Alex Martin reports from the front line.
Arriving late on the Friday night somehow nothing was quite right; the tent took too long to put up, the weather was too windy, the music too quiet, my mental state decidedly fugue. I kept arriving at stages just as sets finished and, ever the grumpus, I couldn't even bring myself to take part in the sporadic applause rippling around me - the clap-trap, a fizzy tizz.
But, at the Glade, as any frequentice will blithely inform you, apprehension never proves particularly stubborn in its insistence – as a festival its capacity for ambrosial deliverance is inscribed into its very DNA. If I'm honest I was almost glad of the opportunity to purge myself of moans, much as one knows a comparable séance dedicated to lightening-the-load in the chemical commodes is a brutal but necessary precondition for raving in comfort, an inverted suppository of vibe.
Vitalic was responsible for the first stage of my re-initiation into Glade's capacious folds, an artist who was likewise responsible, during the noughty part of the early millenium, for generating the broader enthusiasm for electronica that has sustained my musical appetite this riotous decade past. The breadth of the scope of Glade's line-ups means that this sort of thing really happens delightfully often, it has to be said – the unexpected re-appearance of a canonical blast from the past, a formative name in the evolution of one's sonic palate that bears bare repeating. To be honest I'd forgotten Vitalic even existed. But the audio-visual extravaganza he masterminded towards the close of the main stage on Friday left me feeling incredibly pleased that happenstance had decreed I stumble by, his set proving a greatly valued antitoxin to the fugue still disentangling upstairs.
The illumination of dawn brought with it the opportunity to explore the new, augmented site, an exploration decorated lavishly by some of the saltiest capers consumed during my figurative culinary career. The brand new Meteor stage, curated by Uppercut, was a top notch infrastructural supplement, a clownlike wobblefest that seemed to peak on Saturday afternoon amidst a live breakcore carnival spectacular courtesy of Senseless Records.
By the time the Dub Pistols took to the main stage late Saturday afternoon my fugue had all but dissipated. Glade veterans, at a predominantly electronic festival the live 8-piece always make for a welcome respite from the duv duv of synthetic percussion. In light of this Summer's atavistic celebrations of nationality - the salacious statecraft in spandex that is the Olympic Games, to say nothing of early June's flag-toting royalist farce - watching a band celebrate the enduring value of the Brit-centric genres of ska, punk, big beat, jungle and UK hip hop was ideal, spinning a red, white and blue, black, gold and green web of alternative, cosmopolitan, près-palatable patriotism. Shortly afterwards I collapsed.
On Sunday I elected to kick things off with a delectable glass of mead courtesy of the Feast of Fools straw-floored arena, and a romper-stomper electro set at the ETA nano stage courtesy of up-and-coming squelch-an'-bouncers Sway 2 - a cocktail that comes highly recommended. Following a typically bombastic Gaudi set it was time to descend upon the hallowed Origin stage, where an ingeniously well-programmed triptych of progressive psy-trance was served up on shiny silver platters by the Zen Mechanics, Liquid Soul and Ace Ventura respectively. The charged ambience therein was satisfyingly reminiscent of the experiences of Origins past I always cherish most dearly during the dullard Winter months; deranged grins, skyward exultation and a charmingly familial feel.
By the close of the festival on Sunday evening the only area still blessed by amplified music was the Rabbit Hole, which played host to what I hear was quite the raucous end-of-festival exclusive staff party. As much as I would have loved to have been in there, I couldn't really begrudge the incumbent Glade operatives their celebratory recreation. After all they had worked really quite tirelessly to provide the logistical backdrop to one of the best weekends of my life. My attempts to force entry were well-intentioned but ludicrous given the extent of my mal-coordination; after having been turfed several times by increasingly irate security guards I made my merry way to the ferris wheel – on reflection one of the worst decisions I made all weekend, but equally the most hilarious.
A fiercely fought brew-ha-ha between one of my more festively belligerent friends and the gnarled, toothless carnie operating the dilapidated machinery ensued. Becoming increasingly exasperated with our refusal to bung him an extra fiver, Brian Ferris eventually issued us both a defeated wave of his weather-ravaged hand, and onto the wheel we went. Little did we know that he had not in fact given us the benefit of the doubt, but had taken considerable issue with our pompous London ways, and proceeded to trap us at the top of the wheel for around 45 minutes while the rain came down and so did our spirits, cackling below all the while. A curiously fitting conclusion.
Photo by Sarah Flakes.
Click here to read Alex's review of last year's Glade Festival.
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