Inheritance

Throughout my life I have had adults, my parent's friends and distant family, telling me that I look like my Dad. As a child, I could never fully understand what they meant and for a good while I was convinced I had been adopted. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs, watching my Mum getting ready to go out with my head pressed up against the banisters, entirely unable to fathom all the parts of her and all the parts of my Dad as part of me.

As I've grown older, I've noticed that the similarities to my father extend much further than my cold and pale complexion, addictive personality and penchant for cheap cider. One thing I have always, undeniably shared with my Dad is a love for music (and I thank him for that, above everything else.)

He was a white-van man, in the least sinister sense of the phrase, and I was a trusty sidekick, riding shotgun almost always. Even to this day, the heaviness of driving in a van makes me sleepy. My Dad would unashamedly collect all of the "free" CDs in the Saturday newspaper, the ones in the little cardboard sleeves that newspaper marketers of the naughties went crazy for, and play them whilst we drove about doing usually, mostly nothing. Often I would complain that I 'just didn't want to listen to the best of UB40 one more time' and pretended to sleep until it wasn't pretend anymore. However, there was one particular occasion where the Daily Star somehow got it right (How often are you able to say that these days?) when they released their 'Hits of the Decade: 80s edition'. Through KC & The Sunshine Band and The Bangles, I was awoken to a whole decade of music that really shaped my tastes and lead me to discover one of my favourite albums of all time, 'The Best of Belinda Carlisle'. To this day I still sing loudly and obnoxiously to 'Heaven is a Place on Earth'. (Showers or karaoke or pretty much anywhere) I also, legitimately cried when I knocked the CD rack from the kitchen counter and found the only disc that had smashed was my beloved Belinda's. (Thank god for the music on the internet nowadays, am I right?)

One of our van trips took us all the way to Sheffield to see The Rolling Stones on their Bigger Bang Tour during the summer of 2006. He'd somehow convinced my Mum it was a good idea and paid too much for tickets on eBay. On the drive I tried to think of any Stones songs I might have known, but kept spouting 'Get it On' by T Rex by mistake, much to his disgust. Inching the speedometer to a number my Mum would've slaughtered him for, he told me to reply 'but I like it' every time he sand 'It's only rock and roll' whilst he was driving; that way by the time we got to the concert I'd know at least one song. He parked up down a back street in Shuffled and went to find the nearest pub open at 10am whilst I napped in high vis jackets in the back of the (hopefully) locked van. We went down the Don Valley Stadium, stood on seats in the rain, laughed at Paolo Nutini tucked away on the very corner of the stage and sang 'I know it's only rock and roll but I like it' together.

Like any parent, he taught me right from wrong (early Madonna as opposed to post-ray-of-light Madonna), he appreciated my diverse tastes (even buying my first Lady Gaga album and listening to a bootleg copy of the Hairspray soundtrack with me) and always pushed me to find new music and talent. My Dad gave me a part of me that is so, so important.

Somewhere from the complexities of childhood I've come away with a few simple memories of music and him. So, as my looks slip from the stern aesthetic of my father to the softer smiles of my mother, I try to cling to what ever parts of him are left and all of the nostalgia that comes with it. Lord knows I love a bit of nostalgia. Happy Father's Day to all the Dads trying desperately to get their kid to like the same music.

Unmissable

As the weekend of mud, glitter and warm cider draws closer to us, aside from checking the weather forecast online everyday and praying to the festival gods for anything but more rain, it's also time to start thinking about what bands we want to wrap our little ears around. To make things slightly easier I've picked my Glastonbury 2015 weekend highlights. How nice of me, right? Have a listen to the acts I deem worthy of Worthy Farm because I said so. Maybe I will see you there. 

