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.

Bloggy O'Soul

Prologue:

Last Wednesday I decided that I wanted to go to the Body and Soul Festival that was on that weekend.  As I had no money and no ticket, deciding that I wanted to go was the best I could do.  I had enough money in the credit union to cover the cost of diesel to drive up and back.  After that I'd be stuck up in the midlands with no ticket, no money, and just enough diesel to drive back home again.  Also my rent was due, and I didn't even have enough money to cover that.  So maybe it would be a good idea to try to shneak into the festival and dodge my landlord for the weekend.  As a millennial, this means I have an overdeveloped sense of entitlement and an underdeveloped work ethic, so it would appear that someone owes me a free ride to Body and Soul.  I scrolled down through my phone book, skipping over all the invaluable music industry contacts I have built up over the years, and instead texted my eldest brother who works in an off-license in the barren wastelands of North Tipperary.  At some point on Thursday, weekend tickets sold out, so any chance of getting a spare off someone at discount or face value was going to be impossible.  Then at quarter past four on Friday evening my big brother phoned me to say that he had gotten two tickets from the Bulmer's rep, all I had to do was drive up and collect them at the gate.  Finally, all my hard work had paid off!


Friday:

I would be staying in a friend's place just outside Mullingar, so camping or trying to sleep on a deflating mattress in the back of my van was out of the question.  He was currently in South Africa, but his landlady would be able to let me in.  So after some hurried shopping (four litres of bottled water, three rolls of camera film, and two packets of fig rolls) and an even more hurried packing, I pointed Greta in the direction of Dublin and sped off up the motorway.  She still overheated when been driven hard over long distances, and while jacking up the heating still kept the engine cool, the current heat wave meant that it felt like I was driving an oven.  So shortly after the toll booth on the M8, I pulled over to the hard shoulder and took off my trousers.  Extra special prayers to the almighty were put out that I wouldn't need to stop and ask for directions at any point, or that I wouldn't get pulled over by the Gardaí for any reason ("Could you show us your license and PLEASE keep your hands where we can see them").  The good news is that neither of these things happened, but the bad news is that driving sans pants is so bloody comfortable that I may never go back.  This could earn me a very interesting reputation when I start work placement in a school in September.

So I pulled up at the cottage outside Mullingar, whipped on my jeans, and stumbled out of the van fumbling with my belt and flies as the landlady came out to greet me.  She kept stables and explained that she was only just back herself, having been at the vet to pick up enough semen to cover a mare.  I know very little about horses, so to me it sounded like the mother and father of all money shots and not another term for AI.  So after a grand mug of tae and quick trip to the jacks, I was back in the van and heading to the festival.  There is a bizarre law of the lever logic with these excursions, as that I get closer to the destination (or fulcrum), the more effort is required on my part.  Initially this was apparent as I got to the last few miles leading up to Ballinlough Castle, whereby the magical combination of festival traffic, silage tractors, and cyclists on a narrow winding Westmeath road had brought things to a standstill.  The next bit was going to be even more tedious and problematic.  I had to pick up two tickets that were not in my name, nor were they in my brother's name (who at least shares my surname), but in an envelope marked Rob Bennett.  I have no idea who he is, I'm sure he's quite nice and all, but if problems should arise, I was to ring Edmund Flavin who would be able to sort all of this out.

