A wide-eyed wander from one peripheral extreme of the festival to the other takes in as many eateries as boasted by the eternally overcrowded and unfulfilling Camden Market (including a marquee the size of approximately five badminton courts put on by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall), besides Sly and Reggie and the Middle Class Soundsystem, who deliver bass-less dub from the back of a clapped-out old Morris Minor. A ghetto blaster-based march then snakes through the festival, as placards calling for everything from the proscription of IVF to the necessity for more hamster wheels in the world are hoisted high.
(Re)Reformed Two Tone stalwarts
The Selecter then fill the Castle Field with their frenetic ska hybrids including the umpteenth Wino tribute in their dislocated Back To Black interpretation, before wheeling out a highly dubious take on the James Bond theme that features endless, unjustified references to "Tequila!" Quite bizarre, although few notice these moments, nor the excellent chord progressions of Out On The Streets Again, as queues for luncheon lacerate the modest gathering from every angle. Up next are
Frankie & The Heartstrings, the Mackem outfit as seemingly inappropriate to this year's line up as the Hog Roast hoarding displaying an unwitting swine reminding us about the crackling is egregiously inhumane. There's nowt discernible to dislike when it comes to the impeccably coiffured bunch as they cast soulful impressions from pawnshop guitars, and the harmonious jangle of Hunger, lined with wondrous Northeasterly vocal idiosyncrasies is delectable, as are the Blues Boys-ish interludes of Photograph although there's similarly nowt to suggest any imminent promotion from the pack of midafternoon, mid-table indie acts.
Having been well and truly inducted into the upper echelons of the mainstream superleague following a questionable Mercury nomination for debut record On A Mission,
Katy B, or Kathleen Brien to the progenitors, certainly has no qualms with issuing murky, dry ice-friendly teen paeans that skulk solely in the lower nooks and crannies of the mix. The grimy, almost scaly electro churn beneath superlative Benga-produced debut single Katy On A Mission is irrefutably a flaring bastion of modern popular music yet live, backed by all too many band members (including an entirely expendable MC), and with vocals cracking at every falsetto summit, perhaps the small print in the Mission debrief read that Brien is best blared through car/club/cab speakers. If Lights On and Broken Record sound capable of crumbling everything south of the river through said audio orifices, this evening they sound like the distant wafts of the Notting Hill Carnival. Her ability to instigate pandemonium, and her proficiency in entertainment belie her years however, and with a tweak of the mix or a twist more bass the live show could become equivalently impressive. 'Major transport issues' annihilate expectations for a Nero DJ spin, and it's on to multi-faceted, one man entertainment node
Beardyman to get the pubescents breaking out in sweats. However having largely substituted beatboxing and a winsome D.I.Y. aesthetic for nondescript Eurythmics renditions and big bucks visual contortions, the now-barely bewhiskered reverberation warper seems to have hopped off his throne as the 'King of Sound and Ruler of Beats' and landed in a slough of homogeneity. This may of course prevent
the Beeb from ever again airing perhaps their most absurd accolade, which would be a monumental shame for the undiscerning, tax-paying TV junkie.
If Katy B is looking for the inside scoop on potential victory at the lamentably Barclays-endorsed Mercury Prize 2011, she'd be best having a little word in Bobby Gillespie's ear, who not only beat his previous band, but also saw off the likes of U2, Simply Red and Jah Wobble to stumble away with the spoils in 1992. The inaugural award, unsurprisingly (particularly with the benefit of hindsight), went to Screamadelica and it's precisely that venerable record that's to get the once over from Gillespie, Mani et al. tonight with only the instrumental Inner Flight and lackadaisical Shine Like Stars omitted. Rob da Bank booked
Primal Scream for his Camp Bestival baby to chew on in order that once-muddled mums and dads be given the golden, or perhaps tie-dyed opportunity to open the well protected ears of their offspring to its immortal audio, to bathe the youth in the glorious aura of a fuzzy, now-indiscernible, unrecognisable past. Fortunately these days of yore were incarnated in sonic format with the assistance of Windsorian Andrew Weatherall, and from the opening distorted Gibson onslaught of Movin' On Up, stranded in a dazed haze, you're left discarding all you can recall of 2011 and with it all sense of self-consciousness as Gillespie shimmers slinkily in glimmering silver. It's an empowering sensation, and one you envy Gillespie for given his ability to both create and inhabit it nightly for the duration of the now-fading summer. He himself is vocally perturbed by the bewilderment on the faces of the teens in attendance, a look of disfavour smeared across his unique features. You'd have assumed they'd snaffled his stash. He's visibly enamoured however with the tots atop shoulders, whilst a gaggle of rugrats observe from the side of stage. Slip Inside This House then follows, suitably featuring the chorus substitution of 'Slip' for 'Trip', as the Castle Stage backdrop melts and oozes like the innards of a lava lamp seeping out from cruelly transparent ensnarement, whilst the tropical synth washes of Don't Fight It, Feel It have vocalist Mary Pearce sonorously replicating Denise Johnson's sole Screamadelica involvement. Acoustics and lighters are then drawn for Damaged, ahead of a particularly sublime I'm Comin' Down. Such is the tactile beauty of the track you can practically feel post-rave perspiration evaporate off your eyelids. If this is what the world looks and feels like "through bloodshot eyes", you'd take irritated blood vessels over rose-tinted glasses quicker than you can recite Peter Fonda's heated Wild Angels declaration of independence. And just as the preceding Higher Than The Sun drifts into the portentous second part of the clunky Dub Symphony, the half overridden with unharnessed bass threat, Loaded tactfully morphs into I'm Losing More Than I'll Ever Have from the 'Scream's eponymous sophomore record, a record that'd provide an equally euphoric experience were it too dredged up and aired in full. Come Together is expanded out into biblical proportions, somehow seeming to extend on for what feels like the entirety of the New Testament yet it miraculously never begins to drag on. The timeless refrain is then caterwauled back towards the stage myriad times, before they rock and roll through Country Girl, Jailbird and the oh-so-climactic Rocks, high-fiving the minors side of stage as they triumphantly depart, separately, in calculated succession. Stupor-inducing visuals continue, as heads swivel 180ยบ to witness a series of lavish projections that are fired from the sound desk towards the previously unassuming Lulworth Castle, as Camp Bestival 2011 goes out with a very literal bang to accompany the proverbial one cannoned off tonight by the 'Scream.
Just as Screamadelica embodies the sensations and segueing aggravations of an ecstasy-incited romp set to song, it seems the ideal way to conclude a festival that, as with any, is filled with and fuelled by comparable highs, lows, and memory loss. One can but wonder with those remaining braincells as to what Rob da Bank can dig out of the vault for September's main event...