Leon Bridges

River

I wanna come near and give you / Every part of me / But there's blood on my hands

Friday / John Peel Stage / 14:00 - 14:40

Father John Misty

Chateau Lobby #4 (In C for Two Virgins)

I haven’t hated all the same things / As somebody else / Since I remember 

Saturday / The Park Stage / 18:30 - 19:30

Slaves 

Hey

A bleeding heart welcomes the sharks / Come to tear your world apart

Saturday / John Peel Stage / 14:00 - 14:40

Lianne La Havas

Unstoppable

I was like a satellite spinning away / Almost lost forever and leaving no trace

Sunday / John Peel Stage / 19:05 - 20:05

FKA Twigs

Kicks

What do I do when you're not here? / I get my kicks like you

Sunday / West Holts Stage / 20:30 - 21:30

Pyramids and Parks

If you've come up for air between episodes of Orange is the New Black, you'll have noticed that unfortunately the world has been carrying on without you. Somewhere deep within that myriad of pop-culture news, you may have heard that living-legend Dave Grohl broke his leg and, in the most badass way ever, continued the gig whilst getting his leg casted up. It was then announced that Foo Fighters would have to miss out on headlining Glasto this year. Much, much less badass.

It does mean that Florence and the Machine will be headlining the Friday night Pyramid slot. (Yaaaas Flo.) ((Sorry Foos.)) It also means that this years headline acts are perhaps the most musically diverse headliners for a good while. Although the headliners present a pleasing clash of musical stylings, there are many other clashes and contradictions that run the festival.

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The Music

Firstly, the festival experience wouldn't be complete without a line up time table clash. Sometimes this is casted by terrible scheduling (The XX and Mumford and Sons clash of 2012; brutal and exhausting) and sometimes it's just a matter of taste. So, before you go bargaining of a few cans of warm cider for an extra ten minutes at The Who, whilst your pals wanna be getting 'on it' at The Chemical Brothers' set, let's thank our lucky stars that there's only a few little blips on a mostly perfect line up.

When trying to make heads or tails of what's on the Pyramid Stage or the Other stage or the other other stage, the first line up struggle (or first world struggle) comes early Friday from two indie/alternative heavyweights; Alabama Shakes versus Catfish and the Bottlemen.

Vs.

I cannot, cannot, cannot give enough praise for Alabama Shakes. They have perhaps been at the centre of most of the content I've written in 2015 (and I had to write a 10000 word final project for my degree.) So it may come as a surprise, when I confess I'm probably going to walking my wellies over to the Other Stage to bop about to Van McCann and his band have a good ol' sing and probably say offensive things about the music industry and One Direction. A lot of this is down to logistics; catch the first bit of Alabama Shakes, run across the site, watch the end of Catfish and the Bottlemen and you're standing ready for Jungle's set on the same stage. Of course, what it comes down to, is how many people in your gang feel the same way. Majority rules, always.

The Crowd

After four years of overly-drunk results-day teen crowds at Reading Festival, the Glasonbury audience came as a bit of a surprise when I first attended last year. Much like the lineup, the people in attendance reflected that wild diversity that the festival champions. 

It was during The Black Key's rather unimpressive performance that we found ourselves watching the family in front of us, rather than the stage. Spread out over a pink picnic blanket was three generations of a family, essentially having a grand time together. It makes so much sense to have Glastonbury as the ultimate British stay-cation. It was something we'd never seen at previous festivals and something we vowed to do when we were all grown up and adult and had maybe reproduced. 

Alternatively, as Glastonbury is the mecca to music lovers of all kinds, you get the crowd that are there purely to party themselves into a good story to share. These are the kids that look like they should probably be in Ibiza, sleep their way through most the bands and appear only after sunset but always with sunglasses to head straight to Shangri-La. Power to 'em. 

I think the best way to approach the festival is to experience it from both sides, because essentially it is just that; an experience. Have a chill drinking day of watching bands, lounging about and praying for a little sunshine, but don't be afraid to go out with the metaphorical guns blazing at night time too. Remember to sleep at some point, just a little bit, otherwise you may not make it to Sunday.

The Weather 

Would it be a proper festival experience if you weren't half drenched and sunburnt at the same time? No, it wouldn't. The need for both wellies and sunglasses is one of the most traditional clashes of festival heritage, I can assure you. Last year, we camped directly under a pylon and feared for our lives as the festival came to a halt during an electrical storm. It bucketed it down last year, well and truly bucketed but it was also bloody hot in those few rare moments that the sun broke through. You can't win. Do as you're told by anyone giving their two pence, prepare for everything. Prepare for sunstroke, prepare to watch drunk people mud wrestling and prepare to have a shower, just not in the way you'll be desperate for. 