As I quite accurately predicted, this did not go smoothly.  "I'm here to pick up two tickets, they are in the Bulmer's pile in an envelope marked Rob Bennett."  (Shuffles through a stack of envelopes for a minute or two) "Ah yeah, here it is, could I see some photo ID?  (Takes my passport)  You're not Rob Bennett?  I can't give these to you to you so."  "Well you see they were put aside for my brother, and I'm here to pick them up.  I was told to call Edmund Flavin if there was any problem."  "Who's Edmund Flavin?"  "I have no clue, but I have his number here, so let's see what he has to say."  So I got him on the phone, and after explaining to him that I was me and not my brother, I handed my mobile over to the man in the box office and watched him talk and talk and talk, while I stood there holding my breath with my fingers and toes crossed.  He handed the phone back to me just before my eyeballs burst out of their sockets.  "That's grand, just give me fifty euro and the tickets are yours."  I thought I was getting comps, so even though they were waaaay cheaper than what the plebs were paying for them, it was still beyond my budget.  He explained that there was some sort of charity tie in, that the money would be donated, and that the minimum donation per ticket was twenty five euro.  This would not be a good time to explain that I had no money and that my plan for the weekend was to use one ticket to get in, and then sell the other one so that I'd have walking around money.  As it was now sold out I could even have sold it at a sufficiently inflated price so that I could cover the rent that was due in Cork.  I explained that I only had twenty euro on me (the reality was that I only had twenty euro, but at a push I could have siphoned thirty euros worth of diesel out of my van).  He took the twenty euro and handed me the tickets.  "Will I come back to you with the remaining thirty?"  "You're grand, enjoy the weekend!"  So without further delay, I sold on the spare at the very fair price of one twenty, got my wristband, and I was in.

After having such a lovely jaunt at Electric Picnic on my own, this would be no different.  Anyone who has ever been to a music festival with a group of friends knows how torturous it is to get about, as a mini committee meeting is needed every step of the way.  "I want to go to the main stage", "I need a piss", "I want a burger", "I want a beer", "I need to get something from the campsite", "Hey look chairplanes, let's go on the chairplanes" and so on, and so on, ad nauseam.  Fortunately, as the world's most personable misanthrope I have a habit of bumping into someone I know every fifty yards or so, so loneliness would not be an issue.  My trusty companion for the festival would be my Minolta slr, and I was so intent on taking photos that I even brought along a bounce flash to show that I meant business.  So much so, that I'd barely gotten a few hearty strides inside the perimeter when an attractive girl ran towards me asking if I'd take her picture.  "Sure," I said and she waved her boyfriend over and struck a pose with him.  (Click/Flash.)  (Excitedly)"So what's it going to be in?"  "The shoebox in my flat where I keep my photos, why do you ask?"  As the realisation dawned on her that I was not an actual photographer who will catapult her to some level of fame, and just some guy fluting about with a camera, I wasn't sure whether to feel sorry for her or be slightly tickled that she was the victim of her own vanity.  The good news for her is that I have since acquired a scanner, so now she has some level of fame amongst the ten or so people that read this blog.

Again, there would be no gameplan, there was no one that I really wanted to see over the weekend, which meant lots of faffing about while drinking tea, which is not too far removed from what I normally do.  After a good hearty faff, I went in to Midnight Circus to check out Shane Linehan's set.  I wouldn't go so far as to say that we're friends, but we are well acquainted.  A few years back I designed a few posters for him, and once when I lost my car keys he had a guy who could jimmy the door, break the steering lock, and hot wire the ignition ready to come round within minutes (fortunately I managed to find the keys).  When I bumped into him outside South Infirmary in 2011, he said he had been messing around on Ableton for a few months and finally had made a track he was willing to self release on vinyl.  Not to be outdone in terms of ambitions, I revealed that someday I hoped to get my act together sufficiently and buy a van.  For all our crazy talk back then, Shane is now a record label boss and one of the more respected producers and DJs on the scene today, while I have my own van.  His set wasn't too deep with just the right amount of dirt, and it was a sheer joy to see someone I know rocking a big system at a festival.  My knowledge of house is fairly limited, but I did recognise a few of the tracks as I'd been listening to his mixes in the gym these last few months.  Unfortunately the day had been long and my body was tired, so I had to clock out early and leave his set behind.

All that was left to do was wander back to the car park, hop in my van, and drive back to Mullingar to kip down for the night.  I remembered walking through the campsite on the way in, so it would simply be a matter of following the line of tents and I'd find myself back at the main entrance.  I figured there can't be too many tents at a music festival, so there would be no chance of getting lost.  After half an hour of this, I thought it wise to go back the way I came and find a steward or someone who could point me in the right direction.  It was easily an hour later before I was back in my van.  Friday is done.


