I didn’t sit in a field drinking cider. Lager, tequila rose, and what tasted a lot like 14 tablespoons of chilli powder in some mango juice, sure, I drank that, but not actually cider.
I have (of course) appropriated a lyric from the Leylines song Sat in a Field, a summer circuit banger that in many ways summed up Gig In a Field 7 (GIAF7) for me and my tight band of festival friends. That’s me, Dave, Chris and Dave, back for our second year, but relative festival veterans these days.
Sadly, two of us have tough times acting as a backdrop to this wonderful event. It would be remiss of me to talk about other people’s problems, but my best friend and Dad (same person) is seriously ill. It has rumbled on all summer, and as he would happily say at any other time in his life, ‘winter is coming’. He loves that, June 22nd, he’ll be on the blower telling me the nights are pulling in. Sadly, that is no longer just a literal observation.
I needed this festival. It felt a little cathartic in many ways. Last GIAF was another seminal moment in my life – it came a week or so after being made redundant and once again, going freelance. There is something about this festival, something about the place that seems to sync with me.
Three nights. All with their own stories.
Thursday
Last year, we left late, got to the open mic in time for the last artist and lamented our luck. This year, we were prepped. Chris and I arrived at the field at 1:30 and knew we’d be in good time for the open mic. We had time to set up our camp, this being only my second festival in the van. We survived the biblical rain, got everything done and waited for Dave number one to arrive.
When he did, he informed us there was no open mic, so we weren’t quite as prepped as we believed. Neither Chris nor I had checked, so it was an evening of pleasing ourselves, so to speak. Dave said he’d never played poker. Chris ‘World Series of Poker’ Laming plays almost every week, and I figured I might get a bit of luck. £5 buy-in, just for fun. Shuffle the deck and open another can or three.
It wasn’t much fun for two of us. It cost Chris £10, and me £5. Dave, who had his tent put up for him and his dinner cooked for him as he languidly made his way to the site for dead on 7 pm, then ended up cleaning up. Next year, I shall bring Scrabble, because I know from his WhatsApp messages that Dave can’t spell.
It was quite chilled once the rain subsided. The field wasn’t too busy, the toilets were clean, and there was just a nice chilled vibe. We drank a bit, I smoked a bit, and we chilled, which, given everything going on, hasn’t always been easy.
Friday
I don’t just look forward to the bands, I look forward to the food as well. In fact, this year, I was guilty of looking forward to the food more! On the way to the festival, we’d said we weren’t hugely excited about the lineup – there were more bands and acts we hadn’t seen, and therefore, there was a bit of ambiguity. Sure, I like Samantics, but the boys hadn’t seen him before, same with Skinny Lister. We do love Nick Parker, but it was up to most of the acts to make an impression, rather than us embracing them. God, that sounds so arrogant, but I know what I mean.
No impression was needed by Wallace and Dough, though. I was all over their Spice to Meat You pizza long before I should have been having the day’s second meal. I said it at Ey Up and I’ll say it again – one of the highlights of my weekend.
It didn’t take long for some of the acts I hadn’t seen to start making me realise this was a strong lineup. The Resurrectionists, fronted by Georgina with a truly outstanding voice, cut through the afternoon humidity like a vapour trail of cool air. The early afternoon sets are sometimes tough to get right, and they had a lovely balance of good songs and a chilled vibe.
There isn’t a lot that’s overly chilled about Tony ‘here’s a true story I made up myself’ Wright. To see a legend of the nineties happily filling a 2 pm afternoon slot with something other than a simple rehashing of past glories is refreshing, and while hundreds of thousands of people pay hundreds and thousands of pounds to watch just that at Wembley, Cardiff and Heaton Park, somehow I felt like the lucky one as he joked his way through his recent stuff (althoguh we did get a cheeky Terrorvision cover in there).
Then, a snooker ball in a sock. A concrete slab dropped from a motorway overpass. A wasp sting to the inside of your mouth – Liam Vincent and the Odd Foxes.
