The author of www.slurdotcom.blogspot.com and some Pimms. Huzzah!
We arrive early at a festival for the first time ever. No stress. Tent up with minimum fuss... Commence with the mixing of the Pimms my good man! Damn you, more strawberries! Have you not heard? This is a boutique festival. You filthy, unrefined savage. This is no time to be cheap. For we are about to embark on a voyage of polite aural discovery, a meaningful discourse with our inner hippie... Can the coarse young consumerists of Ireland handle such a symbiotic relationship with nature? At €3 a pint glass, we shall soon see. Down with capitalism man!
The Pimms has been quaffed. Inhibitions have been nullified. Friends have been met. Rubbish has been talked. Resolutions have been made... "Outside the Silent Disco at 6.43? Yeah, totally. See you there!"... To the inner sanctum of the Picnic we meander.
This meandering brings us to our first act of the festival, and an unexpected joy at that. His name is Joe Driscoll, a New Yorker residing in the UK. He plays in a tent with a small stage and a clutter of clichéd shmoke paraphernalia. Multi-instrumentalism, quality beatboxing, intricate layering, and dexterous rhymes are this dude's bag... The vibe in the tent is extremely chilled out. Fragrant odours abound. "Origin Myth" is quite the tune... We depart, happier and expectant.
The wanders continue... Hot Chip are our next port of call. I chill out towards the back of the crowd, opting to take it all in rather than give it socks. The Pimms seems to have quietened my will to fully embrace. The show is nothing groundbreaking, but very enjoyable nonetheless. The shy "thank you" offered by the band during the breakdown of "Over and Over" makes me smile. Such a lack of egotism and willingness to impress the punters is to be applauded... If only a certain daughter of a certain Tamil Tiger would take heed.
More aimless meandering... I'm sure I caught a band or two, but I really can't remember who... Endure monumental boredom at the hands of Bjork. She seems to be aiming for a powerful marriage of theatrical splendour and subtle viscera. It feels like listening to a Bjork album on dodgy speakers. Sssh...
And so on to LCD Soundsystem, and a very good show. "All My Friends" was a transcendent highlight. The insistence of that opening piano always gets me. Hugs are exchanged with a gusto that borders on violence. A masochistic refusal to stop dancing. Shut up foolish body! There is more beer back at the tent. Sedation is imminent. Fear not... I make the acquaintance of a very nice girl from Maynooth called Sarah... The immediacy of the festival connection? Sigh.
An hour or two to find the tent of a new acquaintance... A tipple or two shared from the delightful Creek of the Badger... The first of many Caesar salad bagels... Abuse is shouted at that despicable Northside wanker in the rodeo bull stall. What did the tenants of Blue camping do to deserve this vacuous tosser? Why did he congeal here? The Tiesto, the horror... The tent cam confirms its status as a moronic idea... Eventually shut down after hours of semi-effort...
However this is not the time to ponder the implications. Prospects? We'll burn those bridges when we come to them... The second bagel. A sleeping bag. Teasing slivers of sunlight... The bastards.