A Diary of Sunrise Festival 2007

Review by Rachel Wild

The threat of rain hung over Sunrise Festival like an ominous curse. Eyes regularly darted skyward, all of us growing quickly sensitive to every minor shift in the breeze.

Those that travelled on Thursday had driven through blanket rain and had arrived exhausted; relieved to find that the site was only muddied along the pathways and tracks, but firm enough under the grass. Tents went up amid neighbourly chatter, but the question on everyone’s lips was inevitably the weather. “I heard they forecast thunder storms”… “I didn’t hear about that, but they said heavy rain over the weekend, and tomorrow”… But whatever the case, we all seemed set for a watery battering, and the mood amid the stalwart folk that had arrived early was unquestionably tinged with a disquieting foreboding. A rainbow spread across the sky, offering us hope, and was immediately followed by rain, instantly dashing it. 

Clusters of people moved sombrely from place to place, finding their bearings, dwarfed by the scale of the site. Eager to commit a vague idea of where everything was before nightfall, I joined in the milling, desperately trying to find the Information Tent, where I was promised my first glimpse of the programme, which still hadn’t been delivered when I rocked up at the festival at 5.00pm.

With the stewards seemingly as clueless as the punters about where everything was, it had taken me half the evening to find the Press Bus, where I was expected to undergo another unwelcome level of bureaucracy, trading in my ‘E Ticket’ in exchange for a laminated Press Pass. Luckily I had managed to retain this essential document at the second admissions office, despite several rather bullish attempts to relieve me of it. “But how do I know that you aren’t going to give this to someone else the moment I let you in?” I was asked repeatedly by the overzealous jobs-worth at the desk. Despite the answer being abundantly obvious to me (not least because it was clearly stated on the email ticket; something I regularly pointed out with apparent futility), I continued to explain that Sunrise required me to present the ‘E Ticket’ to the Press Office, and failure to do so would result in me not getting my press pass. After a series of questions, all beginning with ‘Yes. But…?’, my boorish inquisitor grew tired of throwing her weight around, and finally permitted me to proceed, clearly none the wiser of Sunrise protocol, and perhaps more shamefully, Sunrise ethos.

Nevertheless, my faith in Sunrise was quickly restored. Tamzin at the Press Bus, who fairly bustled with enthusiasm and congeniality, greeted me with such a welcome that I felt like an errant child being brought back to the fold. All of my enquiries were dealt with professional proficiency and a jovial willingness to be of assistance, dispelling my rancour at being treated so badly at the gate a few hours earlier. After being debriefed, and with press pass in hand, I wandered off in search of the all elusive programme… 

It was dark by the time I found the Information Tent, and so I was exceedingly relieved to discover that the gleaming 58page programme had just been delivered. In my haste to get everything organised, I’d idiotically left my valuables in the car, and so was unable to pay the £3.00 cover charge, but noting my utter despondency, I was generously given a copy on trust. With a renewed briskness in my step, I strode back to the campsite, retrieved my money and headed straight to Pink Genie, where I poured over the listings, only to realise that I had missed Joe Volk and Stanton Delaplane. Bollocks!

With the Gods intent on providing me with all the stimulus I needed to embark on an epic emotional rollercoaster ride, I decided to stay and soak up the resplendent comforts of Pink Genie, and allow it to work it’s magic on me for a while. Reclining gently into the plump luxuriant cushions, and sipping my soothing mint tea, I surrendered to the charm and mystique of this exquisite Berber marquee. Drifting, as though transported by magic carpet to a more enchanted realm, I became immersed in the hypnotic Gnaoua music being played, and gently my tribulations began to evaporate. 

“Do you want to join us?” Djamila asked, gently stirring me from my reverie. “I’ve made some food for everyone”, she explained. Platters of the most exotic fare had been laid out on the antique brass tables on the other side of the tent, and the waft of delicate spices was too enticing to refuse. Everything I tasted was exquisitely delicious, (no wonder it’s called Moorish food), and somewhat inevitably Pink Genie became my second home for the duration of the festival.

