SONCI ROCK SOLSTICE 2010

Just noticed there is to be a psychedelic space rock extravaganza up the road in Builth Wells over the summer solstice. Sonic Rock Solstice includes our old mates Omnia Opera, Litmus, Hawklords, Bridget Wishart and Pre-Med, with loads more already booked and to be confirmed. If you get ya tickets before the end of February they are a snip at £35. At that price you cant afford to not go!

MUD, SWEAT AND ORCHARDS

Nozstock Festival 2009

“You can’t do them all mate”. True, but its scant compensation when you are gagging to go somewhere and for various reasons you cant make it. Then I pick up messages from Flapsandwich (he out of Sick Note), offering me a guest pass for Nozstock festival. Grrrrrrrr…. What shall I do? Cant really go for the weekend, for various reasons.. but this is just to generous an offer to turn down. I ring back and explain I can’t do the whole weekend and perhaps it should go to someone who can but am advised that it is no problem, I should come along anyway.

And so it was, that I find myself driving to Hereford on a wet Saturday afternoon for another festival first… STAYING SOBER AND DRIVING HOME!

Sheep Music festival was not sign posted anywhere, but that was not a problem because it was right next to the town of Prestigine. Nozstock is not sign posted, which is a problem cos it is in the middle of nowhere. I eventually find a road that I think takes me in the right direction and come across a sign that says, “WARNING, FESTIVAL TRAFFIC 400 YARDS AHEAD” which leads me to think I am headed in the right direction.

I pull up to the gate and a steward sticks his head in the window of my car. “I am only here for a few hours so could do with parking somewhere it is easy to get out”, I tell him.

He looks thoughtful and then responds, “There is nowhere easy to get out, you will have to drive down there”.

OK, no problem I think, and clunk the old Iguanamobile in gear and put pedal to the metal. Within seconds I see what he meant. I have just landed in the Somme. All I can see is wellies, mud and tractors.

I look to the right and spot a green space where a car has recently left and it is only a few meters from the gate, but try as I might, I cant get to it, me wheels are well and truly stuck in a tractor wheel rut. I have no option but to drive into the belly of the beast. At the bottom of the hill I can see cars being towed INTO the car park. Memories of Workhouse 2007 flash into my mind and I chuckle to myself.

As I drive down into the site I have to stop for tractors pulling people in the other direction. I look around, spot a little space that has ‘Clint Iguana’s Parking Spot’ written all over it and drive straight into the hedge. “Job Done” I think to myself, grab me wellies and head off in search of wristbands.

Nozstock is a 5,000 capacity event just out side Bromyard, near Hereford. It is a family run event on the grounds of a farm. It has eight stages, a comedy tent, cinema, kids area, bars, market and loads of random art. In the middle of it is the organiser’s house, which you can walk through. Quite a few of the stages are dance orientated and the likes of Andy C and the Scratch Perverts are on this weekend, as well as the Saturday headliners the Buzzcocks. Six of the 8 stages are going to be running legally till 5am on Sunday (grrrr and I am driving home!).

As I walk in through the ‘arena’ gate, I almost bump my head on the spotlights of the main stage. It is smack in front of me and does not have much of an area in front of it for the crowd. It is however sloping, amphitheatre style, so everyone has a good view. It slopes a lot. And with all this mud about I have visions of the entire audience ending up on stage at some point. There are a lot of slopes, in fact there aren’t any flat bits on the site at all. Us valley boys are used to it though.

I text Flapsandwich to arrange to meet and head off for a recky. First I head off to the left, past the Garden Stage, down through a little market area on a slope that would have me falling over in the dry, down into a little wooded dingle and into an area with a with a sound system. I find a PA pumping out beats and loads of people, not so much dancing, but stood around nodding and looking as if they have been there at least 24 hours. It reminds me of a scene from the old free parties in woods. I don’t stop long.

I head back up the hill and stop at the bar by the main stage, spotting a familiar face, not one I would expect to find at a gathering like this. His first words are “Don’t tell anyone you saw me at a hippy gathering like this”. Its Dean Beddis, former front man with the Cowboy Killers and Las Vegas Elvis, currently doing stuff as the Ginger Arsonists. I promise not to tell anybody.

I then head down another hill, past a pond with monsters in, past a bronze flying pig and up to the kids area. I find my old mate Julian who, he informs me, has come in his new caravan. The last time (and only time) he towed a caravan was when he towed my caravan, with a car I had only had for three days, to Glastonbury, and did £2000 worth of damage to my car and wrote off my caravan. Now he has bought himself a twenty-five foot double axle beast. He tells me about problems with the electrics and the gas, but I am too busy laughing inside to pay much attention.

I look around the market and text Flapsandwich. Then I decide it is time to find the rest of the gang. I head over to the live in vehicles section and soon find the Risca and Aberdare posse tucking into a huge breakfast/brunch/dinner thing. I sit for an hour or so getting abuse for staying sober and driving before heading off to the arena.

Now then. Sick Note.

Sick note don’t do clever guitar solos, they don’t do beautiful love songs and they don’t do thoughtful folk songs. They do deep down, dirty, primal beats for your feets. They grab you by the innards and shake you. When combined with P&Os Vjing you get sensory overload and are transported to another place. I have seen them in pubs, nightclubs, festivals and even working men’s clubs and there are two essentials that stand out for me. 1) The darker the better, turn the lights down low, big up the VJ screen and crank up the volume. Sick Note will make you feel like a newborn baby, coming out into the world discovering light and sound for the first time. 2) Anyone coming on after Sick Note will look a bit lame in comparison. I have seen some pretty big names (withheld to avoid embarrassment) look silly following Sick Note.

