Saturday dawns in aptly spectacular fashion, as a trail of bloodshot eyes tumble towards the heart of a hammock-infested forest to bask in the mangled, mashed, and finely ground anecdotes of
Howard Marks. Billed to unleash a dubstep DJ set, it transpires he's frequenting his seventh of the eight Bestival editions thus far to talk shit. Quite literally, as he opts to inform the congregated cross-legged multitude of the many reasons for which "turds" can be considered the currency of infantility,
his target audience earlier on in the summer when he put his own marijuana-perfumed slant on children's classics at Camp Bestival. Today he's vocally freed from the shackles of parental disdain and disgust, as he regales us with tales of sex toys, drugs, and rock'n'roll, before fielding questions on the whereabouts of crazed Provisional IRA man and fellow drug trafficker James McCann, Jagger's hedonistic habits, getting "baked" on Nevermind the Buzzcocks, and his favourite worldly places that his feet have trodden. "Wales, for obvious reasons. Pakistan, for obvious reasons. And Jamaica. For equally obvious reasons."
What with
da Bank managing to procure Chic with the added attendance of Nile Rodgers just twelve months ago, drafting in a bunch of disco leviathans worthy of such a succession must have initially appeared a daunting burden. Yet as Saturday transpires, it's one that is shrugged off as the
Village People ignite the disco inferno in the astonishingly mild Isle climes. All present and (barring several line up alterations) correct, YMCA routines are perfected as 'Construction Worker' (aka David Hodo) dons a hardhat fashioned from massacred disco ball to remedy the oft erroneous 'M' action, while the sextet casually undress to a superb Macho Man. Greenwich Village may be missing several idiots on this particular September weekend but Jesus Christ, they're idiots worth ludicrously jiving to for fifty minutes.
It's then the turn of
Paloma Faith. Face plastered in what looks like cheap silverware, despite having become almost as renowned for her burgeoning will they/ won't they/ do they/ don't they rapport with Noel Fielding as for her pastiche soul schtick, the most comedic aspect of her uninspiring set is the farcical, featureless new material that's churned out as if written on her ferry crossing an hour previous to arrival. Equally absurd is the booking that
Crystal Castles are thrown to gnaw on: not only are they booted out onto the Main Stage, a stage that engulfs them like Ethan Kath's face does one of the hairs on his chinny chin chin, but they're scheduled for half six, thus in (an albeit tenebrous) daylight.
So well travelled are the Torontonians that you expect approximately one third of the world's population to have seen Alice Glass writhe atop a drumkit, or hurl herself towards almost certain grope from overeager, hands-on members of the crowds she delights in traipsing atop, and this early evening is no different. However differentiation from the norms of their unorthodox corporeal onslaught stems from the lack of strobe, the dubious vocal delivery of Celestica, and certain shards of sound getting caught in the speakers. Granted, through the titanic strings of stack the duo still sound like a spasming Gameboy choking on awry wiring, although so much is lost that any intensity is regrettably diluted and accordingly the forlorn, trashy electro caterwaul of closer Not In Love drains any superlative, leaving the dregs of the superfluous.
As twilight rolls up and over the hills,
PJ Harvey emerges to minimal fanfare to deliver an hour of typically deft solemnity in the wake of her Mercurial triumph. Always somewhat symbiotic in personality and back catalogue, while her jet-black avifaunal headdress flitters towards the here and now, her black drainpipes kick towards a grittier past and this sense of schizophrenia is reflected in her elected setlist: the sultry off-kilter country twang of Angelene sits beside the splayed drumstick shimmy of The Words That Maketh Murder, the lo-fi Pocket Knife rumbles alongside a tumultuous Big Exit. Dear Darkness, lifted from the wondrously downcast White Chalk is majestically unlocked as if previously entrapped behind the porcelain bust of a Victorian pendant, while closer Meet Ze Monsta has Harvey bearing great resemblance to a bona fide festival headliner. As has now become all but customary, she's segregated from her tripartite backing band, stranded stage-right throughout while John Parish's resonator guitar sheen polishes Written On The Forehead from her right, the track's reggae tinges tailoring it to Bestival's musical brief. Furthermore as the preceding pair suffer from an unbecoming billing, as mud softens underfoot the potency ingrained in Let England Shake material that is tonight prominent is appreciably enhanced, The Glorious Land and of course On Battleship Hill entrenched in a devastatingly morose, martial context. We're thanked "for listening", although it obviously goes without saying that there was,
once again, exceeding joy in the act.
