Festival Frolics: Sunday, Camp Bestival 2012.

Allow us to cogitate on the era-wearied inquisition as to the ideal dinner party conglomeration of celebrities of various lists a minute, if you will. We'd be fretting and pouring profuse sweat into letters addressed to Albarn, Annie Clark, Sharon Van Etten, brothers Mothersbaugh and Charlotte Gainsbourg I should suspect but were we mulling over some twisted yet truly stimulating breakfast date to prelude another well-nigh perfect day in the sun? Well, a brain-scoff 'til bloated with Henry Rollins would surely be right up there...
Reciting quasi-motivational recounts of perspiring preachers, meditating upon his questionable acting credentials and frequently slamming the Walmart (I'm led to suppose our allegorical croissants shan't be supplied by Asda) if he may occasionally sound an embittered and outta breath Scientologist exalting the incomparable powers of the human species then it makes for a pretty empowering morn overall. A cognitive banquet from an unexpectedly erudite reformed punk idol, I'd quite happily have him round for breakfast, lunch and dinner all year round.
Still far from fully recuperated from the spinal injury sustained somehow hapless; somewhere in London; sometime last year Salford's Ren Harvieu emerges crutched yet, crucially, unaided. Snapping back to actuality following on from what could quite feasibly have concluded her onstage career, her therefore unsurprisingly ashen soul is as motley in quality as her juvenescent fixation of Disney soundtracking. Walking In The Rain, a direct descendent of ABBA's Dancing Queen, could surely only have been penned by the fair hand of a Scandi popster (that much of the d├ębut, Through the Night, was scribed by The Stands' Howie Payne therefore dissatisfies somewhat) whilst the sultry stomp to Tonight has the acutely painful stiletto prints of Duffy, Adele, Amy, even Bassey etc. trampled into its smoothened grooves. There's some cinematic grandiosity projected onto soaring recent single Open Up Your Arms although live she's found a little lacking in histrionics to accompany such premeditated dramaturgy. Vocally though she's flawless and the standout twilit jazzbar bawling of Through the Night exhibits this as well as any. Musically, therefore, Island should surely splash out on an orchestra for her to front. For that's what's requisite if she's ever to shine fully as though one of Walt's starry-eyed protagonists.

Worn down and out throughout the days and nights of the weekend and ergo in no fit state to fully appreciate the multitudinous achievements of Mr. Rolf Harris and his sodding wobble board, the time to skedaddle homeward and away from this lovably rococo wonderland chimes. Undoubtedly it's now time too to expel the Best Family Festival epithet. For with the passing of each and every year, Camp Bestival edges ever closer to perfection and whilst adversaries falter economically; organisationally; hopelessly you sense Rob and Josie have enough plans and pioneering strategies in the brain bank to perpetuate these unspeakably Good Times for decades to come. All it's cracked up to be and immeasurable amounts beyond, is and was this one.