Saturday:

I got up late enough and had a decent feed of porridge and scrambled eggs for breakfast.  To get myself suitably intoxicated for the day ahead, I jogged out to Lough Ennell, then stood there for about 10-15 minutes with my hands on my hips panting loudly as I gazed upon the lake.  I gave it extra welly on the way back, hoping to build up sufficient runner's high for the rest of the day.  After a shower and a shave, I headed in to town to pick up a few bits and take a few snaps of the Joe Dolan statue.

It was only when I finished snapping (several pictures were taken from all angles, what you see above is the best of the best) that I noticed the ice-cream shop across the street, and how his right hand is just begging for a cone.  Unfortunately by the time I got served, the sun had gone in, and taking a picture of a statue holding an ice-cream cone while it's overcast makes no sense whatsoever.  So I was left with no other option than to eat it myself while tooling around town with my camera, before hopping into Greta and heading over to the festival.

One of the painful lessons from the Picnic was that festival tea is muck.  To get over this I brought in forty bags of Barry's Gold Blend with me so that no matter how deranged, depraved, or dehydrated I might get, I wouldn't have to resort to sub par tea.  Most of the vendors thought it strange ("You brought your own teabags to a music festival?!?!?"), but humoured me and only charged a token price for the hot water, milk, and cup.  To make sure I wasn't completely mad, I went to the one group of people who would definitely understand.  When I asked the girls at the Rebel Burger Company if they had Barry's Tea the response was "What d'ya expect, we're from Cork like!"  When I showed them my precautionary stash, it was met with nods of approval.  "First rule of travel: If you're going somewhere foreign, always bring Barry's Tea."  One of them then launched into a story about how a cousin of hers accidentally drank Bewley's at Electric Picnic and had to be rushed to hospital to get his stomach pumped.  At this point another one broke down into tears as a close relative of hers had a similar experience but wasn't so fortunate.

Back in 2011, I played at the festival.  It was a major coup at the time, but the real victory is getting called back to play again the following year, which didn't happen.  So I have gone down the slippery slope of being a DJ with festival experience, to being like that uncle who was in a band once.  Since it was looking unlikely that I would ever be asked to play at a major festival ever again, it was necessary that I take matters into my own hands.  So not only did I have a hefty stash of Barry's Gold Blend in my pocket, I also had a Sesame Street record player and a bunch of 45s in my backpack.  So when the time was right, I sat down in a quiet(-ish) spot in the Walled Garden and started playing.  My set lasted about an hour, there were considerable gaps between each of the songs, but I did manage to gather a small crowd, all of whom swore their lives had changed for the better as a result.  So when anyone asks if I DJed at any festivals this summer, I will nonchalantly reply how I did an intimate set of seven inches in the Walled Garden at Body and Soul.  It was really nice, so chilled, shame you missed it.

After I brought my records and player back to the van, I spent some time trying on different hoody and sports coat combinations until I finally found one that made it look like I didn't put too much effort into my look.  I then bumped into Ollie, an old buddy from college that I hadn't seen or spoke to in a good ten years.  Once upon a time we used to get tonicked up, turn off the lights, and play The Prodigy's "Electronic Punks" video from beginning to end several times over the course of a night, busting out the most bucked out shapes imaginable (it was our way of acknowledging that Leeroy Thornhill was the king of Prodigy dancing).  Many key anthropologists now believe that those VHS get downs we had in Corrib Village were the original precursor to the Youtube parties of today.  Even though it was the same video every time, which had to be rewound (and rewound, and rewound), the absence of ads or laggy connection meant that it was also vastly superior.  It was really nice to catch up with him, and when we went for pizza at the Big Blue Bus, a conglomerate of my favourite Cork DJs (only two of whom are actually from Cork) were lashing out the tunes.  It was one of those weirdly sentimental moments with the sun low in the sky, eating festival standard pizza and having the craic with a friend from the ever more distant past, with present day friends providing the sound track and shenanigans, while all sorts of everyone on all sorts of everything flowed around us.  Every now and then when one of my favourite tracks dropped I just got up and gave it socks with reckless abandon, and then seamlessly sat back down to pizza and chats and whatnot with Ollie.