Glastonbury is full of clashes; from culture, political and even to what food truck to eat from. (Chicken nuggets and noodles are never a good idea, it's not worth £6, don't do it. Try something different and half decent.) It's what makes the festival so exciting and so worth the £220 price tag. Embrace it and you'll enjoy it, because I said so. (See you there!) 

Expecting Spector

We sat on benches in the courtyard of The Dome, somewhere too far north in London for me to recognise it as London anymore. The tube station name sounded like a football team I've never heard of, rather than a destination for a gig. The occasional drum beat from inside the venue echoed out to remind us to consider going inside soon. We spoke about the importance of complimenting women in bathrooms, as there is no compliment more valued. We videoed pigeons attempting to break-through nets and laughed whilst trying to blow smoke rings.

We went inside, bought expensive ciders and stood at the side of the crowd so I felt like I could breathe for a while and laughed some more, about pigeons. Then we stopped laughing, in awe of the energy Spector brought to the stage. A good band will do that; take a complicated moment and make it entirely simple.

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Seeing a band on the cusp of potential fame is always an excitingly rare moment. The band are often still grateful, like an insecure lover, pandering to every bit of affection they're not sure they actually deserve. Before the gig Fred, the lead singer of Spector, wandered over to the march stand at the back of the venue, followed by a small trickle of excited teen girls. He seemed genuinely happy to pose for selfies and sign an array of things, that shining bit of gratitude undimmed. I'm not sure most band members would or could genuinely smile about these days and it's genuinely refreshing to watch the band in their prime, before the wildness nature of popularity.

This in-between time, in-between rugby club gigs and arenas, gives the band space to still be excited by their own music, perhaps just as excited as the crowd in front of them. Which, in my gig experience, often fades a bit too quickly. But Spector performed with rugby-club approachability and stadium quality songs, making them and their London gig an absolute winner.

There's a definite age gap between their debut and soon-to-be-sophomore instalments, despite them only being three years apart. The guitar-heavy tracks and fan-favourites from the first album and the synth-rinsed slow jams they keep practising at shows strike a nice balance. (If nothing else, it gives you time to run to the bar during the songs you can't sing along to yet.) It's also sad to come into the game when the band are already one album down. Some of my favourite tunes, like No Adventure and Upset Boulevard are now strangers to the stage and are left for me to sing along to in showers only.

What redeems this, somehow, are the equally lyrically intriguing songs that the band keep hitting us with. All The Sad Young Men, Bad Boyfriend and Kyoto Garden all lend great lines to indirectly tweet at people and turn into Instagram quotes for ex-lovers, ex-friends and lost people to see. Standing in a crowd of people chanting with such conviction -I don't wanna make love, I don't wanna make plans, I don't want anyone to want to hold my hand- I found it difficult to remember whether I meant the words, or not.

I shall wait with great anticipation for Spector to birth their metaphorical baby into the music world, as it's expected to appear sometime this year. If it's the heartbreak album that leaves you confused about whether you want to dance or cry that I suspect is it, I can't be expecting Spector too much longer. 

Grab your wellies and waddle through the mud to catch the band (and a potentially drunk me) at Glastonbury this year! They'll also be at Reading Festival and so many more places across the summer, so check them out before that youthful gratitude is swallowed up by the ego of sold out shows and screaming teen girls, because I said so. Although, I have a feeling they're way too cool for that. I hope so, anyway. 

(Also, shout out for the band trying to make Southend look way more cool than it actually is in the All The Sad Young Men vid. Bravo.)

The Opposite of Loneliness

This week I finished a book. Something I rarely managed throughout my entire three years studying Literature. Pats self on the back. Better late than never, I guess. From the title I'm assuming, you assumed this might have been an overly personal rant about feelings. That's where you're mistaken -I have no feelings. I'm kidding, of course, because the book I've just finished, The Opposite of Loneliness, hit me right in the feels. This proving true the well documented rumour of my hectic emotions.

This article is me, telling you (fellow post-uni creative types and uncreative types alike) to read this book. The Opposite of Loneliness is a posthumously published, collection of short stories and essays from Yale graduate, Marina Keegan. I speak directly to those wandering the post-studies maze because this book was born from the same excitement and anxiety that we are currently trying to departmentalise in our young and wild minds.