To give you context, the three of us (by this point, four as the erstwhile second Dave had arrived) take our cool boxes full of beer and our chairs to the arena, and sit within view of the stage. If there is a band we want to see, we get up and stand to watch. Some bands make us get up during their set, and they’re the ones that are unknown (to us) on the running order, but who make a real impression with their opening tracks.
LVOF did that. I’m a sucker for a fiddle/violin paired with a guitar, drums and good song writing, and so the band were at an advantage simply by walking on. They struck up, and very quickly, Dave and I got up. I suppose it’s a bit like an endorsement as such, acknowledging when a new band lands in your ears and gets the approval.
However, halfway through the set, I was sitting down. That wasn’t a diss to the band, but they played a song called Time To Go Home, written by Liam after he lost his mother to a stroke. It didn’t just resonate, it loosened a tap that I’ve kept tightly shut all summer. Not a tear has passed my eye, I refuse to grieve for someone who is still very much with us, and yet that song turned the tap harder and more suddenly than anything before.
Once again, GIAF had provided something that I really needed – I just didn’t think it would be quite so emotional.
After some more excellent food (sausage, chips and curry sauce, thanks for asking), we settled down for the evening. Samantics caught the eye once again – he did it for me at Ey Up, and I’ve been telling a couple of the lads he was well worth a watch. Seeing as they were still humming Pop Song as we packed up on Sunday, I think it is fair to say he made an impression. What I have to say about him is that much of the beauty of his music is the personality. His songs are good, you can listen and think ‘this is good’, but when he is on stage, it feels like the best fucking gig you’ve ever been to, and that’s because it’s delivered with such passion and energy.
Pet Needs were Pet Needs, lively, nice guys and with more songs than I realised I liked. I often put Spotify on random shuffle and select one of my favourite bands, such as the Bar Stool Preachers. It plays two of your songs and then something random, and it appears ‘something random’ is often Pet Needs (yes, Chris, I know that’s the fourth time you’ve heard that now). They’re catchy, tight on their instruments and have a couple of songs you could term as anthems.
After the music finished, we stumbled back to the tent with new friends Paul and Tor, and drank. Tor gave me the bowl of mango chilli drink, which immediately fired up my heartburn. The drink kept repeating and, when it did, it felt like the devil was trying to claw his way back up my throat using fire and sandpaper. It says ‘ready to drink’ on the label. It’s only accurate in that paint, petrol, and bleach are also ready to drink.
Gaviscon at the ready, we called it a night not long after one.
Saturday
Up early, toilet visited (clean, but sadly blocked by one of the very, very few inconsiderate people at GIAF), tea brewed, and we were ready. Dave shouted breakfast for us from the tent (Dave one, as expected, Dave two emerged at around 11 am, looking very much like he’d been hibernating for a year).
In terms of bands, the big names were being rolled out mid-afternoon, but once again, we got to the field in time for the opener. Dave dragged his inflatable sofa down, which provided plenty of laughs after he fell asleep on it, then tumbled over.
I was hesitant about drinking (cracked open a Pepsi Max at first), not knowing whether I might have to shoot off, so I had the pleasure of listening to Brad Dear and the March relatively sober. I hadn’t drunk that much before the excellent Matt Johnson came on, but it was as I was tucking into a steak and chip combo, which really ticked some boxes. With sunglasses on, a couple of beers and sun tan lotion running down my forehead and into my eyes.
That is why a while later, when chatting to a guy at the urinals (as you do), I made a bit of a tit of myself. We chatted about Plymouth and him being in the navy, to which I asked what he did now, straight out of my ‘talking to strangers’ playbook. ‘I sing,’ he said, and motioned towards the stage. It seems I need some better prescription sunglasses, although I’m told Matt did have a chuckle about it after. Me? Not so much, one of those little anxiety triggers that every so often reminds me I’m bad in social situations.
All was quickly forgotten as one of my favourite surprises of the weekend came on: Darwin’s Rejects. I’ve seen them before, but for some reason, their set landed with me this weekend more than ever. I love the poignant message in Gone, and of course highly political undertones of Send Them Back (to Where?). Keep politics in music, that’s what I always say.
