Post-Glastonbury-Blues

There's glitter on everything I own. My hair still smells a little bit like smoke and/or wee and/or dirt. The tent is poorly folded in a reebok bag, half poking out from the end of the bed. All of these things can only mean that I have made my return from my favourite weekend of the year; Glastonbury.

I'd spent the entirety of the six days away praying for a shower. Not so much a rain shower, although we did manage one of those, but a shower to actually wash away all of the terrible things that had stained onto my skin.

'It's not really a festival if you haven't peed, a bit, on yourself,' my pal said, emerging from the She-Wee tent, her brow well and truly furrowed as she shook her leg like a pissed-off male dog. As it turns out, she wasn't entirely wrong.

As the weekend went on and what once looked like a well preened (and cleaned crowd) had deteriorated into the smell-ridden descendants of Worzel Gummidge, we started to mock and detest those who still had traces of normality about them. Those without a greasy hair bun or mud splatters about their thighs or a general look of distain about their dirty faces. I traipsed back across London during rush hour, in what felt like million degree weather with all of the above; the grease, the mud, the distain. Strangely enough, I wasn't the worst smelling person on the tube. (Congrats London commuters.)

Finally making it home (and more importantly, the sofa) I collapsed and refused to take the shower I had been dreaming of (and frankly, needed) for the past week. I wasn't ready to give up the smell and feel of such an incredible weekend.

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My first weekend highlight comes in the form of two incredible ladies; Just a Couple of Mums. We first caught sight and sound of them on the Thursday. It was frustratingly warm and the group had travelled to what felt like the ends of the earth for a scrap of suncream although we were already at lobster status. Hot, bothered and without alcohol things were going south. Then it happened. Voices, singing from the shadows. The instantly recognisable synth of The Human League being chanted in the distance. We wandered along the dirt pathway into the trees to find a tree house bar absolutely filled to the brim with drunkards at one in the afternoon. Moods were instantly lifted. Any chance of punching the next person to ask to stop for the toilet was gone. Thank you Just a Couple of Mums for stopping what could have been the first Glastonbury heat murder. We pulled out any warm cans of cider we could be bothered to carry, sang wildly, and snap chatted to prove to everyone else that we knew how to have a good time. The weekend had officially started.

After watching Florence do her thing (a highlight in its own right) we stumbled over to the toilets in the dark, slipping down muddy slopes as we did. Planning where we would end up for the rest of the night we heard people singing to Men At Work from behind a line of trees. I complained about trying to get across the ditch, something I would complain about sober but found increasingly difficult drunk and in wellies. My friend Sasha held my hand and pulled me through, entering us back into the world of Just a Couple of Mums. We danced and belted out the best of the 80s, Motown hits and disco classics and discussed how much our parents would be loving this. After a few drunken messages sent to said parents, we considered that the festival with them might not be that fab. (If you think I complain, you should meet my mother.) We reminisced over Abba and peed ourselves laughing at pill-heads being dumb; how all Friday nights should be.

My second weekend highlight comes in the form of something you would never expect to hear at a festival; cheap drinks. What? Alcoholic beverages at a reasonable price at a festival? Unheard of! This discovery came pre-Florence and post-steak-sandwich-and-churros. Deciding it was time to find some mixer for our spirit we stumbled around the Park area and found the Bimble Inn. Our spirits were lifted at the price of spirits and frozen cocktails and prosecco- all things that I love. £3.50 for a glass of bubbly is the most rare, even in day to day life, so the thought of satisfying my Essex needs in a field miles and miles from home made for an excellent spend. Come with a strawberry and everything. Classy lady, me.

You may have noticed that my highlights so far distinctly lacks any of the weekend musical acts and musical highlights there were plenty. Laughing at Kanye being a dick, laughing at Father John Misty being a dick, laughing at people being dicks. We laughed a lot and we rapped a lot too. We also danced in the rain to keep warm. That makes for my best weekend highlight.

It bloody well hammered it down about halfway through Saturday after teasing us with glorious sunshine up until that point. Turned out the macs we had with us were only shower proof and the rain was a pretty bit more than a shower. We were soaked. Sasha paid £10 for an eco poncho that said 'I'm a potato' on the front and contained a pouch of seeds.

'You can plant it and get a cucumber, that's genius!' We all tried to convince her before the seed bag burst under the pressure of the rain and covered her white top in what looked like gravy stains.

We sat in front of our favourite stall, Socks, My Socks, on a bench that we'd spent the past half an hour eyeing up and waiting to become free. The water had seeped into my wellies and created a slushy warm vacuum. (You know in your heart that nothing feels worse than wet socks, don't try and tell me anything different.) Things weren't looking good; the rain kept coming and the alcohol was running low. Then, The Vaccines. In a bid to stay warm I decided to get up and dance, water squelching in my boot as I went. In a moment that, for all intents and purposes, should have been awful, we had the best time, dancing and singing and laughing some more. Thank you Vaccines. It would have been a right shit afternoon otherwise.

So the sun has set on a bloody crackin' weekend away. (Awfully cliche but I have a photo that goes with the metaphor so here we are.) I can confirm that I have now showered and bathed and showered again. Not sure I've managed to get rid of the smell, although I'm not overly in a rush to lose it either.  Every time I get a whiff of all things terrible, I'm reminded of all things amazing. Counting down the days to get all gross again.

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).