The rediscovery of beauty

I spent last weekend at the Flatchester Rock Festival with my 13-year-old nephew, who like every other private person in this blog had better receive a pseudonym. As he's Morph's son, let's call him Morpheus (short for Morphou Huios -- if my Greek can be stretched that far without breaking). The whole thing was quite an event for him: not only was this his first festival, it was the first time he'd even heard a live rock band. By the end of the weekend he must have heard about fifty, though a few only for as much time as it took for us to walk into a tent, grimace at each other and then walk out again.

The festival was quite an event for me too. Specifically, on the scale of sheer enjoyment it was one of the best weekends I've ever had. Only a few of the bands playing were famous, even in rock circles, and we missed most of those because they tended to play last (and delayed) on each day, and The Bean wakes up expecting to be entertained (by me) at a time in the morning that most rock heroes don't even know exists. So the high points for both Morpheus and me were lesser-known bands, many of them playing on a small alternative stage with only a hundred or so people in the tent. A week later, the overriding impression it left me with is one I would never have expected from a muddy, rough-round-the-edges and often very loud event: a memory and ongoing feeling of almost indescribable beauty. This was enabled and enhanced by the atmosphere created by the hard-working organizers: it was a festival created by and for music lovers, and as such it was "amateur" in the very best sense, with friendly faces everywhere. So it was possible to really relax and soak up what was on offer. (I would like to put it on record that the other magnificent effort that enabled us to have such a good time was Dora's, who did much more of her fair share of Bean care over the three and a half days of the festival).

Here's what happened, in diary form. You can find nearly all the bands on MySpace...

Thursday. 7 pm. Off on our bikes for the four-mile ride to the festival, half on roads, half on progressively narrowing paths. It's raining a bit. Musical highlights: two fine tribute bands. First up, the Pure Floyd show, who after all these years kindle in me a glimmer of understanding of why some people like Pink Floyd so very much (and also of why such people tend to be somewhat depressed). Then the tempo speeds up with Who's Next?, who have a singer and guitarist who look impressively like Daltrey and Townsend, a drummer who plays in mad Keith Moon fashion, and a bass player who looks like...well, Uncle Ernie. They perform most of Tommy. A thoroughly good time is had by all. Meanwhile, the rain sets in, then intensifies into a downpour, which continues long into the night. The alternative stage closes down early as the electrics are about to be flooded. The main stage manages to carry on, but we head off at about eleven. The first half mile is through a semi-flooded field. We are soaked, and I can hardly see anything. Halfway to the road, Morpheus comments "It might sound funny, but I'm really enjoying this".

Friday. Off on the bikes again; but halfway there, Morpheus has a puncture. I head for home to collect the repair kit, but on the way, decide I'd rather get the car instead, lest it happens again on the way home in the dark and the wet. We drive up and down the motorway without meaning to, but eventually figure out where the vehicle entrance to the festival actually is.

Highlight one: Dead Like Harry on main stage. Tuneful, soulful music, and an eye-catching lead singer. To me they seem uncannily similar to the (now sadly defunct) Coastal Dune, who I heard twice at Greenbelt a few years ago: great songs, great atmosphere, but too much in the middle of the frequency range, with keyboards, two guitars and a female voice. It sounds a bit of a muddy mess, like the grass underfoot. But then halfway through the set, one of the guitarists flicks a switch on his instrument and starts playing lead. The mix clears like the sun coming out, the music steps up several levels, and all is wonderful. If the guitarist keeps his switch flicked over that way then I predict a great future for them.

Highlight two: Mostly Autumn. Absolutely breathtaking, and the overall highlight of the weekend for me. Their music is of such dazzling beauty that it overshadows even that of the three female members of this eight-piece band. I cannot remember ever being so moved by a live performance. How did they create this stuff? I kept thinking: ten years ago, there was no such band, no such music, and then this comes into being. Then it was not, now it is. Ex nihilo, or so it seems. Truth, beauty and goodness, all rolled into one package. Plato would have loved it.

We went home after they finished; it was time to go anyway, but I was glad to leave, as I wanted to stay as long as possible on the emotional plane that Mostly Autumn had lifted me to.

Saturday. Ran round the house like crazy in the morning, catching up with all the weekend tasks and fixing the puncture. After lunch, we headed to the festival again, this time with The Bean (ticket price for under tens: one pound). Weather good now, but still muddy underfoot. The Bean found the festival "interesting"; he is not very tolerant of loud music. I had hoped he would enjoy the Sonic Manipulator, a rap artist busking in a full space suit and making all sorts of weird electronic noises; but The Bean immediately designated him a Scary Man, and wanted to be anywhere but near him ("Walk!"). An ice cream provided the perfect antidote.

Dora came and fetched The Bean in the car, somewhat to his disappointment, and Morpheus and I made our way to the alternative stage, to discover a programme organised by the Classic Rock society. The last four bands were very different, but all superb: Tinyfish, Dee Expus, Manning and Solstice. I bought Dee Expus's CD and have been listening to it all week. I think it is one I will be returning to year after year, as I will to the music of the other bands when I get hold of it. Certainly it was the only time in my life I have listened to four bands in a row over a period of five or six hours and wanted all of them to play longer.

Sunday. The last day. Some tedious patches, but with three real highlights. The first was a young band called Morph (their real name; nothing to do with the pseudonymous Morph and Morpheus characters in this blog). Four teenagers, two of them brothers, the lead guitarist with his torso on view and the word "SEX" tattooed in large letters between his navel and his waistband (I am certain that having anything tattooed just there would be enough to put me off that particular activity for a prolonged period of time, but it's different when you're nineteen, I suppose). From that thumbnail sketch, one might have imagined the music would be loud, aggressive and boring, but it was only the first of those. The Deep Purple influence was obvious, especially from the singer, who has a really exceptional voice. Afterwards I wandered over to buy a CD from their stall, which was staffed by three very pleased-looking forty-something-ish women who I can only imagine must have been their mothers. (I'm sure Deep Purple never went on tour with their mothers, though I think Frank Zappa and his band did, unless I misunderstood something).

Highlight two was Simon McBride, a wonderfully talented blues guitarist who was due to play on main stage but who, owing to delays there even longer than the previous day, was relegated to the blues tent. His loss, but very much our gain, as we were able to sit a few feet away and watch an outstanding display of lightning-speed virtuosity.

After Simon was banished from the stage after a mere two encores, we went to listen to Focus on main stage. I remember their hits from my teenage years, as did many of the audience. But they were late on stage (despite Simon McBride being moved and another band cancelling), and when they did appear, were, well, boring, in my very subjective opinion. I remember thinking, this is the kind of music that punk was reacting against back in 1976.

We wandered back to the alternative tent and were immediately captivated by something totally different: Sons of Albion. Snarling, spare, guitar-and-voice music, played by an invisible band in clouds of smoke illuminated from behind by glaring red lights. I had never heard anything like it before, and was quite blown away. To our huge frustration, it turned out we had walked in only fifteen minutes from the end of their set. Next time, I will not wait around for any more overblown seventies rock giants, but will head straight for the people I've never heard of before, on the reasonable assumption that they were invited because they are very, very good indeed.