The collection opens with Marina's final essay, one which was published in The New Yorker and turned viral, synonymously titled The Opposite of Loneliness. She articulates the essence of being a student, far better than any definition I could string together in words. The bizarre cocktail of post-university emotions are defined and wrapped up in the succinct bow of Marina Keegan's words. It's a relief to know that someone else gets it.

Marina's language reminds me of the classmates I critiqued in writing workshops. It reminds me of my own writing. It's a language that felt simple and immature in my own stories, but somehow seems fresh in published print. Marina's writing is honest and unafraid and sometimes cliche -it's youthful. A far cry from the thesaurus-driven, high-register attempts at sounding adult I had to pretend I'd fully read in writing workshops.

The stories, as cliche would dictate, made me both laugh and cry in the waiting rooms of hospitals, on train journeys between my London-home and my home-home and in many well-needed baths. Above all emotional reactions, this book inspired me to write. Actually it kept me up at night, worried that I hadn't written stories that were good enough or even just enough. It made me question my future and what I wanted out of a career and, of course, it highlighted the delicacy of life.

Read The Opposite of Loneliness, because I said so. Read Marina's famous essay or read it all. Whether that's for guidance, comfort or just genuinely witty writing, is up to you.

(Photo of Marina Keegan politely borrowed from The Guardian)

White Light and Witches

If synth pop and 80s beats don't excite you, then you may not have a soul. To test this theory, I share with you the new (sort of) single from Shura. 'White Lies' is seven minutes in musical heaven -enjoy! It's fast becoming the soft-pop, slow-jam of the summer. (Try saying that after a few pitchers of Pimms.)

Maybe she'll sink, maybe she'll fly, maybe she'll listen to the song and promote it on her blog. Gengahr, who I had the fortune of catching live once upon a time, have been releasing singles all over the place, ready for the launch of their debut album. I predict all good things for this band and you can hear all good things from them by listening to 'She's A Witch' below.

All round lovely lady Florence Welsh released another album quite recently. It features a myriad of enchanting chants and howls from the songstress and lyrics that are all indirect-tweet-to-your-ex-worthy. Florence's deluxe albums come with a few demos tacked on. It's always interesting to see the starting line of the race to make an entire body of music. Below is a demo for 'Which Witch', a song that didn't make the final cut, but is entirely worth a listen (and very usefully fits with the theme of this post). 

Accidentally Anarchic

(Painting by Ant Carver, live at GFW)

During the Friday night briefing before GFW, my manager mentioned Erin O'Connor. The name found itself scribbled down in my trusty, yet difficult, notepad (always listen to the flatmate when they tell you to pick the practical one, not the pretty one) with 'google her' written right next to it. The name felt familiar but, with so many things to remember and to think about, my mind was already working overdrive. My knowledge of models unfortunately wasn't a priority. So I googled her. Erin O'Connor; British model and writer and television personality and everything in between. Oh, that Erin O'Connor? Erin O'Connor the icon. Cue the freaking out.

As it turns out, not too many people my age recognise the name either. (That's not to say they don't know who she is.) When I mentioned to my flatmates that I'd be attending a conversation between her and Hilary Alexander I received only a few nods with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The same lack of enthusiasm they threw at me when I excitedly shoved my phone towards them because she'd favourited one of my tweets. (The only thing they truly get excited about these days is pizza so I don't feel too offended.)

I am officially in love with @Erin_O_Connor! Witty, brilliant and has eyebrows to die for, I could listen to her for days! #gfw2015

— Alexandra Craft (@AlexandraSaidSo) June 2, 2015

Thank you for coming Alexandra! :) https://t.co/Q0ZO7p3oUq

— Erin O'Connor (@Erin_O_Connor) June 2, 2015

I'll pick up that name I just dropped.

____

Erin's eyes rolled within seconds of the dreaded 'who are you wearing?' Hilary called it 'The Forensic Investigation' but without the red carpet beneath them the question felt irrelevant and trivial. However, curiosity quelled, she was wearing a mixture of Dior, Topshop and Marc Jacobs. Obviously. (As a poor student of a size that none of the brands will ever stock, it was nice to know my wardrobe housed two of those brands regardless. I own two thirds of a model's outfit, darlin'.)

