Alice's Wanderland - Thursday
Back in 2002, I was invited to write an article chronicling my experience of Cambridge Folk Festival. At the time, I was fourteen years old and was probably more concerned with important issue of my oversized jeans not dragging in the mud any more than was expected, than I was with appreciating traditional folk music. The idea was to gain a ‘teenage perspective’ of the festival; now, five years on and in my last few months of what can still be described as my ‘teen years’, I am still at Cambridge Folk Festival but probably not in a position of giving an accurate report of the general ‘teenage perspective’, as I will explain later.
When Young Folk Band of the Year award-winners Last Orders take to the stage on the Sunday afternoon, I realise that they are the same age as my younger brother; I take a moment to restrain myself from joining the hoards of adoring middle-aged women in the audience who I overhear cooing something along the lines of “so good to see youngsters enjoying traditional music”; no, wait, I am still technically a youngster too – I hope – and I also enjoy traditional music. When, at thirteen years, I was told that our family holiday that year would be a folk festival, I probably winced; but my point is that ever since that first weekend at Coldhams Common, I have opted to attend Cambridge Folk Festival over all the usual teenage rites of festival passage (think: Reading, Download, or my personal favourite, Bloodstock). It has been one of the annual highlights of my summer from my first year as a teenager, right through till my last year as a teenager; never have I been disappointed and 2007 was no exception.
Firstly, I should explain how my festival experience differs from the norm. For one, to my excitement I have been promoted to the ranks of ‘PHOTO/PRESS’ according to the little neon passes I have been awarded. This means I get to sit on the other of a long hedge to the general public, thankfully with a big umbrella to hide from the periodical rain and sun, and a plastic patio chair (which, as all regular attendees to the festival should know, is strictly contraband in the Stage marquees). The reason for my “elevated status” (reference to my exclusive access to a chair… get it… nope?) is that I am now one of the people who darts around in the No-Man’s Land between stage and barrier for the first few songs of each performance, swinging a large lens around and snapping away. Not as large a lens as some, might I add, but I remind myself continuously that size isn’t everything.
My father (my sole camping companion this particular weekend) also has a photography pass but generally chooses to stay on the audience side of the barrier. The advantage that I have over him is that I get to practise my sprinting technique in the pit, theoretically to get lots of different angles in my pictures but partly to see if I can get my head in a BBC camera shot. The advantage that my dad has over me is that I get kicked out after three songs (this is the law for all photographers, not just a rule they invented to get rid of me early – I think) yet the metal barrier that divides us means he can hang around to watch the rest of the artist’s set whilst I am literally escorted back to my plastic patio chair. I don’t complain; although each viewing is brief, I get to sample more bands in three days than I could dream of otherwise, especially as I have such a great view of the stage every time.
The flipside is that I literally only have a brief sample of each band, and although I am meant to be taking photographs I often find myself torn between using my three short songs as an audience spectator or a photographer spectator. This is largely how my festival experience is no longer that of a normal teenage festival-attendee; the way that I watch the bands has changed, although I now have the ability to sample an endless variety of performances by way of utilising the backstage short-cuts to run from one set to another.
My father and I arrive on the Thursday afternoon in a torrential downpour, only to find that our brand new ‘bargain’ tent has back-fired and left us with what appears to be a child’s den fashioned from torn nylon and precariously bent poles. We curse the budget superstore that sold us this mockery of a tent; especially my dad who uses expletives I was previously sure he had never even heard before. We have missed the ever-popular Seasick Steve but aren’t overly worried, as he appears to be following us around over the summer to every other festival we have chosen to attend this year. In the dark and the rain, our judgement fails us and we are foolishly lured towards what turns out to be the only bad choice in the food department this year; the Chinese stir-fry. This disappointment does nothing for Dad’s mood after the tent disaster, so I escape to watch (ie. photograph) my first band of the weekend; Alabama 3 acoustic, which in my short experience of it, is far better than I had ever anticipated. My homework may have been rushed but I had judged a book by its cover and presumed the band who looked a bit like a cowboy version of the Towers Of London would be doing some kind of Sopranos routine, presumably with suits and faux mob accents. In a way, I’m not disappointed. Their rendition of ‘Woke Up This Morning’ evokes a sleazy late-night atmosphere that matches perfectly the tent crammed tightly with drunken people literally steaming after the rain outside. The audience lap it up and I am disappointed when my three songs ends, enjoying the crowd buzzing with anticipation for the weekend to come.