fader-licking cuts on top showed two artists who had immense respect for their audience and were completely unconcerned with the show-boating and one-upmanship that has been dragging the arse out of hip-hop for far too long.  Spekulativ Fiktion and Jus'me took the stage next, and it was a relief to see an MC who was happy to be himself on stage.  I have no problems with personas or onstage characterisations, but there are far too many middle class white Irish rappers doing their darndest to look street weary and pepper their rhymes with stateside parlance that just doesn't fit their flow.  Spek Fik looks and sounds like an ordinary twenty something from Cork, and his subject matter includes getting let down by confidantes, and giving out about wankers in pink polo shirts and v-neck jumpers.  No bamboozling verbal juxtapositions or extravagant wordplay and rhyming schemes: just straight-up, well-enunciated storytelling.  I took a break from the intensity of MC Sebi C to see if I could catch the tail end of King Kong Company on the B&S mainstage.  Upon arrival I was greeted by a departing audience and sound techs wrapping up cables which meant I missed the blaa land's finest beat factory.  In true OCD fashion I decided that I would not walk directly back to the Earthship stage for the rest of the Unscene showcase, but would take a circular route through the B&S area to see what I could see.

One of my main complaints of the weekend had been a lot of the DJs I had come across did not do anything for me.  Not that any of them were bad, but I felt that most of them veteran DJs who were just going through the motions.  Again, there were no dodgy transitions, or even bad music, but nothing inspiring, nothing that was making me lose my shit and wonder what the f*ck is this!?!?!?!  It had been heartening in a way, as I had been down on my own skills with a while and seeing one too many DJs putting the meh in mediocre made me realise that I'm not so bad after all and maybe I have something to offer to the world.  These thoughts (and many more, I have never been one who was short on thoughts) were carouselling through my mind as I approached the back of the Peace Pagoda.  There was an immensely energised crowd getting down out front to some really dubby dancehall and I was curious to see who was manning the controls.  What I initially took to be an incredibly petite woman working behind a laptop and controller, was in fact a little blond girl, too young to be a teenager but definitely a wee bit older than my eight year old nephew.  Turning on my cynicism to full beam, I rationalised that the crowd thought this spectacle was cute, and were dancing along to be encouraging to the wee thing.  The tune was kicking though, really quality stuff, and I couldn't deny that.  Maybe this was the one good track she had, that this was a stroke of luck.  The more I hung around, the more apparent it was that this girl was seriously on pointe.  Every track she dropped was gold, and her selection and programming were flawless.  Theo Parrish maintains that it takes ten years to master selection, so by Theo's logic this girl must have been DJing since shortly after birth.  The ecstatic tears of joy running down my cheeks and the broad grin permafixed across my face were tell-tale signs that I was losing my shit and I just couldn't help dancing maniacally and idiotically.  At the end of her set, Donal Dineen got on the mic: "Give it up for Little J, the best DJ at this festival and an unbelievable selector!"  Although my inner cynic wanted to believe that he was just humouring her, he was right.  There was nothing condescending in his tone or language, and he was treating her with the respect she deserves.  I was seriously hyped up at this point and even typing about it now is giving me shivers.  When she finished her set, I approached the middle aged man who was tidying up her gear as I wanted to find out more about what I had just experienced.  He was her Dad, this was her second outing (her first was at Body & Soul earlier that summer) and she was 11 years old.  DAMN!!!  If you are a seasoned DJ/selector reading this, you really need to up your game because a tiny little blue-eyed, blond-haired thing is about to serve your ass on a platter.


Epilogue
This was exactly what I had hoped to get from my festival experience, and was delighted to have it peak just as I was leaving.  I ferried my charges back to Clontarf, then downed 473 ml of red bull to keep me from falling asleep at the wheel on the way home.  It was a bit excessive, but when I was doing my pre-Picnic grocery shopping, the supermarket was out of the humanely sized cans, so I was left with no other option.  It took three hours to get from Dublin to Cork, but that was only because I was driving.  Had I pulled over and let my taurine charged legs run down the motorway, I'm certain I could have easily done it in two, maybe two and a half.  The weekend was a series of peaks and troughs, aided greatly by the good weather and the lovely people who were there in abundance.  Thanks to everyone I encountered and enabled me to have such a cracking weekend, now there is nothing to do but hold on tight as the winter blues slowly creep over the horizon.