DIARY OF A FESTAL VIRGINDIARY OF A FESTAL VIRGIN
Monday 21 July
Chance conversation in pub,
"I'm going to be pushed to cover the bands at the Cambridge Folk Festival, any chance you could help out?".
"A folk festival? Local Government Officers in hairy pullovers and beards singing songs in adenoidal tones about such topical, cutting edge themes as the Great Plague and how the Enclosure Act has led to untold family hardship? Not too tempting, is it?".
"Well, there's also Beth Orton, Jools Holland, Jackson Browne and some great blues artists playing. It's free, you get guest passes and I'll buy you a beer".
"I'll get my tent".
Thursday 23 July
Three days later and a pint of hand drawn, cool beer in my
hand and things are not looking too bad in one of the two festival
beer tents. The editor is giving it the max on how the beer is
good, the food is good and the toilets will not bring on Gulf
War Syndrome whilst apparently attempting to immunize himself
against this unlikely occurrence by replacing the blood circulating
in his body with draught cider. The beardy, sandals and pewter
tankard look is thin on the ground and the nose ring, belly ring
and Prodigy, Glastonbury and Father Ted T-shirt count is reassuringly
high. The festival hasn't officially started, but there are four
acts on in the club tent. Ah, club tent, not so different after
all, thinks I. 
On walking in, however, I find myself apparently
in the middle of a sit down strike, with stewards stood behind
on a picket line at the bar, but this, apparently, is OK. This
is "club" of a different cardigan, as in folk club and
any disco biscuits would likely be dunked in a steaming, herbal
infusion. Things are slowly falling into place as Peter
Buckley Hill, a strange man with droopy moustache, guitar
and a tie whose colours extend to that part of the spectrum which
is labelled, "violent", comes on stage to regale us
with with tales of sex; flying haddock; sex; stoats; sex; Michael
Portillo, nuns and penguins (no sex for reasons of possible by-election).
The stage is then taken by what appear to be middle-aged refugees from Smokey, but who are introduced as The Cajun Mockfrogs, Norway's finest (and possibly only) exponents of Cajun music. Foot stomping music ensues and the well received set finishes with the surreal experience of a washboard solo and me checking that my drink has not been spiked.
The Backyard Band are next up and play a tight R&B set with great sax playing from Mike Clifford, who also compered throughout the weekend. The set is only slightly let down by a number where the keyboard player should have been restrained (physically, if necessary) from leaving the otherwise solid backing to play a solo for no apparent reason other than being unwilling to be left out when the other instruments were showcased . The pattern is set for the weekend when despite repeated demands for more the stage has to be reset for the next band in order to meet the strict curfew on music at midnight.
One strange phenomenon manifested itself for the first time this weekend and this was the frustrated percussionist in the audience who whips out a tambourine, maracas, egg etc. and proceeds to "accompany" the band. The only solution, I feel, is to institute strict body searches at the gates along with cruel and unusual punishments for carrying a concealed percussion instrument with intent. Were all these people cashiered from the Salvation Army for suffering from rythm dyslexia and excess enthusiasm?
The instruments are set up for the next band
seeming to indicate that a ceilidh is next up and I check
the programme to find mentions of strong music tradition, Shetland
upbringing, accordion, fiddle blah-blah and resign myself to popping
in and out to top up and prop up. Drop the
Box launched into their first number and the editor similarly
launches himself into what could be billed as an exhaustive review
of the site's sanitary facilities brought on by a now successful
total transfusion. He really missed out, although I sincerely
hope that was the only miss that evening, on a set full of energy,
rythm, deftly handled changes of pace and some haunting vocals
from Inge. Seemingly I'd overlooked the mention of indie grooves,
drums and bass mixed in with the use of traditional instruments
and was totally unprepared for a storming version of David Byrne's
Pscho Killer. The audience were on their feet throughout but,
again, there was no time allowed to give them what they really
wanted. This band is but one song away from crossing over into
more commercial ground and truly deserves a much bigger stage
than was available this year. They are touring now, don't miss
them.
Strange things were now occurring in the beer tents as drinkers started unpacking instrument cases and impromptu bands agglomerated in all locations around guttering candles. Walking back to my tent was like following a trail of musical will o' the wisps. Seemingly, the music couldn't be contained on stage and was spilling over to break out at the points of least resistance around the site.