So here we are, early on a summer evening, in broad daylight, on an open-air stage. They rock, they rock big time. Those that have not seen them before will undoubtedly have been blown away, but I can’t help feel sorry for those who are seeing them for the first time and not getting it in full effect, like sex with a condom. Promoters are starting to geth the message though.

I stand for five minutes watching cars being towed off site. I have to say, for a small festival they are pretty sorted, three tractors and about ten lads with wellies on controlling traffic, and pushing people out. I watch, see what works and what doesn’t work, which lines are the best. Then jump in the car, reverse out of the bush, stick her in first and drive straight out. I impress myself, but you can bet next time I have an audience I will mess it up.

Later I realise I have the wrong number for Flapsandwich and have been texting some poor stranger. Sorry for not catching up with you Flappy, will see you next week. And sorry if you have been receiving strange texts about mud, flying pigs and scratching perverts.

PISTOLS, PUNKS AND PARAMEDICS

Sheep Music Festival (Day 3)

There are a few advantages of going to a festival on your own. Not many, but a few. The best way to do a festival is with a small gang of close mates who are on a similar wavelength and just party for the duration. Too big a gang and you get sucked into seeing bands you don’t want to see just to go with the flow. Even in a small gang you can be distracted from what you really want to do. Which is where flying solo comes into its own.

So, after gliding home after dawn, I was up at the crack of noon. The weather had changed though and today would be a test to see if the new tent was waterproof. During a break in the rain a leisurely stroll was embarked upon and a healthy does of vegan curry was consumed. Sick Note are off home so it is back to entertaining myself for the day. I did consider the prospect of and early return to Iguana HQ myself, but the thought of the Dub Pistols kept me going.

After the curry was demolished, the rain returned so it was back to the tent to be absorbed into Oliver Grey’s ‘Volume’. See, now if you were with a gang you would never get away with reading for hours.

Eventually the rain stopped so I headed out to suck in the last few hours of Sheep Music 2009. Some photographs were taken of spectacularly large, but musically unremarkable bands.

The Antipodean Mr Grunwald

There was one act I was determined not to miss though and that was Australian blues maestro, Ash Grunwald. Not only is he an awesome guitarist but he also has a full arsenal of foot pedals at his disposal to provide various beats and percussion. His stool even doubled up as a bass drum. A clever, bluesy, funky and sometimes witty set was only slightly marred by what appeared to be a constant battle with the PA. He was chuffed to bits with the fact that he had travelled half way around the world to play a tiny little obscure festival in the middle of nowhere and people knew his stuff and shouted out requests.

No one appeared to be in full on party mode, but there was a definite air of ‘last night of the festival letting your hair down’ going on. People who had been drunk all weekend were casually topping themselves up and I spotted a few security guys in off duty mode indulging an a few shandys.

The Suited and Booted Dub pistols

I headed up to the Big top to catch the main attraction. The MC whipped the crowd into a frenzy, the smoke belched out, the tension rose, and slowly but surely the Dub Pistols wandered onto the stage all suited and booted. The crowd went mad as the chunky bass lines gave them something to jump on and surf. I watched for a few songs and was taken by the vibe, but I have to say after four or five songs they lost me. It was not that they were not good, they are very competent at what they do, but it seemed to lack a little bit of imagination for my tired head. I wandered back down to Café Seren.

Mr Sheen getting grungy

Here the night was brought to a close by Mr Sheen (at least that’s what the programme says), who were a very grungy, unpolished (sorry could not resist) lo-fi garage rock, in the vein of Beefheart, and Zappa, with a stoner rock edge to it. I decided they were more challenging and interesting than the Pistols and made myself at home on the carpet. A drunk walks in and shouts, “F*cking hell man, you are great, much better than that nonsense in the Big Top, I am going to go back up there and drag everyone down”, then promptly disappears, never to be seen again. Whilst the Dub pistols had been a disapointment, Mr Sheen had made staying the extra night worth while.

As things wind down I witness someone old enough to know better, trying to perform a death defying skateboard stunt, presumably too drunk to remember he cant do skateboard stunts. His departure from the top of the ten-foot high ramp, with all the grace of a goose with one wing is only excelled in its spectacularness by the head first crunch into the concrete below him. Luckily the first aid tent is only yards away and he is soon in the hands of professionals and off to hospital.

Why do I mention this horrific accident? Well, I suppose to demonstrate that even though the event is geared up for entertainment and hedonism, the professionalism and sobriety of those that need to be professional and sober is spot on.

I suppose this sums up the festival. It has been relaxed with no bad karma; people have enjoyed themselves with out upsetting anyone (whether it be the locals or the balloon heads). Very few have gone over the top, but when they have there has been paramedics with first aid, or passing hippies with sound advice, to ensure every body keeps calm and carries on.

There has not been any music that I would say was actually crap and one or two of the bands have actually been excellent. The food was out of this world and the toilets possibly the best at any festival I have ever been to. I have made new friends, built on existing friendships, made a few contacts, discovered new music, eaten good food and drunk good cider. RESULT!

