Rebecca Hobson gets some autumnal festival delights courtesy of Playgroup.
It’s not easy for small festivals. Like foxgloves, poppies, forget-me-nots – they quietly decorate spring, blossom into summer and early autumn, all the while competing with the likes of the Reading “rose” and other, noisier players.
Unable to vie for the prized August weekends – and without sponsorship from Carling to mitigate unforeseen circumstances like the wettest June on record – they find themselves pushed out to the fringes of the summer season.
And so it is I’m wrapped up in two jumpers, a fur hat, leggings and scarf, standing in a field on the second to last weekend of September. Because in its third year, Playgroup Festival has been rescheduled after the torrential rains left its home in Eridge Park too soggy for wellies.
It makes for an entirely different event: summer optimism gives way to resolute stoicism – we will play whatever the temperature. The park’s winning oaks reign magnificent but bear the signs of early autumn; their greens mottled and fading, their branches hanging tired.
As if in homage to these giants, this year the organisers make us walk through the forest to reach the site. With only festoon lighting guiding the way, we amble steadily through the woodland.
Meanwhile word has got out that this is to be the last ever Playgroup. Whispers run wild through the crowd, turning the cold air electric in their wake: this weekend will be special, we silently signal to one another.
On arrival and the gate, checking us in, is the pied piper Declan himself. This is of course the difference – at no other festival has the first person I’ve run into been the actual organiser. Greetings over, in and set up, we walk onto the site and are struck by the wonderland of eccentricities that could only come out of Brighton.
Lying serene in the middle of the first field is Tracey Island, a mini Astroturf wonder of imagination. An ornate wooden sailing boat bursts with people and rock and roll. A giant toy train begs to be climbed. Tents hammer out beats to remind us this is a music festival as well as a playground.
As ever, it’s the event’s teeny size that makes it work so well; you can freely wonder with little fear of losing your gang or missing a gig. Or if you so desire, you can wonder freely and lose your gang and miss your gig.
Headlining tonight is Los Albertos. A Brighton staple. The last ever theme continues; this is to be their last ever gig. We plonk ourselves in one of the maintents. Next door beats pulsate, here friends run into each other, jumpers arehurled into corners, mayhem is let loose and inspired mix of hip-hop and samba warms us.
It’s Saturday lunchtime and the sun shines. We are rewarded for our autumnal gamble. The air is crisp, the colours exaggerated, like a post-acid glow a purity pervades. Kate Ferris takes the circle stage. A few people gather to listen. She nervously fiddles with her guitar and loop machine and begins singing. Her voice fills the tent and people begin to take notice, soon her voice is multilayered, her loops building to multiply to a miracle crescendo by a single person – a kaleidoscope of harmony and stunning lyrics. She is one to watch and we are enraptured.
Drunk on Katie we stumble away to get drunker. Meander through the tents, we come face to face with the main stage and a Carnival Collective and so we dance with abandon. Then it’s live dubstep courtesy of Coda. A gaggle of dishevelled, adorable, adoring folk artists that is Duncan Disorderly and The Scallywags follows.
All too soon it’s all over. Somehow we’ve managed to hug an open fire all night long and stave off the cold, learning taxidermy and curating our own silent disco along the way.
And then it’s September again, and its real jobs and real life. Kids starting playgroup are taught not to pick too many wild flowers – especially not the endangered ones. Let pray this one is brought back from extinction.
Rebecca Hobson
Photos by Barka C
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