Omelette du Fromage mother fuckers! We all get to that stage after a boring few weeks where we need a massive blow-out, and Sunday's leg of SW4 looked to be my best bet. Saturday's lineup appeared far more suited to my usual tastes, but having seen a large majority of that lot at least twice in one capacity or another I opted for headliners the Chemical Brothers. With Carl Cox also on the bill, my attendance was guaranteed months previously, and so it was set - an Elephant & Castle pub for midday.
If you're not keen on reading about the use of drugs, I'd advise you stop reading. Having picked up my bits and bobs for day, the most expensive of which a bag of five red/orange coloured pills shaped in the face of the lead nutter from Breaking Bad, I made my three-year old mistake of overtaking early on. Walloping one down and quickly dismissing it's quality, I bombed another half quick time and, before I knew it, I'm smack-bang in the middle of the crowd under the Amnesia tent, vibsing away to the sounds of god knows who, eagerly anticipating John Digweed's set.
I was warned long before my arrival at Clapham Common about the issue of noise pollution from the festival, and the dramatic effect that has on the main-stage sound system, but in the hazy moments underneath the lasers, with my head now feeling like one of those fuzzy LED jelly balls, I assured myself it would all be nonsense. After my fifth toilet visit in what felt like as many minutes, with only the last visit a successful one (a feat that prompted me to start dance-walking a la Bez-meets-Liam Gallagher) Digweed touched the decks, delivered a set of immense quality and I was honestly mesmerised - I've got loads of the CDs he's showcased his talents on, including the ones alongside Sasha, who I unfortunately missed on the day, but I still didn't expect a set like that.
A good halfway through the day's supplies, half of us ventured over to the main stage whilst another group popped over to Jamie Jones. Bobbing back and forward trying to stay in anyway possible conscious in order to see one of my true musical heroes, Mr Carl Cox himself, a large of group of clowns around us seemed to be focused one one thing and one thing only: balloons. I'd already spotted this particular group outside the tube station earlier, one of whom clearly visible in his white "dench" branded tank-top/shorts combo, an outfit so outrageous even Elton John would tell you to fuck off if you suggested it to him.
The TOWIE-reject looking blokes, with the straps of their manbangs appearing like seatbelts moulded into their chests via the blazing sun were treating these balloons as if they were the product of 43 years hard graft from a Columbian dingy-runner, or the favoured pastime of late drug-smuggler Howard Marks - let me tell you now, there's not much more annoying then walking around a field, barely knowing what universe you're in, having to dodge pathetic silver canisters plastered across the green like bullet shells on the Gaza strip. My issue isn't necessarily with balloons themselves. If that's your comfort level as far as anything past alcohol goes, that's your shout completely, but my word please stop going on like like you've just emulated the Happy Mondays brown-filled trip to the Caribbean or spent six hours spark out cold on a gondola through Amsterdam having sprinkled angel dust on your Corn Flakes!
Mini rant aside, it's time for God himself, Carl Cox. Simply put: too long, didn't write. It was awful. The sound-system prophecy proved to be all too true - why the fuck can I hear rows of people in front of me talking to each other? Why am I not on the verge of two collapsed lungs with the bass having destroyed my ribcage? DISASTER. Not even a decent sounding modern take on Lil Louis' French Kiss perked many people's moods, so I did what anyone else would do in that situation: go home.
As if.
I tried to shove as much as what goodies I had left down my throat with the aid of piss-warm water from what I think was an ice cream van, waiting for the legendary Chemical Brothers. The entire field went pitch-black, the fairground rides stopped and the muffled conversations eerily came to a halt. The lights slowly came back up, the time was now: "HEY BOYS. HEY GIRLS. SUPERSTAR DJ. HERE WE GO." Poor system aside, I was just overjoyed to hear that tune and was in such a state that my head just said go with it. By the time Galvanize was played toward the end of the set, me and a group of others were sitting on the floor like obedient yoga students, feeling every beat pulse through our bodies - a confused lad was heard shouting, "this is photosynthesis".
All in all, unless they guarantee a lineup that will see me plotted outside the common as eager as one of those human forms of STDs, or after-party flyer distributors as they're officially known, with a sound system that actually has a chance of tearing my ears off, I won't be rushing back to SW4. I was rushing home on a bus though, a different type of rushing, with my phone dead but my desire to play Pokemon GO far more alive, and so the lucky passengers of the N21 helped me catch an imaginary Butterfree. Twice. Poor fuckers.