SQUIBS, CUNTZ AND THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Sheep Music Festival (Day 2)
The advantage of an early night is that you wake up fresh and ready to take on the world. This morning I was up with the larks, or at least up with the balloon people next door who were larking about thinking it was still Friday. I took a deep breath of fresh air and strolled down into the site with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. Or something like that.


I start with an exploration of the site. It is only small, but there seems plenty going on. There’s the main stage in the Big Top, The Dome, which will host lots of acoustic stuff and a bit of theatrical stuff, Café Seren which is a funky little venue with a stage and .. erm.. a café. The Village Hall will host everything from Knitting classes, through theatre workshops to acoustic folk sets and The Gamelan will have percussion, percussion and percussion all weekend long. It seems the amazing drummers I saw last night were not any band in particular, but part of a three day long jam (at least I think that was what was going on).

On top of this there were a few food outlets, a bar, a kid’s area and a few art installations to ponder on or freak you out, depending what mood you are in.

Knitting at the Village Hall

The whole thing is taking place right next to the village, my unusually flat and comfy camping pitch is actually the local football pitch, there’s a tennis court right next to me and there is even a skateboard park within the festival itself. The kids area is amazingly in the middle of an orchard.

There is also a ‘sculpture trail’, which, quite frankly, unless I took a wrong turn somewhere, was a bit crap.

The security, despite walking around in shirts and ties like night club bouncers, seem friendly enough and on the whole there is a very relaxed vibe about the place.

I try to ring Martin to arrange the interview but find there is no reception anywhere on the bloody site, so decide to have a wander into town to have a nose about and to see if I can get reception. There is not much to Prestigne, but for a small place it does seem to have more than its fair share of boozers. I pop into The Royal Oak for a swift one.

I float out six pints later to try and catch Martin Harley’s second set, having established that the natives are very friendly and they have no problem with the festival because there is never any trouble. On returning to the site I find Sick Note hanging out in Café Seren and I slur praise for Martin Harley before heading off to find him.

The Dome is, strangely enough, a dome. I believe geodesic, is the term. Like most of the stages on site, is powered by wind and sun. Inside we have carpet, tables, chairs and lots of civilised people who chuckle politely when martin Announces, “This guitar is made for me by a friend in Germany with the unfortunate name of Andreas Cuntz. This song is dedicated to you Cuntz”.

Martin harley with a Cuntz on his lap

The set is the perfect laid back blues for a lazy afternoon, although he does get the slide working over time to funk things up occasionally. Even Sick note enjoyed it, which surprised me a little.

After the set I introduce myself to martin, who informs me he is off to Germany to see his favourite Cuntz straight away, so the interview will have to wait for another time. I am disappointed, having done my best to stay sober enough to talk to him, but slightly relived because I had failed to stay sober enough to talk to him.

After this events sort of shuffle themselves about a bit in my memory. At one point I find myself sat with Sick Note by their tents. Filthy the drummer decides to make himself a ‘meal’. After messing about with changing the gas cylinder on his cooker (one of them little calour ones where the valve goes straight into the canister) he lights it, but next thing you know the is gas coming out of the canister instead of the valve, and it's on fire. To avoid setting fire to the tents he holds it up in the air above his head, like the statue of liberty, but in the process almost melts Flapsandwiches sun glasses to his head (which would actually look pretty good on stage). A passing hippy reassures us, “So long as it is on fire it is not going to explode”, so Filthy puts it out. Luckily it reignites and once more presents no danger of blowing up. Eventually calm is restored and he finished cooking his boil in the bag pasta (was it worth the effort?)

Squib... cool, even when straight

As darkness descends we go off in search of music. Flappy was keen on checking out Dub FX, who don’t turn up. I was keen on checking out Maroon Town, who turn out to be crap. As all the main stages close down we find ourselves in Café Seren watching Squib. I camp out next to the stage, enthralled with their funky uptempo brand of jazz rock. I love it and at the end of the set buy a CD, with my mind churning over the possibility that they might have just been good cos I was stoned and when I get home the CD will be crap (it wasn’t). I find Sick Note in the corner, who are moaning about having to sit through a jazz band.

Eventually everything on site shuts down so we head back to the tents, stopping off for five minutes at the all night café on the edge of the campsite. Five minutes chilling turns into five hours of turpitude and when I get back to my tent even the balloon heads from next door are crashed out.

Flapsandwich later writes in his blog that I have a calm aura about me and he felt peaceful and relaxed around me in the all night café. This is very nice of him but maybe I should share with him the proverb about the old bull and the young bull.

An old bull and a young bull are at the bottom of a field. At the top of the field is a herd of cows. The young bull says to the old bull, “Dad, lets run up the hill and f*ck one of them cows.” The old bull responds wisely, “No son. Let’s walk up the hill and f*ck them all”.

SHEEP, STRANGERS AND DANCEFLOOR SEANCES

Sheep Music festival (Day 1)
“It’s still on fire you nutter!”; “Let’s all hold hands and have a séance” and “This one is dedicated to you Kuntz”; three phrases you don’t often hear in one weekend, but this weekend we will be treated to them all, and more.