Photo courtesy of Jackie Cawley

Later on in the night, I was wandering past Radioshack and was drawn in by Al Wilson's "The Snake" and was obliged by the immutable laws of the universe to pull out my best Northern Soul moves.  At the best of times, proper Northern Soul dancing requires a tight combination of well practised moves, athleticism, and amphetamines.  At that moment in time I had none of the above, was fairly knackered, and was wearing hiking boots.  Still, the immutable laws of the universe are there for a reason, and while it was not going to be pretty or well executed, it had to happen.  My energetic, spirited, and well-meaning moves lasted for about three songs, after which I was utterly crapped out but felt strangely liberated.  My mother always assured me that I was a great dancer, so I'm certain I was hardly the honkiest mofo on the dance flo'.  So if anyone out there has video footage of me and my moves that night, please feel free to keep it to yourself.  I then did a few more hours of meandering around the festival before deciding to call it a night.


Sunday:

I got up early on Sunday with the plan of touching in with some friends down by the Chakra teepees.  While everyone was having a good time overall, complaints about poor nights sleep, not having access to a proper jacks ("I haven't had a proper shit in three days", quote of the festival and best chat up line I've heard to date), and all the usual stuff that's part and parcel of a weekend like this.  Then everyone looked at me and said: "It must be alright for you, having the van to sleep in and all?"  I said it was, but what was even alrighter was having a flat to stay in for the weekend.  Porridge and scrambled eggs for breakfast, as well as having a proper shower and shave before I got in that morning really took the edge of things.  When their glowers started burning my skin, I hastily and tastefully started backpedaling.  "I say that I had a shower, but to be honest the water pressure wasn't THAT great".  Their glowering persisted so I shut up.

The light was good so I wandered off, shooting as many snaps as I could.  Local heroes "Sunday Times!" were playing at the Jook Joint at three, so I had a nice bit of time to go around supping tae and befuddling vendors until then.  The lads started off their set with some nice simmering jazz, and I found myself curling up on the grass and having a semi conscious doze as it washed over me.  As it worked its way up to midtempo house and boogie I came to, and sat up to find that I had gotten a wee bit sunburnt while I slept.  Hurrah, a proper festival credential!  As much as I was enjoying their set, I had it in my head that I wouldn't be staying much longer, and so went off for one last walk with my camera.  It had been a good festival experience and I didn't want to tear the arse out of it by staying too late, but still didn't want to leave too early for fear of missing something.

Once again, it was Radioshack that lured me in.  I could hear some wonderful Brazilian piano track winding its way out so I had to stop by for a listen.  A woman, probably about ten years older than me, was behind the decks, and she just kept racking up more and more beautiful music.  There was a good half hour of piano based Latin American grooves, before she worked her way into afrobeat, and then into soul, funk, and dub reggae.  There was nothing fancy about her mixing: no sharp cuts or complicated blends, but every segue was a perfect mini masterpiece, and all of her selections were seriously spot on.  I sat there transfixed for ages, occasionally breaking down into tears of joy at the sheer beauty of it all.  Al Wilson's "The Snake" popped its head up again, but I spared the world my moves this time.  When she finished up I thanked her for the set, told her that she made my weekend, and started heading towards the main entrance.  Now there was nothing left for me to do but get back to my van, drive to Cork, and hide from my landlord like it's an Olympic sport!

Huge thanks to my brother Ian O'Brien, Bulmers, Greta Greenbus, Claire Moloney, Gavin, Tanya, Kevin, and all the other pure sound folk that I spent time with that weekend.  It was wonderful!

(The rest of my photos can be seen here)