They flowed into Leylines, a band Chris and Dave have both championed. We all got up for their set, and they felt a lot like a headline act. Again, lots of songs I’d heard in the background as I beaver away on the keyboard all day, but with an absolute banger that summed up the weekend. I was standing in a field having festival fun, drinking beer branded as Spanish but brewed in Burton in the sun.
It’s the message that is important, not the specifics.
After that, Nick Parker did Nick Parker things, but for Living Again, I quietly sat down. Perhaps it is a message a little more prophetic and cautionary for me, rather than having immediate, direct relevance, but after LVOF had unlocked my repressed emotions, I wasn’t taking any risks at all.
Those three bands, one after the other, felt like a crescendo busting into a finish, with Nick’s sing-along tracks now feeling as familiar to me as albums such as And Out Come The Wolves or Dookie, which have been around my whole life.
By this time, the beer had flowed plenty, and as Square Wild arrived, I went forward a little unsteady on my legs. Square Wild are very different to anything else the weekend offered. A prog-rock, alt-rock sound mixed with a little metal, maybe? It’s hard to pin them down, and while they didn’t appeal to Dave and Chris, Dave and I got up. I’ve followed them and lead singer Lucy on Instagram since last GIAF, and looked forward to their set. Lucy’s performances are always high energy, bursting with something I’ve never quite put my finger on, but something I like in a dark, prog-rock kinda way.
It was a lively hour, and they’re clearly very talented musicians who make a LOT of noise. I made a vow to try and get a selfie with Lucy afterwards, like I’m 16 and not 46. That was something I eventually bottled out of, for fear of looking like a fan boy. At least I’d recognise her, though, right Matt?
After, I felt so at ease, as if the onset of night brought everyone together. Between Square Wild and the headline act, the four of us seemed to go our separate ways and end up talking to different people. I recall a John (I think) with a snake inked around his back and over his shoulder. I spoke to a Roger (I think) who I seem to recall believed Chris had written up last year’s gig. I might be merging people into one because (big honesty shout) I was really drunk at this point. Not drunk enough to stumble up to Lucy Shevchuk after the gig and ask for a selfie, but drunk enough to fall from Dave’s chair myself.
Headliners Skinny Lister felt big time. All the bands we’d seen were good, but Skinny Lister felt like a major headline act. It helps that it’s dark, that the lights make a difference and that most people are either standing up and dancing or gone by that point. The beer flowed, and all throughout the set the five us us (we’d now been joined by Paul, Tor long since retired) danced our way through the night. We even stayed in the arena afterwards, drinking and wishing that this was Ey Up and we’d have at least one more night.
Sunday
“But you went home on Sunday, Gary, what can you write about?”
Good question. Well, Sunday was the first time I saw a toilet that I couldn’t use, which isn’t bad going at all (and the others were still good). Sunday was a time to compare notes on bands and pick our favourites. The lads raved about Samantics, Leylines and Skinny Lister. I agreed, great acts, but Liam Vincent and the Odd Foxes could be added to that list for me, and Darwin’s Rejects. Who would have thought that, eventually, the lineup was bloody great?
As we packed up, we tried to work out how it was possible to get 500 people into a field and there be no idiots. I can sit with a friend group of six, and at least one will usually be a dick, but at GIAF, there wasn’t one I thought behaved out of place. Sadly, there were a couple of piles of dog poo about on Sunday morning, which is disrespectful, but I guess if you’re hammered in the dark, you might miss that. There isn’t an excuse for dropping socks or pants down the portaloo, though, and hopefully, that was a one-off, rather than the start of covert idiots infiltrating one of the best small festivals on the circuit.
The drive from Wroot back to Louth was like a passage from utopia, back to reality. The dark days that have been looming large like a storm cloud are making their way up the path, ready to knock on my door. However, I know that we’ll get through them. I won’t be able to write a song about the experience, but this weekend demonstrated enough people have been there, and come through the other side, and can sing about it, to know we can all persevere.
Perhaps you can do it at GIAF next year. Just don’t bother bringing that awful chilli mango water thing. Some things you really can say ‘never again’ to.