The days leading up to Sheep Music 2009 were frustrating to say the least. First the Ginger Prince wimped out because they would not allow caravans on site. Then there was an almighty cock up with my wages that resulted in me running around various banks moving cash about; in the process Barclays bank in Porth landed me with some counterfeit notes that my own bank refused to accept. The final straw was Tara Iguana deciding she was too tired to come to the festival, following a week in London with school. I was destined to go to a festival on my own for the first time ever (unless you count Frogstock … oh, and there was one in Belgium about 20 years ago)

Friday morning I was in no mood to go a festival on my own. I watched some DVDs instead. Then I watched some more. I was determined not to waste the ticket though and eventually decided I had to make a move or I would be putting my new £35 tent up in the dark. So at around 6pm I set off, weaving my way in and out of the Welsh border, landing in Prestigne some two hours later.

The lack of signs for the festival in the area was somewhat surprising, but with my map at my side I found the town fairly easily. What was really frustrating though was the total lack of signs even when you reached Prestigne itself. After driving around like a bloke for ten minutes, I eventually stopped and asked a local, who seemed incredulous that I had not spotted it on my tour of the village. No matter, the car was soon parked, wristband strapped on and the perfect pitch located.

The £35 tent was liberated from its bag (it had to go up now, there was no way I would get it back in the bag). Like a bloke I started rummaging trough the various parts trying to decide how best to put it together. Like a woman (mainly because she is) Caroline from Llanidloes, my neighbour for the next few days, grabbed the instructions and within five minutes we had it erected (the tent that is).

Sick Note were due on shortly, so I proceeded to make up for the couch potato time and guzzled a few down me quick sharp. In no time at all I was stood on the edge of the crowd swaying in time to the post new rave beats of Cardiff’s finest dance floor terrorists.

The usual visuals were not in attendance this weekend, but the house lights and the smoke machine managed to do the trick and the tent was ‘avin it’, ‘banging’ and ‘appening’.

Every time I see this bunch I think of the near orgasm I had when my brain was first invaded by them three years ago and look around the crowd at the faces, wondering if anyone is going through what I went through. I think a few are.

Doghouse asks everyone to join hands for a séance (he’s not all there you know) and the tent becomes a temple of techno for the gathered masses to worship in.

After The Note I head off to The Dome to catch Martin Harley, who is thankfully late on stage, which means I don’t miss anything. I had prearranged to interview him at some point during the weekend but keeping in mind you only have one chance to make a first impression, and me being now three sheets to the wind, I decided to ring him tomorrow.

In a bizarre looking Bedouin tent thingy two kit drummers play the most amazing percussion set I have ever seen. I make mental note to look them up in the programme tomorrow. More wandering is done and then it is back to the tent for an early(ish) night. Sleep is only disturbed by the young tikes next door having fun with balloons. My overworked imagination tells me nitrous oxide must be involved, but I would not like to give evidence in court about it officer.

LOGS, DOGS AND THE TOFU LOVE FROGS

If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise

Shortly after The Tofu Love Frogs reformed, back in 2007, Paddy came up with the idea of a festival featuring the Frogs and any band that featured ex-Frogs. Given the number of people that had done time with them, this opened up the possibility of a fairly big bill. A field in Devon was sorted and word was spread through cyber space. Unfortunately Jupiter, Uranus and the local constabulary all aligned to make sure the motley gathering did not happen.

Jump forward in time for another crack at it. Frogstock 2009 is announced on ye-olde interweb.

Yep - you guessed it - Frogstock is coming! They begged them to play at Glastonbury but the Tofus want to play a free party in the woods instead. It promises to be one of the greats - so change whatever plans you had, put on your stomping boots and prepare for a night (or few) of mayhem and madness.

Free up the 27th of June and be prepared to settle in for a party that promises to last for days. More details about the exact location will be released closer to the time - but you’re looking at a half hour train ride from London in a kinda north easterly direction and a water taxi to the party location (taxi charge £2)

There’s a field for camping and the music is going to start around 9pm so arrive early to give the ferry a chance to get you all there, and to set up your canvas abodes (more details about best times to arrive as they become available)


As I was due to be in London on the 30th anyway, and the unions were paying for my rail fare, and I had annual leave to take, it was a no brainer, I was going. I waited with baited breath for more details. Then eventually….

Get to Harlow Mill Station. From the station, walk to the river and then walk up the river (north, so that the river is on your left) for 15 minutes or so until you reach the site. It’s inaccessible by road, if you prefer not to walk up the river, you can get the river taxi up there which will be running all afternoon. Bands will be on from 9pm so arrive early to set up your tents beforehand.

Can you bring a van/bus? If you do you won’t be able to stay in it because you’ll still have to walk up the river to the site.

Dogs (and free range kids) - this is important!!! The place is right next to a railway line and the fence is pretty much non existent, so don’t bring them for their own sake! It’s just not safe for them there. So if I hear of anything happening to them after I’ve warned you I will personally visit and kick your arse.

Who’s playing? Palm Tree Club, The Paisanos, Nutty and the Blazers, Chicken Shed Zeppelin, The Tofu Love Frogs, … and plenty DJs after and between

Last minute notes: BRING A TORCH!!

So, I emerged from the railway station and headed off in search of the river. Being a bloke I did not bother asking, I just wandered. After ten minutes I decided that I was getting to wet too worry about things like being a bloke and asked someone where the river was. I then turned around and headed in the right direction instead.

