Night 3

Day three: midway and Midlake. My body is holding but I feel the schlep of getting out of bed and approaching the kettle. It’s going to be a long morning. I’m excited by the prospect of a beardier woolly-jumpered crowd tonight. Less Fearne types (I don’t hate Fearne, that emotion I reserve for Miquita Oliver, who shunned me in an elevator last week).

Tonight’s more of an out with the new and in with the old type of vibe; temporary respite from the histrionics of the battling newbies. I couldn’t have asked for a more peaceful, ambient halfway-point break in this journey. Except I don’t take advantage. The mission is spiralling out of control. Death Con 4. Aka Red Stripe. Unlike cheap cat-piss pinot, Jamaica’s finest can be guzzled like lemonade, particularly when chilled, and so it is. All bets are off. I will recount what I can.

The Kissaway Trail: Postal Service-esque/Sigur Ros with added (non-David Attenborough) vocals and minus polar bear VT. The Tabernacle becomes my synagogue as the lead singer invokes the spirit of God, known to many as Death Cab mastermind extraordinaire Ben Gibbard. I see the misty fog gathering around the stage, the exhalations marked by frosty breaths of CO2. Mmmmm. The chiming bells and harmonising vocals which speak of “Doing it for your motherrrrr, doing it for your sisterrrrr, doing it for your brotherrrr” are just the right side of Arcade Fire seasonal festiveness.

Speaking of misty fog, Midlake inhabit the album sleeve of Led Zeppelin’s IV, not that they would be aware of this: they look like they appeared from those very woods where they were reared by bears, only to discover the beauty of music after making instruments out of trees. Beginning with Stairway To Heaven 2010, a man moulded to resemble Peter Jackson conjoined with John Bonham announces his presence with a Werther’s Original smile.

With enough hair for a second coming of Christ (multiplied by the presence of the abominable Magic Number’s frontman Romeo Stodart) and the spiritual sanctum of The Tabernacle reeling with dedicated fans enthralled in some sort of medieval sex ritual near the front of the stage, I am taken back to the ‘70s when bands could actually play and guitar solos weren’t purely masturbatory. This guitarist is not afraid to get the Led out, or the Floyd. A proper band. At times a little too Greensleeves/Knights of the Round Table/Flutewood Mac (unfortunately not my words), I wonder whether they realise their too late to audition as the Merry Men to Russell Crowe’s yet-to-be-seen Robin Hood. Shame. They even have a lovely Maid Marianne to join them onstage… twice. Unfortunately Monty Python’s Knights of Ni were not present for an intermissive comedy break. Following an Albatross-like closing, they return for an encore I Blame Coco could learn from.

It’s the best pop album of all time and it’s the only thing I’m listening to as I fall about my bedsit at approximately midnight: Rumours. Oh Daddy… If there’s been a fool around/ It’s got to be me. Mayday, Mayday!


Jaz x