And so on to Saturday night headliners,
The Cure. Allegedly teased back from the brink of gigging retirement, the abyss that only a scepticism-stirring reunion can fish bands from especially for this very show, their two and a half hour stint is littered with hits yet the deadwood amidst the likes of Just Like Heaven, Friday I'm In Love, and A Forest smokes and steams without ever quite igniting. As a Reading FC flag blusters in the nightfall breeze onstage, flinching to the relentlessly choral chimes of Robert Smith's Schecter, their set initially smoulders with the urgency of Arsenal's early season, as Plainsong, Open, and Fascination Street fail to captivate beneath the fullest of moons. Original keyboardist Roger O'Donnell returns and enlivens the bass-led cavort of Close To Me that follows the first airing of The Caterpillar in yonks, although Smith's comrade in six string songsmithery, Porl Thompson, is dismayingly absent. Although Smith is long since the last relic of the band's original formation, and effectively embodies the genetic makeup of the band itself, Thompson's absenteeism subtracts a dimension from the sound of the reshuffled quartet and an air of aimlessness is assimilated by some point around the hour mark. When they finally delve into a playful rendition of the yowling The Lovecats, gaps the size of Jason Cooper's drum riser have unfurled amidst the rapidly dwindling assembly. Whether tens, hundreds, or thousands survived through to Killing An Arab remains uncertain, although
Tom Vek attracts barely a few hundred to the belly of the Psychedelic Worm with his quirky geek chic songwriting tactics. He's far from the paragon of flair in his office garb, although C-C (You Set The Fire In Me) rekindles some vague fondness, even if more recent work (the sensational and spunky, funk-fuelled A Chore aside) sounds distressingly reminiscent of Friendly Fires.
Primal Scream dragged parents and guardians back into the haze of former glory at Camp Bestival with their still-exceptional revisitation of 1991's Screamadelica, and here in the Big Top, with many a dilated pupil a-rollin' they rip through a facsimile of that very setlist. If
Camp Bestival provided an education for the uninitiated, consider their Bestival show revision for the inebriated: kickstarting proceedings with Movin' On Up, the decibel level has been significantly lifted and with many of the congregation unable to stand on their own two feet for more than two tracks, the company's as appropriate as their hypnotic visuals are ecstatic. Higher Than The Sun seems to drag on for longer than any of those desperately underwhelming solar eclipses you'd dare to mention, while I'm Comin' Down succinctly summarises the feelings of many in a little over five minutes. However it's the sliding guitars and perennial sampling of Roger Corman's The Wild Angels that piece together Loaded and a gigantic, quasi-revelational Come Together that render this particular set one of the weekend's crowning moments. Although not all-conquering at the Mercurys,
Metronomy ramify their understated excellence in a Psychedelic Worm crammed to the point of rupture. They're barely visible throughout as necks outstretch above the throng and toes serve as soles for the most part of their rapturous forty-five. The English Riviera flows into the thrumming bass and quirked out synths of Love Underlined, before the R'n'B sensuality of Heartbreaker, the disquieting Corinne, and the fidgety Holiday follow. Joe Mount does his best impression of that klaxon that introduces nigh on every Top 40 destroyer in every non-song silence, blurting "Bestival!" repeatedly and somewhat repetitively as people, somewhat predictably, lose it. Argy-bargy ensues for the duration, threatening the loss of a limb or two, and never is this more literal than during The Look, a pop hit so impeccable it's a modern wonder a reticent, bewhiskered boy from Devon had it in him. Tonight the quartet are glorious enough to have every attendee pining to be whisked away to Mount's remote corner of the South West, and it's a stunning way to gesticulate farewells to Saturday eve.
