My V Festival experience truly began when, with a surge of self-importance, I tugged at my Â鶹¹ÙÍøÊ×Ò³Èë¿Ú press pass, and grandly sidestepped the queues in which only moments before I had been waiting, soggy and dejected. | "As a festival virgin, I was bowled over by the sheer buzz produced when 90,000 strangers come together, singing in time and – almost – in harmony." | | Alice Malin |
Along with Josh Withey, this year's Blast reporter, I made my way to the VIP tent, eagerly sniffing the air to detect the heady scent of celebrity and fame. Sadly, the rain had driven those famous enough to have dressing rooms into hibernation and the only stars on view were two young cast members of Hollyoaks. Still, I thought, blushing as I eyed them from afar, it's a start. My first day passed in a blur as I sped from arena to arena, seeing everything from Boy Least Likely To to Paul Weller with reliable old chestnuts from his The Jam days. I particularly admired Imogen Heap's virtuoso performance as her vocal acrobatics pitched us from the tenderness and intimacy of Goodbye and Go to the giddy, exuberant heights of Speeding Cars and her new single, Headlock. Nerina Pallot, the next act on the JJB stage, wooed the crowd with her modesty and with her frank admission that 'someone had given me wine. It worked.' A very versatile artist, she flitted effortlessly between piano, guitar and electric guitar, and kick-started the early afternoon, somnolent crowd with a strident rendition of I Want to be a Man. And the next act I saw? I must confess, and stop pretending I possess even a modicum of musical discernment and taste. I saw the Sugababes, and loved it. It's all the rage to scoff at the Sugababes but, essentially, they are consummate performers who know how to ignite the audience with a burst of club classics and their cheery, singalong choruses. And then it was Saturday evening and I found myself clutching mac, umbrella, hoodie, jumper, fleece and slightly thinner jumper (I had applied my Duke of Edinburgh training to my festival packing with military precision) attempting to remain upright at the front of a jostling, screeching crowd, 10,000 strong.
 | | Faithless at V Festival |
Faithless were in full swing, and I was simultaneously leaping and screaming and running through an internal commentary along the lines of, 'If I don't die, I'll faint. I'll wake up in the arms of a St John's ambulanceman about to perform the kiss of life.' This prospect appeared suddenly more appealing. Then, having had the air knocked from my lungs, the internal commentary re-emerged, frantic, 'I will lose my camera. There will be a stampede. I will die. What will my parents say?' And then, inevitably, you find yourself caught up in the moment as the ground is throbbing not only with the bass beat blasted through massive speakers but with the vibrations of twenty thousand feet, leaping. And everything seems, suddenly, to matter less.
 | | Morrissey |
I was assured by my friends Grace and Chris, two diehard Morrissey fans, that life does not get much better than the split second when it dawns on you that he's opening with Panic. Indeed, they willingly suffered ten-hour shifts as car parkers for just that moment. Judging by the ecstatic faces of the crowd, the Morrissey mystique has many in its thrall, and from his magnetic performance, it seems as if I might well be going the same way. Morrissey flung no fewer than three shirts into the audience. Although I would have liked nothing more than to dive into the scrum myself, the almost certain consequence of mortal injury tempered my enthusiasm somewhat. He performed his new single, In the Future, which I loved as its essential idealism softened the aggressive political agenda, and the chorus was one that could easily become a classic. Sunday
 | | Waking up Sunday morning |
By Sunday morning, our drawn and mud-splattered faces could have been used in a campaign against teenage excess, as illustrated by this photograph. Still, this mattered not, and encouraged by the thought of the VIP portaloos awaiting me, I hurried off to the arena. The weather was positively spring-like, and I had an impressive line-up planned, from The Magic Numbers to Bloc Party and Keane. My discovery of the weekend was definitely Seth Lakeman, who had a surprisingly large and devoted following. In fact, the audience's response rivalled that given to self-proclaimed cult figure Morrissey. Lakeman's catchy songs led into bursts of wild jamming on violin and guitar. The irresistible Irish rhythms that underscore his tunes had even the most hungover of festival-goers frantically tapping their toes. Moving from the sublime to the frankly disgusting – the notorious Lynx Manwash, which attracted, I noticed, substantial crowds of men loudly protesting that they 'really just wanted to get clean.' Hmm. The spokesman was luring them in on the rather bizarre premise: 'If you come closer, I'll explain how this works.' Surely only the most unobservant of people could fail to have grasped the basic principle: girls dance seductively, wearing very little; male victim is energetically sprayed and lathered; some five minutes later he emerges sheepish and shivering. Little is left to the imagination. All very different from my interview with the noble Benny Littlejohn, coordinator of the Oxfam presence at the festival. His volunteers were dressed as doctors and nurses to highlight, he explained, the need for medical supplies in the developing world. They were at V to raise awareness about the vital need for these essential, but sadly basic, services. Festival goers could buy fair trade products, sign a petition or simply join Oxfam's Generation Why mailing list.
 | | Oxfam's green camper van |
Benny Littlejohn went on to explain, 'We're not here to be serious. These people are here to enjoy themselves, but at the same time they can change the world. There's no conflict: it's just practical.' The atmosphere in the tent was relaxed and informal, with a central gimmick of a VW van, painted with the Oxfam logo, to attract the curious or philanthropic-minded. Inspired, I left with a renewed faith in the human race. The last band that I saw was Keane, whose ill-chosen songs fell flat in the festival atmosphere, which demanded something more upbeat than their typical soul-searching fare. But, overall, as a festival virgin, I was bowled over by the atmosphere, the sheer buzz produced when 90,000 strangers come together, singing in time and – almost – in harmony.
 | | Enjoying the V Festival |
However, my impression was tinged by a little disappointment. Perhaps it's naïve to expect music to inhabit a completely separate universe to that of commercialism; certainly it's naïve to expect today's musical gods to be the children of the revolution they used to be in Woodstock days. In fact, it's natural that bands and the consumer society should coexist: the success of both depends on revenue. But, for me, something indefinable is lost when you're assailed, everywhere, by logos and brands demanding your attention with neon lights and psychedelic colours. When the tiny figure on stage, remote, gyrating, seems more real when projected onto the two giant TV screens that flank it. Perhaps it's just that, in the words of the Sandi Thom song, 'I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair/in 77 and 69 when revolution was in the air.' |
