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| Talk,
Justin Harries,
10 January 1999 | |
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A certain strain of the species Homo Sapien exists called townies. This particular stain survives on a diet of Caffe latte, Thai cuisine and carbon monoxide. They move with the times, expect high performance and like to see computer simulations of hair cleansing products. A townie likes to be connected in a constant network of hubbub and chitter chatter, and can be found herding around the font of all knowledge, the magazine counter at WH Smiths. Do not expose these people to the ravages of nature outside of the city for, as sunlight is to a vampire, like water to a mogwi, the countryside is to a townie.
I’ve always enjoyed life as a townie, especially the knowledge that a good Mocha is only around the corner, and so have always easily resisted the lure of the weekend music festival, preferring not to get involved with what usually looks like a WWI re-enactment society. And so when my good friend suggested we should attend The Big Chill, an outdoor music festival spanning three days, I quailed. "But this is different" he claimed, "not about the mindless milling of virgins looking for a deflowering – you’ll see".
I agreed to go, the Big Chill certainly had good credentials, and when enquires were made about previous festivals, the results were enthusiastic and encouraging. Still, I was a little recitient – creature comforts were calling. Would I survive – out there in the muddy cold, without a TV guide to chart my evening’s course?
Dark skies churned as we approached the site. The rain waited until we entered, attacking with extreme prejudice. Yet, as I wondered the Enchanted Garden, getting right roallye pissed on, things didn’t seem so bad. In fact I began to realise how misguided my attitudes toward the festival had been, and how previously I had blinkered myself to such experiences by choosing the easy option of safety and comfort. Yes I was wet, and strangely satisfied. Now I was free to enjoy myself.
The big chill turned out to be one of the softest, yet most affecting kicks in the ass that I have ever received. The rarefied atmosphere cultivated by the promoters pervaded throughout the weekend, aided by an understated music policy that merged Arvo Part with Squarepusher. The siczofrenic nature of the English weather system meant we were also treated to joyous sunshine, revealing the curious splendour of the Enchanted Garden. If all this sounds like it teetered on twee, well it did, but it always fell on the side of grace and good intent...Mud, rain, like the days drifted by
. I soon fell into a reverie broken occasionally by blasts of Albert Ayler. As I lay on the grass listening to a fellow reveal that human genetic code was being altered to resist alien pysic influence, memories of a past life surfaced briefly in my mind. I was rushing from place to place, an urgent engagement had to be fulfilled, but what had been so important? Coffee Republic in Chiswick? New mags at Smokemart? Free Star Wars toys in KFC? Sweet FA?
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