Paddy had already text me to say that the ‘water taxi’ had broken down, so with a purposeful step I headed north, with the river on my left. I pondered on the location. The theory was that the plod would not have time to muster enough boats to raid the place and it was unlikely they were going to walk. As the purpose in my step diminished, I could see why the old bill would not be up for raiding it on foot.

Beautiful houseboats were moored along the banks of the river, generally far enough apart for them not to be able to intrude upon each other’s space. My mind drifted off to a week spent on the Norfolk Broads. Eventually I spied an armada of houseboats, or whatever the collective noun is, moored up together. These were less beautiful and had the look of a scrap yard about them. I guessed, correctly, that this was the place. The boats belonged to Paddy and his mates and before mooring up for the night had transported all the gear that was to be used for the party up the river.

Three blokes ambling in the other direction advised “When you get to the woods, take a right by the big gas bottle”. I was not sure if I should be flattered or insulted that they had recognised me as a party head.

As soon as I turned right into the woods, I had to negotiate a ditch about twenty feet wide and five feet deep. A rope for people to hang on to indicated that this was not a wrong turning but the easiest way to get to the party. I followed the sound of laughter till I reached another ditch, this time about fifteen foot deep and thirty feet wide. From the tarps stretched between the trees above and the sheets of plywood at the bottom I guessed that this was what passed for ‘the main arena’.

With the reflexes of a cat I managed to avoid being garrotted by the ropes holding the tarps up and found my way to the bottom of the ditch (sorry, to the dance floor) without a slip, trip or fall. I decided that rather than relax after my seven-hour train journey, the best plan of action was to strive on a little longer and get my tent up. Besides, there did not really appear to be anywhere to relax that did not involve rain or mud.

Kel (Tofu Axe Hero) was doing something roadie-like with the PA but took a few seconds out to say hello and point me in the direction of the huge slippery embankment I had to climb to get to the ‘camping field’. After conquering the south face of the camping field with only one near death experience, I surveyed the terrain to decide which patch of nettles I was going to pitch my tent on, then proceeded to erect my canvas abode; well, nylon actually but that does not have the same romantic connotations. Last summer came rushing back to me as I remembered what it was about my tent that was broken. The pole that holds out the mini-awning. No matter, I was going to be dry.

I then took a bit of a long cut, back down to the tow path then in past the gas bottle again; a tricky route, but considerably safer than abseiling down the wall of the dancehall. The worrier in me was trying to work out what the odds were of me getting through the night without going apex over base into a ditch (very good odds actually). I also wondered how long it would be before I walked straight into a tarp rope in the dark and if I could go twenty-four hours without having a shit (did I mention the absence of toilets, water, fire extinguishers or anything remotely health and safety related?).

I bumped into Paddy who looked like he was on a mission to do something technical, although it was not exactly clear what. I asked where the bar was. “Its down there Clint, where those dogs are fighting”. He paused for thought, “How many times do you have to tell people? But they don’t listen. Those dogs are going to get run over by a train before the weekend is out”.

I forgot to mention, the side of the site that was not bordered by the beautiful river, was bordered by the very same rail track that helped those Stanstead Express trains on their way.

I followed the sound of fighting dogs. I have to say, if these dogs had wandered onto the tracks, I would not have fancied the train’s chances of coming out unharmed.

I purchased my cider from the lean-to that passed for a bar and found a log to sit on next to the campfire. It was still raining so went for a wander to ‘explore’ the ‘site’. It came as no real surprise to discover that I had actually already seen all there was to see. In the grim reality of daylight it looked like the sort of party I would imagine results in the piles of cans by the side of the river I often find when going for a walk on a Sunday morning; but with a PA, which had yet to kick into life. I convinced myself that it would look better in the dark, even if it did mean the tarp ropes would be more dangerous. I decided to retire to the tent to read until it got dark; or stopped raining.

As darkness descended and reading without a torch became impossible, I headed back to the arena. I was right, it was starting to look more like a party now, more people had arrived, more tarps had gone up, more fires had been lit and a party atmosphere was descending; even if the PA was still showing no signs of life. It reminded me a little of the old Casbar parties in North Wales. There was a healthy contingent of veteran festival heads and aqua-crusties with a sprinkling of the local chavs up for a party. No security trying to charge a ‘door tax’, no dodgy dealers, no one with an attitude, just people out for fun and looking after themselves.

I spotted a rather dodgy looking bloke in a top heat serving hotdogs from a trestle table and kicked myself for not getting food when I was still in civilisation.

More wandering. More cider. I sat by a campfire and started chatting with a young girl. “I wish I had brought a torch with me” she commented. She asked my name. “Clint? Not Clint Iguana is it?” Fame at last! “I am Jenn”. It soon clicked, this was the Tofu’s webmistress; not quite as famous as I thought then.

“Should have taken your own advice and brought a torch then!” I quipped. We chatted for a while about the Tofus, Oxford and Bristol, then went our separate ways.

I was starting to get hungry now so asked dodgy chef guy if he had anything vegetarian. “The hot dogs are vegan”, I was advised by one of his assistants. Whilst I had no reason to doubt her, it was dark, she was pissed and they were serving food in the open air in the rain. She fished the packet out of the bin for me to prove their provenance and I handed over my cash. As I was waiting for the food to be delivered a young lad, who I assume was dodgy chef’s son, performed a free magic trick. The food was nice; I handed over more money, had another vegan hotdog and watched a young lad make an eyeball disappear.