Returning to the Information Tent, I paid my dues, and ambled into ID Spiral, to chill out some more. People were swinging lazily in hammocks between futuristic totems, and lounging in geodesic domes that interconnected with seemingly labyrinthine sophistication. One central dome, massive in scale, housed the 24hour ID Cafe, that was functioning impressively, with seamless integration, as equally mesmerising as the abundant artwork on display.  

After soaking up the ambient sounds, and chatting for a while, I wandered off to Waveform to check out this, much talked about, new addition to Sunrise. The brilliant colours of this beautifully dressed tent, were in stark contrast to the soothing white of IDSpiral, bursting like a firework display at midnight at a millennial bash. And the party that wouldn’t end until the early hours of Monday morning was already raging, but I resisted the temptation to experience instant euphoria by entering the undulating masses, and trundled off ‘home’ for an early night.

Managing six hours sleep before waking to a dry but heavily overcast day, I felt revived and optimistic – although it wasn’t long before the hideous memories of the unspeakably dire chemical toilets in the crew camping field came rushing back to me… Fortunately, I’d opted to pitch my tent in the public camping field, (in close proximity to Pink Genie), and so had inadvertently avoided the need to use the crew facilities ever again. So, when nature summoned me, I found I was in for a vastly more tolerable experience - thank God!  The well made stilted eco-loos, styled on the hole-in-the-ground continental toilet, which graced the public camping field, were unquestionably a vast improvement, and are probably the best festival toilets I’ve ever used; certainly worthy of the award they were given last year. If only there were more of them! 

Much of the day was spent checking out the site, and as always I was awed to see how much effort had been expended in creating beautiful temporary gardens and works of art. It amazes me that people are so willing to invest so much time and thought in such ephemeral displays, but I am always grateful to them for their devotion. Lingering, as I always do, at the Wishing Tree, reading the missives, I finally felt like I had merged with the spirit of Sunrise... And in that moment of grace, anything and everything seemed possible… even miracles…

A little later on, something quite incredible happened; the dark, heavily laden cumulous clouds gave way to strikingly clear blue skies, and the blazing sun bathed us with penetrating heat, drying the ground and reviving everyone’s morale. People briskly shed their wet weather clothing revealing a plethora of colour and glittering costumes.

Sunrise had emerged, as if from the deepest of slumbers, to gently raise itself to bask in it’s own reflected glory. 

People began to arrive in their droves, ferried to the campsite on horse drawn carts, or trudging with rucksacks, breathing in the escalating excitement that surrounded them. It was like riding a wave that was growing in scale and momentum, prompting a rare sense of liberty and carefree abandonment.

Despite being intent on making the most of the sunshine, it wasn’t long before I was inexorably drawn to the Fish Seeks Bicycle tent... something that would repeatedly happen throughout the entire weekend. The Glitzy Baghags from Bristol were exuberantly pounding out their sound, (skiffle / klezmer / ska mixed with a hint of Parisian je ne sais quoi), on the kitchen sink, a couple of cheese graters, fiddle, accordion, oboe, sax, guitar and double bass. Thumping good festival music, not to be missed! And then it was off to the main stage for a touch of Tarantism, a consummate ensemble of ska, funk dub lovers, revving the crowd with powerful vocals, some thwacking base and funky wa-wa, and perhaps more curiously, some top-notch penny whistle from Mel, the lead singer.    

Night brought with it the most spectacular harvest moon as well as a gripping chill, hastening me home to put on my woollies and grab a bite to eat – falafel wrap, par excellence, courtesy of Pink Genie (of course). Seduced by it’s subtle charms once more, I rested a while longer than I’d wanted, and practically missed all of Dragonsfly playing to an intimate crowd all doing traditional West country folk dances like the Plim – a hoot in anybodies money.

