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| One year on, and back at the Big Chill |
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| Talk,
Justin Harries,
19 January 1999 | |
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We made it! Foocha!'s out of the zeros. What have I learnt in this year of publishing? Namely how out of touch with the current music scene I am. OK, I reached the oh so mature age of thirty this year, so no more rucking with the indie kids in the mosh pit no more all night gurning with the E heads. I suppose you invent your own trajectory as you grow older, the pick and mix bin of history's residue, rather than who or whatever Melody Maker is pushing today. Harsh words, and more than a little condescending. I would have despised the writer of such words ten years ago, but what's the alternative? Coldplay? Anyway, why should I feel sanctimonious? Many of todays musical artists are groping around in that very same bin. Here we go, ready for that fuzzy dissolve affect?
It was a year today I wrote my first column, on that remarkable outdoor
event The Big Chill, and guess what? A journalists dream, the cosy symmetry of the year passed and marked.
It's quite fortunate that The Big Chill coincides with Foocha!'s anniversary , a handy factor in the world of the witless. This year saw the largest
attendance, doubling the amount previous. This meant that a little more herd active, but a great upgrading of catering amenities. Bizarrely this year saw the introduction of the Neuros, The Big Chills own currency, which ended up a proverbial pain in the ass, as most of the food and coffee (which 'twas truly great) vendors took Earth cash. All in all only the sourest of sour would have grapes about this event, the rarefied, low-key atmosphere prevailing once again. And hurrah for the English weather - for once no Glastonbury mudslicks here. Music generally veered toward the chin scratching jazz-fusion end, Metzaphota with beeps a few years down the line. Nija boy Amon Tobin shock the house and apparently Hexstatic were beguiling once again. Ultimately The Big Chill not focused on the acts, a good thing really, as many of the audience would have difficulty focusing at all. Alternate title: the big mong.
The success of the Festival is obvious, so it sure looks likely to be a mainstay of the British music scene. Earlier on I remarked on the cosy symmetry of the timing of the event. Well how's this for a bit of glib journalism - the Chill also reflects where my musical head is at present.
Not quite in the mezzaphoty zone quite yet, but certainly mashed beyond time and space. Bit of jazz, a bit of noise, all sorts of nonsense. Not quite "Be Here Now", more "Where? When?"
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