Up next is Cocknbullkid. A little less impressionable and altogether less edgy having scrapped the gnarly 80s pop tinge with which she coloured earlier recordings I'm Not Sorry and Clean Apart amongst others, Anita Blay today debuts a whole record's worth of unheard tracks unearthed from the depths of her diva chic tendencies and Beyoncé infatuation. Eponymous theatrics arise from a relatively heaving Rock and Roll tent, as Cocknbullkid seamlessly muscles in with the Alice In Wonderland theme smeared all across the Magic Meadows, with lyrics of size-altering pills and skepticism fired in Blay's direction, although clearing out the back catalogue in favour of nothing old, nothing borrowed, plenty of blue hues and a whole slew of new is a daring, if slightly misjudged call destined to alienate before intrigue. That said, once this debut long player does finally emerge it may well right the wrongs of Alesha Dixon, Alexandra Burke, Leone Lewis and The Saturdays combined, if their stains are in any way machine washable...
Sun incinerating the Sunday sky, it's fairly apt to witness the pristine body wraps jiving about on the Main Stage to the sounds of Chic feat. Nile Rodgers, as Motown shimmying guitars meet the iconic backing vox of an ecstatic Everybody Dance. I Want Your Love and Le Freak segue in a blurred haze of retro glory, Good Times amply soundtracking the Bestival ethos, scrunching it up into a seed before germination flourishes and as instructed, the masses move. Where The Wailers yesterday came across as a withered tribute act, were there any justice in the world Chic would drag out the hits on a Sunday afternoon at every last festival until corporeal impediments prevented such ridiculousness. Equally ridiculous is Conor O'Brien's expansion of his weary Villagers, as cronies are roped in on Rhodes piano and generic feedback duties. Still utterly affecting, O'Brien is unfortunately, undoubtedly at his devastating, heart-tearing greatest stood in solitude with nothing to shield his delicate pieces than an acoustic. Stumbling onstage alone, a solo take on Twenty Seven Strangers provides the highlight before emphasis switches and O'Brien becomes all too safe in his skin, howling unreflectively rather than mumbling sweetly. Becoming A Jackal, The Meaning Of The Ritual and Home of course could never sound anything but sumptuous although in the wake of Mercury snub, O'Brien for the first time this summer seems a little, well, ordinary.
For tonight Fever Ray brings this year's sunnyrainymucky Bestival to a cataclysmic, suffocatingly introspective close, seemingly backed by four chaps in matching Billy Corgan costumes, all of whom shift through a music shop's worth of instruments in an hour of the warmest sterility. Amongst Lightsabers, lasers and lampshades, the subtle intricacies of Seven and I'm Not Done are largely lost on stumblers on last legs, as groans bemoaning a lack of visibility behind a sheet of smog are ubiquitous, although the likes of tribal new cut Mercy Street and the forever-claustrophobic Concrete Walls are as breathtaking as an esophagus full of Swedish glacier. Predictably distant, Dreijer Andersson is concealed within an entirely indiscernible costume, before veiling herself in enough dry ice to chill the Sahara, her voice contorted and distorted beyond recognition. Triangle Walks is as engaging as tonight gets, as a sea of diamonds that presumably once bowed to Kanye West undulate in intoxicated harmony, before an apocalyptic Coconut rounds off the most enlightening hour of the festival season finale, and one that many will now consider one of our greatest. With a line up more ripped with eccentricity than Mr. Motivator's biceps must be with lactic acid following three extensive guest workouts, and a continued cultivation of an ambience parallelable with the likes of Glastonbury and Secret Garden Party, the odd September storm cloud can do little to eclipse a debauched farewell to the summer months that were and will be in eight months time. Just eight months...