The PA kicked into life, all be it intermittently. The party went up a gear. I went back to the ‘bar’. By now they had sussed my favourite tipple.

I bumped into Ade, erstwhile Tofu bass player, who informed me he was looking forward to watching the band from the audience for the first time, although he was intending to get up and sing at some point. Kel informed me that the guitarist with the first band had not turned up so the Tofu’s would be on in ten minutes. It seemed an odd set up, the main band coming on first, but it was late already and it meant I would not have to wait till sunrise to see the band I had travelled all this way for.

This was the moment we had all be waiting for. Under a leaky tarp, with electric plugs under water, with a broken bass guitar, on a sloping stage in the bottom of a ditch, in a wood miles from anywhere, the most hardcore folk band on the planet ripped into an hour and a half of no nonsense punk. New bass player Mikey was having trouble with his guitar, but with his charity shop suit on he looked like Isaac Hayes. Paddy, also in a charity shop suit, looked like Albert Steptoe. Kel was in metal mode and the set was rough, spiky and edgy.

You had to be there to appreciate it, but it suddenly all made sense. Who needs the ‘alternative’ bits of Glastonbury when you can have the Tofu Love Frogs playing at a free party in the woods? It don’t get much more D.I.Y. than this.

Ade got up and did his bit, then slowly the Tofus morphed into Ade’s new band Chicken Shed Zeppelin and entertained us all with their own take on bluegrass punk. Everyone enjoyed, even the local chavs were happy, despite the lack of repetitive beats. I slipped off into the night and fell asleep to the chunky-punky sound of the Passianos (or at least I think that is what they were called).

TRAINS TUBES AND WATER TAXIS

I love travelling by train. A lot of people criticise the various train companies, making out they are late all the time and the service is poor, but I have not experienced any of this. Yes, there are occasional problems, but by and large they are efficient, comfortable and convenient. Today I am headed to Harlow Mill, just north of London and train is my transport of choice.

I sit on the train, which is on time, open my book, ‘A Year of Festivals’, and drift off to Roskilder with the author, Jarvis Hammond. You can’t get lost in a book when driving, well, not legally anyway. I manage to detach myself from my surroundings and drift away to the festival with Jarvis as my guide for almost one hundred miles. Then I notice we are just outside Reading. I look out of the window, then get back into the book. Roskilder comes to an end and we start heading for Latitude. I look out of the window again. We are still just outside Reading. We have not moved since I last dipped into reality. A voice that appears to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time announces that there are passengers are on the line, but soon corrects himself to say trespassers. I slip back into Jarvis. Well, more precisely, his book. My faith in the rail system is still in tact, its not First Great Western Trains fault that some Muppet has decided to go walk about on the track. For a moment my humanity slips and I think to myself that it would serve them right if the train just ran over them.

You can’t just stop and start trains when you feel like it. It’s not like the motorway; you have to fit in with the schedule of other trains. But because it was not their fault, I decide not to blame First Great Western for the train arriving in Paddington a full hour late. It is not as if I had any deadline to meet anyway. I stroll the length of platform one to get to the tube station, only to hear the tannoy announce that the Circle Line is being replaced by a bus due to engineering works. Well, you’ve got to work on the track sometime I suppose, it can’t be helped. Although walking back the way I just came, carrying my trusty rucksack and tent down to the other end of the station to jump on the Hammersmith Line was something I could have done without.

By the time I got to Liverpool Street I decided a cold Strongbow was in order, after all, I had plenty of time to get to Harlow. It did not take long anyway, it was a warm day and it went down so quickly I hardly had time to savour the refreshing apple taste. Then it was off to the machine to purchase my ticket. It was only when I had my ticket in hand that I realised that I did not know which train I needed to catch. The helpful lady at the information desk soon put that right. “Well, you really need to Cambridge train, but you just missed it and there is not another one for an hour. Your best bet is to get the half past express train to Stanstead but get off at Harlow Town, then get a connection to Harlow Mill”. The advice sounded fine to me so I took it (although I did wonder if it should be called the express train if it was making stops on the way).

I considered stocking up on refreshments for the festival but decided to get something in Harlow, thus avoiding carrying it any further than necessary. Then I sat on the ‘express’ train and opened up Jarvis again (you have a dirty mind you know). He was just landing at Stanstead Airport. An omen I thought, this is the train for me. The carriages soon filled up with weary travellers on their way home and excited travellers about to start their holiday. Then another voice from everywhere and nowhere announced signal problems directly outside the station, which were causing a delay to all trains departing from platforms one through to ten. I looked out the window. Platform seven. Never mind, Jarvis and I were having fun. The train started to fill up with people that had technically missed the train, or would have if it had been on time. Forty-five minutes later we started moving. The train had emptied a bit by now, some had already decided they were going to miss their flight and had resigned themselves to another night in ‘The Smoke’. I was not too concerned; I had been spending quality time in Spain (Latitude was history now). I was at Benicassim, soaking up the rays; this brought a really big smile to my face as I had recently purchased tickets for this year’s event! Then I remembered the ticket was for daughter number one, not me. We raced out through the north of London and out beyond the M25 and soon I was deposited in Harlow Town.