(Photo Credit: @rosemarypitts www.gfw.org.uk/blog)

Erin quickly urged the conversation into new, more appropriate territory; the start of her career. There was something endlessly comforting in her beginning. After being scouted at The Clothes Show in the 90s, she moved to 'the big smog' that is London. The agency only paid her £40 a week and she used over half to travel to jobs, leaving her eating tinned beans for the most part. I now feel much less horrific and much more fab eating beans from the tin. The times in university I spent wondering if this is the rest of my life can now be defined as my beginning too -danke Erin!

With the high-street championing the return of all things 90s recently, chokers and all that jazz, it was interesting to hear an account of actually living through it. (Fully aware I lived through the 90s as well, but a six year old's account of their dungarees is much less interesting, I promise.) Despite the alternative grunge trends that have transcended the decade, the 90s was much more about achieving 'perfection' or what the fashion industry deemed perfect. That was what allowed her to start out, not being the idea of perfection, being the tall lanky girl with the room-commanding nose. 'I guess I was accidentally anarchic' she said. Joking that she 'had the undercut before undercuts were cool.' So, to all those rocking the 90s throwback, you have this woman to look up to.

(Photo Credit: Stefania Porcu www.gfw.org.uk)

Self-Acceptance was, and still is, a big part of her journey, Erin confessed. The nose that makes her instantly recognisable was something she so desperately wanted rid of as a teenager. The nose would command the room and she admitted it was something she wasn't ready for. 'I wasn't ready to be powerful and dominant.'

Erin thanked all the haters who pushed her to be defiant about her nose. She 'wasn't going to change because someone was uncomfortable.' It was the criticism she faced that forced her to realise it. Self-acceptance isn't easy and definitely isn't definite and Erin knows this all too well. The supermodel, who had spent her life relying on her body, felt challenged by the changes that came with pregnancy. However, her baby boy gave her the chance to view life differently, from a new perspective and she soon learnt to love her body in a new way.

The crowd and I fell in love with Erin as she spoke about openly and candidly about motherhood, her favourite designers to work with and gave advice on getting into the fashion industry and making sure you bloomin' well stay there. All these things I will eventually divulge with you, darling reader, but for now I must go and feebly attempt to braid my hair like Erin, because she's my new idol.

Fashion Hangover

Once upon a time I blagged my way through a textiles course. After so many tears, one horrific pink dress and a semi-decent grade I turned my back on the fashion industry. It clearly wasn't for me. Five years and thousands of outfits later, I returned to the scene to write about Graduate Fashion Week and somehow found myself a sense of purpose. Pats self on the back.

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I'm writing to you in yesterday's make up, slumped and surrounded by ice-cream wrappers. It very much looks like like I'm nursing heart-break and I guess I am. When the opportunity to freelance for GFW came about I didn't think much of it. We joked that it would probably be a few proud mums pouring jugs of squash in a community hall, talking about their 'baby's first collection.' I was unemployed, broke and bloody bored (and still am, for the most part) and it was a writing job that looked interesting. Now, ready to sing All By Myself into an empty bottle of wine, I'm gutted it's over. What went down at #GFW2015 was completely unexpected and completely brilliant.

I didn't really sleep too much or ever properly wake up and I guess I accidentally dieted on fake chocolate bars and tiny salads. My brain is still trying to think of new ways to say 'collection' or 'designer' without sounding repetitive. Everything aches and I can't really function or articulate or look at a sentence without wondering if I've actually spelt the words right or put them in the right order or whether I should just delete it altogether. I'm exhausted -but I loved it. I loved every frantic and fabulous moment.

Right now, I'm finding it rather difficult to make sense, so I'll leave you with this rambling introduction and an entirely vague promise that I'll post more about it all. My notepad is filled with scribbles from all the shows and interviews I managed to attend so I think I can offer up a unique perspective of the fashion outsider, inside. Maybe. Probably not. But I'll write it anyway.

Have a picture of the media team, more than a little tired and drunk. Come back soon, because I said so.

@CnnrYng / @rosemary_pitts / @odabeide / @DarcieTF / @fifinicholls / @lilybethgee / @pjoebe