W/I Callum Crawford
Shambala Festival, Friday 8:00pm
Turning off a dual carriageway somewhere in the sprawling middle England countryside of Northamptonshire I hesitantly asked the lone security guard for the way to press/production parking for Shambala festival. Hesitantly, because for years I have built up a picture of Shambala festival in my mind based on second-hand reports and fleeting Instagram stories of glitter-drenched friends wielding glow sticks and fairy wands.
My usual attire of plain black everything, far from helping me blend into the shadows, would surely make me stand out like a sore thumb, I thought as I walked towards the arena feeling very much like I was gatecrashing the house party of the neighbours you haven’t spoken to.
Finding sanctuary in the familiar surroundings of the main stage photo pit, I awaited the arrival of Friday’s headliners Fat Dog. A quick glance down the barrier reveals 4 humanoid dogs, a frog and an illuminated Christmas tree, so I pull up my camera and everyone joyfully smiles back without a hint of being too cool for school. 3 songs of Fat Dog energy and chaos done, I slink through the barrier and out into the crowd to properly come face to face with the festival.
A few wide-eyed loops around the main arena, it becomes increasingly clear that the real attraction at Shambala is the crowd. Light up dinner suits, neon umbrellas and countless pull-along wagons adorned in fairy lights and flags housing dozing children who must have thought they had been dragged inside a Roald Dahl book.
Almost everyone in attendance has made a visual effort of some kind, but far from being try-hard or overbearingly wacky, as I had for so long assumed, this was the identity of the festival as much as the artists were - and everyone bought into it.
As midnight closed in, I approached the 200m long queue leading towards an unassuming archway located between a couple of food trucks and a rickety Ferris wheel. Shamefully flashing my AAA wristband, I apologetically skipped straight past the queue and into ‘The Enchanted Woods’. A warren of illuminated streams, paths and woodland clearings soundtracked by treetop DJs puppeteering the arboreal ravers, this was where Shambala fully hooked me in. I found myself a spot at the base of a tree and watched on as the gathering mass of Shambalians (might have made that up) raved on.
A slow Saturday morning allowed chance to explore Shambala’s further reaches by way of healing fields full of massage tents and a meandering market of craft workshops (who knew Cuttlefish silver casting was a thing?). Eventually I settled down with an ice cream by the lake and watched as the second round of the Shambolympics began. This was a regular feature of the weekend I had been assured not to miss as teams of assorted festival goers battle it out in a series of sports day style challenges. Think Taskmaster on mushrooms. Any hints of the fancy dressed participants venturing too far into smug self satisfaction were reassuringly brought into check with savage quick witted scorn by the hilarious MC’s/ringmasters Kevin Davidson, Robin Clyfan & Jackson Schweir.
By mid afternoon, it was time for me to leave the utopian surroundings of Shambala to make way across Northamptonshire to link up with Grandma’s House at somewhere called Greenbelt Festival. Not before being pulled into one last tent by the sounds of Rozsa emanating from it. Solitary on stage with nothing but a drum machine and a harp slung across her shoulder, her night bus beats and seductive vocals were the perfect soundtrack to get my brain working after 3 hours of sleep and on my way.
Greenbelt Festival, 4pm Saturday
A 15-minute drive along the A43 brought me to Greenbelt Festival. Established in the early 70’s as a place for people to get together to talk about God in a field, once again I was feeling pretty trepidatious as I arrived. Successfully repressed memories of pushy vicars preaching to a mass of bored year 7s and Mrs Hyde whipping out her acoustic guitar in year 3 to sing about the joys of Jesus vs the corruption of the devil flickered back into life as I wandered into Greenbelt. Weaving through the echoes of panellists discussing the sanctuary of fellow believers, I quickly found my own sanctuary away from the well-meaning God squad at the ‘Rebel Rouser’ stage, tucked safely away in a far corner of the festival site.
In amongst the bucolic woodland canopy, this stage had beds scattered around the trees and mirror balls swaying from the branches, so I set up shop (lay on a bed) and watched as a superbly crafted bill of various melodic weirdos made a racket. Special mention to Steebee, who, as well as performing an unforgettably brilliant 30 minutes of disconcertingly daft art punk, was also in charge of curating the stage’s goings on. The headliners of which, Grandma’s House, did not disappoint my irrationally high expectations.
Anyone who has spent more than a minute in my company over the past six months will have heard me banging on about how great Grandma’s House are, and this set was cemented in my calendar since the spring. To be side of stage as dual vocalists, Yasmin Berndt (Guitar) and Poppy Dodgson (Drums) broodingly vociferated over the relentlessly satisfying bass lines of Zoë Zinsmeister and the unholy guitar pummelling of Polly Jessett during personal set highlight ‘Body’ was a thrill. Those memories of Mrs Hyde and her purple-headed mountains had been firmly reburied by these Bristolian necromancers.
A midnight set of hauntingly serene Irish folk from 4 Irish brothers called The Wran was the perfect lullaby before I headed off for my second night of car camping
Leeds Festival, 11am Sunday
A 3-hour drive straight up the A1 listening to Grandma’s House on repeat, I arrived at Bramham Park for my third and final festival of the bank holiday weekend, Leeds Festival. By now, I was starting to grow accustomed to exploring and comparing the various backstage catering facilities on offer, and the lush, chandeliered environs tucked away behind the Leeds fest main stage were up there. Queueing behind a couple of weary American elders in baseball caps, I awaited my mission-critical Nespresso. 3 days of questionable sleep and an exceptional step count were starting to weigh heavily as I ventured out into the nostalgic surroundings of the Leeds fest arena.
The last time I walked these fields, I was gleefully holding one of the members of Arcade Fire aloft in the NME tent, high on a cocktail of poppers and early morning Special Brew. This time, I was ambling straight for the main stage, coffee in hand, to see Lambrini Girls and their various circle pits of rage. They didn’t disappoint. Even after a full year of non-stop touring, the understandable fatigues of a life on the road were left backstage, and they whipped the midday crowd into a savagely righteous fury. They are unmissable at the moment.
By late afternoon, after successfully dodging one outpouring of vomit into a paper recycling bin and my valiant earplugs heroically defending against a sonic battering from Example, word was coming through that my trip back up north was in vain. The Pill, the band I was here to shoot, had mechanical issues with their van and, as if things couldn’t get any worse, were stranded in Doncaster. With no hope of rescue for at least 2 hours, they had to pull their set and wait to be delivered back to the Isle of Wight.
Through a fog of sleep deprivation and malnutrition, I lay down one last time in front of the main stage and watched on in a state of bewilderment as those weary, baseball-capped, American guys from breakfast appeared on stage. ‘Fucking hell, I had breakfast next to Fred Durst, ’ I thought as I picked myself up and headed for my car, wishing I was back in the woods at Shambala.