Big up Heisenberg, John Digweed and the ice cream man!
If you're not keen on reading about the use of drugs, I'd advise you stop reading. Having picked up my bits and bobs for day, the most expensive of which a bag of five red/orange coloured pills shaped in the face of the lead nutter from Breaking Bad, I made my three-year old mistake of overtaking early on. Walloping one down and quickly dismissing it's quality, I bombed another half quick time and, before I knew it, I'm smack-bang in the middle of the crowd under the Amnesia tent, vibsing away to the sounds of god knows who, eagerly anticipating John Digweed's set.
I was warned long before my arrival at Clapham Common about the issue of noise pollution from the festival, and the dramatic effect that has on the main-stage sound system, but in the hazy moments underneath the lasers, with my head now feeling like one of those fuzzy LED jelly balls, I assured myself it would all be nonsense. After my fifth toilet visit in what felt like as many minutes, with only the last visit a successful one (a feat that prompted me to start dance-walking a la Bez-meets-Liam Gallagher) Digweed touched the decks, delivered a set of immense quality and I was honestly mesmerised - I've got loads of the CDs he's showcased his talents on, including the ones alongside Sasha, who I unfortunately missed on the day, but I still didn't expect a set like that.
A good halfway through the day's supplies, half of us ventured over to the main stage whilst another group popped over to Jamie Jones. Bobbing back and forward trying to stay in anyway possible conscious in order to see one of my true musical heroes, Mr Carl Cox himself, a large of group of clowns around us seemed to be focused one one thing and one thing only: balloons. I'd already spotted this particular group outside the tube station earlier, one of whom clearly visible in his white "dench" branded tank-top/shorts combo, an outfit so outrageous even Elton John would tell you to fuck off if you suggested it to him.
The TOWIE-reject looking blokes, with the straps of their manbangs appearing like seatbelts moulded into their chests via the blazing sun were treating these balloons as if they were the product of 43 years hard graft from a Columbian dingy-runner, or the favoured pastime of late drug-smuggler Howard Marks - let me tell you now, there's not much more annoying then walking around a field, barely knowing what universe you're in, having to dodge pathetic silver canisters plastered across the green like bullet shells on the Gaza strip. My issue isn't necessarily with balloons themselves. If that's your comfort level as far as anything past alcohol goes, that's your shout completely, but my word please stop going on like like you've just emulated the Happy Mondays brown-filled trip to the Caribbean or spent six hours spark out cold on a gondola through Amsterdam having sprinkled angel dust on your Corn Flakes!
Mini rant aside, it's time for God himself, Carl Cox. Simply put: too long, didn't write. It was awful. The sound-system prophecy proved to be all too true - why the fuck can I hear rows of people in front of me talking to each other? Why am I not on the verge of two collapsed lungs with the bass having destroyed my ribcage? DISASTER. Not even a decent sounding modern take on Lil Louis' French Kiss perked many people's moods, so I did what anyone else would do in that situation: go home.
As if.
I tried to shove as much as what goodies I had left down my throat with the aid of piss-warm water from what I think was an ice cream van, waiting for the legendary Chemical Brothers. The entire field went pitch-black, the fairground rides stopped and the muffled conversations eerily came to a halt. The lights slowly came back up, the time was now: "HEY BOYS. HEY GIRLS. SUPERSTAR DJ. HERE WE GO." Poor system aside, I was just overjoyed to hear that tune and was in such a state that my head just said go with it. By the time Galvanize was played toward the end of the set, me and a group of others were sitting on the floor like obedient yoga students, feeling every beat pulse through our bodies - a confused lad was heard shouting, "this is photosynthesis".
All in all, unless they guarantee a lineup that will see me plotted outside the common as eager as one of those human forms of STDs, or after-party flyer distributors as they're officially known, with a sound system that actually has a chance of tearing my ears off, I won't be rushing back to SW4. I was rushing home on a bus though, a different type of rushing, with my phone dead but my desire to play Pokemon GO far more alive, and so the lucky passengers of the N21 helped me catch an imaginary Butterfree. Twice. Poor fuckers.
Big up Heisenberg, John Digweed and the ice cream man!
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