I had not been to Harlow before and was not sure of the geography. I considered walking to Harlow Mill; it could not be that far away. Then I remembered my 24 hours lost in Falkirk, purely because I got off at the wrong railway station, mistakenly thinking it was only a village. I went in search of the platform I needed for my connection to Harlow Mill. After wandering for ten minutes (no mean feat on a station as small as Harlow Town) I came to the conclusion that I needed to wait for the Cambridge train that was due to leave Liverpool Street on the hour. If I had waited I could have taken my time on another pint of big boys happy apple, instead of standing on the platform of a station in a depressing looking town reading the Samaritans sign wondering if I was in need of conversation.

It started to rain. Not any old rain, but old skool, hardcore, biblical rain. It was accompanied by thunder and lightening. Jarvis could not distract me from questions in my head about what shape my tent was in when I packed it away. I had a nagging feeling that there was something wrong with it, nothing that would stop me camping in on a beautiful sunny day, but might put me off camping in a monsoon. It stopped raining. I don’t recall seeing hail this late in June before, but now I was seeing it. Thoughts of my wellies back at home went through my head. The thought of changing platform and getting on the ‘express’ train to Liverpool Street went through my head.

Eventually the Cambridge train rolls into town and transports me from one end of Harlow to another with the speed only an hour late express train can. The hail has subsided back to just plain rain. A quick squint around the area reveals a trading estate, an Indian Restaurant, and a pub from a famous chain and a tool hire centre. No sign of an offy. I had no intention of getting soaked in a search for an off licence that might not even exist so I headed for the river. There had been a promise of a water taxi, but I had already been alerted to engine problems. This was not a good day for public transport. I headed ‘north, with the river on my left, for about 15 minutes’.

Perhaps it is about time I let you in on where I am headed.

Shortly after the Tofu Love Frogs reformed Paddy came up with the idea of Frogstock, a festival that would feature the Tofu Love Frogs and bands featuring ex Love Frogs and bands that had a remote connection with the Frogs. It did not happen in 2007. It did not happen in 2008 either. Paddy is never one to give up on a good idea (or a bad one), 2009 is to be the year of the Frogstock, all be it slightly scaled down from the original plan. And this is where I am headed.

TRIBAN SPRING GATHERING: First festival of the year

Triban, a posse of hippies, groovers and lovers of planet earth held a gathering today down at Coed Hills Rural Art Space. People chilled, danced, walked around the sculpture garden, climbed in a giant bird cage, ran around a giant maypole, ate vegan chocolate cake and generally had an incredibly laid back time.

A host of bands were at hand to entertain on the solar powered PA, including old pals Kilnaboy, Tat Syrup and Cosmo. Nice

LINE UP FOR BLOWOUT FESTIVAL ANNOUNCED: and it looks a bit tasty

We knew this was coming, but we did not know THIS was coming. check the myspace

THE SUN HAS GOT ITS HAT ON: 2007 festival list

This summer is set to be very interesting. After a decade or so of money grabbing bastards running events with no soul and legislation making life difficult for the ‘real’ festivals, the grass roots have been getting their act together the last few years and we now have a healthy scene flourishing once more, with events being run efficiently by people who know what a festival is supposed to be. On top of this we have a few old faces returning to the scene; Back To the Planet, Radical Dance Faction, AOS3, Omnia Opera, Tribe of Cro and Billy Childish will be back with us this summer; add to that old favourites like Ozric Tentacles, Eat Static, Pronghorn, Space Ritual, Tarantism, P.A.I.N. and newcomers like Sick Note, Molara and Alienoidz .. the summer is already looking HOT.

Below is a list of some of the events coming up. It is by no means exhaustive, but is a good starter for ten, for the best listing you will need to track down a copy of festival eye which is getting bigger and better each year. If you know of anything worth adding to our list, please let us know (Events highlighted in RED come with a special reccomendation from the Iguana crew)

6 May BLOWOUT: Cardiff: Indoor thing with festival vibe, Dreadzone, Sick Note, 808 state, physycists, kilnaboy and many more warming up for the summer

25/26/27 May OFF THE TRACKS: Donnington: First of two festivals in the grounds of a hotel just off the tracks of Donnington

25/26/27 May GLASTONBUDGET: Leicester. Lots of up and coming bands together with a stage just for tribute bands

25/26/27 May STRUMMERCAMP: Manchester: Joe Strummers mates in the hood

26 May THE FULL PONTY: Pontypridd: Big one dayer with the likes of The Lost Prophets

28 May KINGSTON GREEN FAIR: Kingston upon Thames: One day green community event

31 may 1/2/3/4 June SUNRISE: Somerset. Back for another go after last years premier.

1/2/3 June WYCHWOOD: Cheltenham: low key but high quality event on the race course

2 June STRAWBERRY FAIR; Cambridge. Yes THE Strawberry Fair, still going strong

8/9/10 June DOWNLOAD: Donnington: Noisy mutha, held on the site of Donnington racecourse, take ya ear plugs and sleep with one eye open

8/9/10 June LLAMA: Devon: Community arts and music thing

8/9/10 June ISLE OF WIGHT Isle of Wight: Jimmi is unlikely to turn up, but the Stones will be (gawd help us!)