Then, through a sense of obligation, more than anything else, I wandered back to the main stage to catch a bit of Ozric Tentacles and their ‘freeform psychedelic jam’, but in all honesty, I was in no mood for their trippy mix of synthesized other-worldly flurries, but thoroughly enjoyed the gut wrenchingly good guitar solos, that were all too short lived. Drifting off to stare at the moon, and marvel at the prevailing sanity, considering that we were approaching the witching hour on this night of heightened lunacy, I paid the Invisible Circus a fleeting visit, and was awed by what I found. This brand new top, was beautifully fitted out; an immense black and white backdrop, depicting a composite street scene, framed the ample stage, and an exhilarating world consumed me the moment I entered it’s doors. All kinds of life affirming madness was taking place, and habitual visits over the course of the weekend, gave rise to some of the most inspiring, frenzied experiences of bizarre brilliance that I’ve ever had the joy to witness in my life, let alone at the festival. If you live anywhere near Bristol I urge you to expose yourselves to their giftedness.

http://www.invisiblecircus.co.uk - e-mail HERE

Dragging myself away I made it to The Bimble Inn in time to buy my first pint of Sunrise Ale before School of Trobar took to the stage. Treading deftly amid the burgeoning crowd, I found myself a spot at the front and sat myself down. The next hour was spent wrapped by the most mesmerising maelstrom of sound that was conjured by two brilliant musicians; Tobias Ben Jacob and Philip Henry. Between them they proffer a plethora of musical influences ranging from the ballads of medieval minstrels to the Carnatic and Hindustani traditions of India, particularly the sitar ragas of the North. Contemporary influences include acoustic trance, finger-picking and blues, all subtly, but potently providing a rich melange from which the lyric emerges.

When Philip Henry plays slide guitar he is spellbinding. His hands fly in flurried fluency as though coaxing the rich seething sounds, by some kind of enchantment, to emanate from his guitar. The comparative stillness of Tobias Jacob does not create such a spectacle. Instead, his hauntingly melodious voice possesses a poignancy so profound, as though imbued with a chorus of troubadours who’ve sung their wisdom through the ages, that it steals it’s way into your being propagating a profusion of intense awakenings.  

These men create an alchemy of sound, and they will hold your hearts in their hands for as long as you listen to them… and for some time after, I shouldn’t doubt.  

Making my way home, I called in on Smerins Anti Social Club, a band so diverse that they defy definition. Boasting a booming brass section, the overriding influences are undoubtedly heart-racing, high-speed car-chasing, crashing Ska, with a healthy helping of  big movie soundtrack, in the vein of John Barry (James Bond) or Morton Stevens (Hawaii 5-0). But the violin adds flavours of Eastern European Folk, and the keyboard and rhythm section, often take you to a psychedelic place more usually populated by bands such as The Doors. It may not be possible to pigeon hole this band, but one thing is for certain, this riot of sound will having you dancing out of your skin, if you ever have the good fortune to hear them live.

The following day I began my musical diet with The Dirty Socials in the Eartheart Tent. Fronted by Anthony Murtagh, cut from the same cloth as Rod Stewart, raunchy and compelling, I would say that this no-nonsense rock band are not merely ‘dirty’, but downright filthy. Sounding like The Manic Street Preachers being haunted by the ghost of The Cramps, these boys are kick-ass raw and bursting with talent. All of them, particularly Murtagh were born to perform; they’ve ‘got it going on’ in every respect. And if the world deals them the hand they deserve, we’ll be seeing a lot more of them in the very near future…  

Back at the main stage Fortune Drive were unleashing a Molotov cocktail of impassioned down and dirty soul-infused rock on the crowd (which is no mean feat in broad daylight). I don’t know whose idea it was to put a band of this stature on so early in the evening - hi-octane, thundering rock of this calibre deserves to be dramatically lit. But despite their slot not doing them any favours at all, this Bristol band delivered a heart-racing, adrenalin-pumping twisting and writhing set, with Bobby Anderson embellishing the firmament of thrash and scud with celestially soulful vocals that differentiates this band from the rest. The son of soul diva Carleen Anderson (who fronted Young Disciples and has worked with Paul Weller since1992), it’s no wonder that Bobby Anderson sings like he does.

Bad Science in The Cats Cradle Dome; another hi-energy Bristol based band with a skanking stage presence (especially when they borrow The Scrub brass section) really stamped their mark on the festival. The improvised set kicked off at drag-racing pace, with Dizraeli taking the crowd by the scruff of the neck, facing off with a barrage of eminently eloquent lyric and fervour - very definitely an erudite voice of dissent.

