Festivals No More

From the mudbath of Reading ’77 to corporate branding and hairstyling at Hyde Park, have music festivals ever been any good?

Some years ago, I had the good fortune to have lunch at The Butchery, the home of poets Martin Figura and Helen Ivory. I chiefly remember a lot of wine, which I regretted during the long car ride home from Norwich to North Kent, and Martin persuading me to try the rhubarb he'd made for pudding. I've hated rhubarb since childhood, and after Martin saying, ‘Go on, try it,’ several times, I took a spoonful only to find it as disgusting as I remembered.

Joni Mitchell's Blue was playing, and ‘Carey’ came on. I said I'd love to go to the Mermaid Café, and we fell to discussing live music and going to festivals in middle age. Martin said that he thought they should supply a tent with armchairs and cups of tea for those of us of a certain age.

In the queue for The Who

Last weekend, Hyde Park line-ups were announced, including Neil Young. I've seen him in that setting twice, and once at the Hop Farm Festival. Tempted as I am to see Neil Young again, it's a no from me. When I went to my first festival, aged sixteen, in 1976, The Who at Charlton Athletic Football Ground, I loved the crowds, the inconveniences, the horrible food. I queued with my friend Julie from early morning, and we found a place at the front. I discovered in recent years that a number of counterfeit tickets were sold for the event, and the arena was greatly overcrowded. In hindsight the day could have ended in tragedy, but I just thought that was how things went. Squashed together, fainting bodies passed over our heads to the security guards in the pit at the front of the stage, getting soaked in the rain, not having brought as much as a jacket ,and not caring as Keith Moon, Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend and John Entwhistle were on stage only feet away.

The festival experience reached its nadir for me at Reading in 1977. The arena was a mudbath. Black plastic sacks were sold as protection from the elements ,with head holes and arm holes cut out. My boyfriend and I squelched through the quagmire in unsuitable footwear. I possessed only plimsolls and flip-flops in those days. Both of us felt thoroughly miserable. As we returned to our tent one evening, we bumped into some boys I'd met on holiday a few weeks before, one of whom I'd had a sweet romance with, something I hadn't confessed to the boyfriend. It was an awkward moment. The holiday boyfriend didn't give the game away, but the not-so-permanent boyfriend worked it out, and we split up soon afterwards.

It was fine travelling by train from Reading to London when the carriages were filled with muddied festival-goers, but when I parted from the boyfriend at Waterloo to get our separate trains, there were strange glances from other passengers as I sat with jeans caked in mud up to the knees.

Waiting for Led Zeppelin, Knebworth 1979

Reading ’77 didn't put me off. Still I went to festivals, including Led Zeppelin at Knebworth in 1979. Festivals consisted of hours and hours of boredom leading up to the music and in between acts, horrible food and the toilets. Oh, the toilets. It was all worth it, though, to see my beloved Robert Plant as a dot in the distance.

Then a long hiatus due to early motherhood. When I was expecting my second child, I saw Status Quo at their ‘farewell concert’ at Crystal Palace in 1984. Spoiler alert: Status Quo continued performing those three same chords for many decades afterwards. A baby bouncing on my bladder meant that I couldn't achieve the continence I'd managed at sixteen. I don't recall going to the toilet at all that day when I saw The Who. The day did bring the revelation of Little Steven and the Disciples of Soul, and the sun shone all day, so it was a good one to go out on before a long, long break from one day festivals.

It was weeks after Aerosmith, at the old Wembley Stadium in 1999, that I fell ill. On the way there, one of our number collapsed and was taken away in an ambulance. I was shocked that no one went with him, but the group I’d fallen in with were good time friends, a crowd of drinkers who thought more of a good day out than accompanying their friend to hospital. I, too, fell ill a few weeks later, and the fun loving guys were no more supportive to me. You find your true friends at such time. The man taken off in the ambulance was later diagnosed with MS. My illness took much longer to diagnose, but two years later it was given the label of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

I thought that I'd never go to a gig again, let alone a festival. Years of enforced rest and isolation made me both agoraphobic and claustrophobic. I had to force myself to step outside the house, and I didn't cope well in crowds, or anywhere where I couldn't see my exit. A good friend helped, taking me to pubs and cafés for ten minutes at a time, leaving when I'd had enough. Gradual exposure made the situations easier, and I started going to small gigs and eventually bigger ones.

A year after I met my husband-to-be, Bob, we saw Neil Young at the Hop Farm. I discovered that there was an access platform, which I could have used had I booked in advance, and for future festivals I made sure I had a seat and a free carer ticket. Festivals became easier, but I didn't like the turn that they'd taken. Our next Neil Young gig was at Hyde Park. We had a good spot in the access area on a raised platform with our own loos. In front of us was the open area closest to the stage. The entrance to that was policed by stewards, as you could only get into it if you paid more for your ticket than the plebs further back. Behind us was the VIP area with sofas and its own bar. God knows how much those tickets cost. The punters there were likely corporate freeloaders. They seemed to have little interest in the music, that's for sure.

Towards the back of the arena, there was a fun fair and highly-priced food and drink stalls. You couldn't bring your own food and drink in. There was a stall where you could get your hair blow dried. It was a million miles away from the Reading ’77 mudbath. Hard Rock Café branding everywhere and hairdos as part of a music festival? I saw Neil Young once more in the same setting. Then I called time on big outdoor festivals until Paul Weller was announced for the Hop Farm, an act I'd never seen, but I'd always wanted to. Plus Richard Hawley was on the bill.

The day before the gig it was 28 degrees. On the actual day, the temperature dropped so low that we brought blankets from the car to keep us warm. Food and drink were confiscated at the gate, but I managed to smuggle in some fruit and crisps. Top tip: white-haired women over sixty are less likely to have their bags searched thoroughly. There was some confusion over where I could get my wristband for the access platform. After being sent on a wild goose chase to an information tent that didn't exist, I remonstrated with the steward who didn't want to give me access to the access area, and we found our seats.

It was a poor excuse for an access platform, made of scaffolding and boards. We looked across to the covered VIP area with its comfy seating, bar, and canvas roof. I could see that the ethos of the promoters was money-making, rather than care and comfort. Screens flashed adverts for Saga and retirement villages.

The festival had no atmosphere. We very nearly left before Weller came on stage.

The following week, Bob’s band was playing at Sandwich Folk and Ale, a free festival. We had the best time in the best company: lovely music, sunshine, a pint of craft cider in hand at a reasonable price.

Have I been to my last big outdoor festival? I think I have. Unless, as Martin Figura suggested, festivals can supply a tent with armchairs and cups of tea where you can have a snooze in the afternoon.