9/10 June ROCKNESS: Loch Ness: Alabama 3, Groove Armada, Manics, Chemical brothers etc

15/16/17 June HAWKFEST: Donnington: Spaced out man

20/21 June STONEHENGE SUMMER SOLSTICE CELEBRATIONS: Stonehenge (maybe?)

22/23/24 June GLASTONBURY MEGAFEST: Pilton: not as good as it used to be, but still sells out in 9 minutes

29/30 June/1 July WORKHOUSE: North Wales: Stay away, we don’t want your sort spoiling this awesome little event

5/6/7/8 July ROSKILDE Denmark: Europes answer to Glastonbury

6/7/8 July BLISSFIELDS: Hampshire; in a field full of bliss we assume, don’t know much about it

6/7/8 July T IN THE PARK Scotland: Big corporate thing north of the border

7/8 July CORNBURY: Oxfordshire: David grey, Suzanne Vega, Blondie…. Wipe your feet on the way in

7/8 July OXEGEN: Ireland: Probably the biggest festi in the emerald isle

11/12/13/14/15 July LARMER TREE FESTIVAL: Dorset: Well run civilised little folky/world music event in the Larmer Tree Gardens in Dorset every July. Excellent facilities, and usually has a few good names on the bill. Ideal festival for people who do not like festivals. ALWAYS sells out and always has pronghorn close on the Sunday night.

13/14/15 July SMALL NATIONS: Mid Wales: Mostly local stuff with one or two surprises to make it worth travelling

13/14/15 July GUILFEST: Guilford: Festival for Radio 2 listeners who do not like campfires and late night music, but do like proper bogs.

13/14/15 July FFLAM; Swansea: A new comer to the circuit with big names and big ambitions

13/14/15 July LOUNGE ON THE FARM: Canterbury: Reasonably priced little do with the Alabama 3 (don’t they ever stay still?)

14 July CHAGSTOCK: Dartmoor: One dayer with Saw Doctors type shenanigans

14/15 July ASHTON COURT: Bristol: if you dont know the score.. where you been all these years?

19/20/21/22 July TROWBRIDGE VILLAGE PUMP; Trowbridge: A beer festival with
some cracking music

20/21 July WICKERMAN: Scotland: counter culture vibe of festivals from a bygone era, apparently

20/21/22 July EASTERN HAZE: Suffolk: this is shaping up to look a little bit UNMISSABLE. Old skool with amazing line up

20/21/22 July GLADE FESTIVAL ?? the dudes that run the glade field in Glastonbury

20/21/22 July SHEEP MUSIC FESTIVAL: Mid Wales: bring wellies and a rope

26/27/28/29 July SECRET GARDEN: Huntingdon: shhhh… it’s a secret!

26/27/28/29 July ROCK AND BLUES CUSTOM SHOW: Derbyshire: Get your motors running

27/28 July GLOBAL GATHERING: Warwick: Glowsticks, whistles, bandanas and prancing about doing the ‘big box little box’ thing.

27/28/29 July SHAMANIA: Lancashire: Shamanic tribal celebration with mostly DJs and live dance stuff

27/28/29 July WOMAD: Wiltshire: World Of Music And Dance, too cool for one country

2/3/4/5 August WICKHAM: Hampshire: Jethro tull, the Hamsters and all that sort of thing

4th August CELTIC BLUE ROCK West Wales: you will be surprised how cool West Wales is these days!

1/2/3/4/5 August BIG GREEN GATHERING: Somerset; Big and Green

3/4/5 August BIG WEEKEND: Cardiff: Fun fair, lots of crap music, but always at least one band worth seeing every day… free

4/5/6 August BIG CHILL: Eastnor: Big rip off

9/10/11/12 August BULLDOG BASH: Stratford upon Avon: Biker Heaven

10/11/12 August ENDORSE IT IN DORSET: Dorset: probably the best festival in Dorset. Old skool and wicked, a must do

10/11/12 August SUMMER SUNDAE: Leicester: Indie thing

10/11 August TARTAN HEART: Scotland; 70 squids, so there must be some big names… don’t know who though

16/17/18/ August BLOODSTOCK: Burton on Trent: Metal bloody metal, for fans of tinitus

17/18/19 August GREEN MAN GATHERING: Brecon: cool classy and always sells out

18/19 August V FESTIVAL: Chelmsford: more corporate nonsense from the man that brought you tubular bells and virgin cola

17/18/19 August BEAUTIFUL DAYS: Devon: the Levellers and friends go back to their roots

24/25/26 August SHAMBALA: Plymouth: return of one of the coolest events on the circuit.

24/25/26 August SOLFEST: Cumbria: One of these days we are gonna make the effort to drive that far north

24/25/26 August CARLING WEEKEND: Reading and Leeds: Mean Fi**ler commercial nonsense for kids to line Vince Powers' pocket

25 Auguust CARDIFF CALLING: Cardiff: Streets only festival appearance this year, plus local boys the Super Furies

26 August SOUTH WEST FOUR: Cardiff: Same site as Cardiff Calling, different promoter (Metro newspaper), mostly DJs and stuff

25 August CREAMFIELDS; Daresubry: big name line up for rave by organisers who have never been to a rave

30/31 August 1 September OFF THE TRACKS (AGAIN) Donnington: probably the best facilities of any festival on the circuit

14/15/16 September KNOCKENGORROUGH: Scotland: a sort of world dubby ceildih type north of the border in September. Those Arran jumpers will come in handy!