Calling in on www.freedome.org.uk, the home of ‘spontaneous musical improvisation for people of all ages and ability’, I left smiling, safe in the knowledge that the future of British music was in good hands, and headed off in the direction of Now We’ve Got Members at the Fish Meets Bicycle stage. This amorphous ensemble are an unlikely looking bunch of gifted folk that produce an incredibly original sound by effortlessly spanning the ages and hemispheres and merging practically every conceivable genre into one deliciously appetizing soup… infinitely more inspiring than Alabama 3, who were all swagger and no substance. Perhaps providing me with the most disappointing experience of the festival, watching a wasted, burnt out Jake Black, (aka The Very reverend Dr. D Wayne Love), stagger about the stage like a disoriented injured animal is not my idea of entertainment. May be this iconic, eminently innovative, and usually quite brilliant band need ‘a bit of time out’; either that, or Rev. Love might need a spell in rehab?

Luckily Ptarmagin in the Horse Drawn Camp meant that I could round off the night on a high note. Flanked on all sides by fusty geezers in leathers and military dress jackets, with beards down their chest and bottles of the good stuff in hand, I warmed the cockles of my heart on the fires of Ptarmagin’s creative wealth. Meaningful lyric was hypnotically brought to life by the female lead, who reminded me of Skunk Anansie in one of her more tender moods, and the subtle textures of this delicate music was as rhythmically pacifying as waves breaking gently on the shores of time.  

By Sunday the clouds had returned again, but Sunrise defied the reports once more, and staved off the rain. News that Babel had just got signed to People Tree, an indie label in London, made their performance all the more exquisite. Out of all the Bristol bands that I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, this is the one that I can most easily imagine playing on a fuck-off big stage, to a vigorously appreciative crowd; Daniel J Coughlan, the Babel front man, would look so very at home there. Pounding out a visceral blend of Arabic-infused country, folk-rock, accompanied by lyric imbued with intensely astute cynical wit, their music is as seductive as an overture from the dark fallen angel himself.

Back to Bimble Inn, and Carrie Tree, a stunning woman with childlike innocence and heaps of ability, but who does something irritating with her voice, staunching it intermittently in staccato fashion, which, without this affectation, would be purely lovely. Followed by Martha Tilston, who sings her achingly beautiful self-penned songs with modest charm and pitch perfect clarity, her talents are nothing less than beguiling delightful.

Carrying my pint of Sunrise ale across the entire extent of the grounds, I took up residency in the tent that had been abridged to ‘Fish’. Dubrovnik, the showily kitsch, ultra savvy, fun-hustlers from Bristol were putting on a great show, with their unique stylings of dub, ska, funky electronica, and I soon necked the rest of my pint and put on my dancing feet. Suitably primed, I went into gyratory overload with The Bays who just purely and simply blew me away in every conceivable manner.

Their equipment was like an elaborate art installation. The intensity of their concentration was riveting. Their music, (improvised experimental drum and bass), was stunningly brilliant… so searing I could palpably feel it becoming part of my physical being, flooding in like a surge of power, bringing with it a state of heightened awareness, elevating my levels of sensitivity, that I could practically feel my toenails tingling with approbation. And for a moment, the whole of Sunrise Festival seemed to be epitomised by the plain gold ring swinging from a silver chain around the neck of Andy Gangadeen; mesmerised by its hypnotic sway, I felt as though my consciousness had expanded to unite with Oneness of everything. And in that moment I knew nothing. And in that moment I felt everything… And for that moment, all time was now. And for that moment everything was Love.

Fucking A!

In an ideal world, I’d have taken myself off, after such an enthralling experience, and laid myself down, limbs spread like a star, in a moon drenched field. Instead, I raced back to Bimble, so that I could regale you all of what Maddog McRea were getting up to. Under normal circumstances I’d have flung myself whole-heartedly into their consummate and lively renditions of folk classics – these boys can really play, effortlessly adding their own refinement and inflection to the time honoured reels and jigs; but quite frankly I’d been utterly overwhelmed by a prior engagement, and it was all that I could do to sit quietly in a corner, with mouth slightly agape, and sup more ale, whilst watching the freaks, hippies and revellers lose themselves in right old knees up.