Glastonbury 2009

Ahoy, groupie renters. I write this from the box bedroom of my parents' house in Essex. Top floor, far right window as you look on us from the outside in. The curtains are closed or I would wave. Sorry about that. Anyway, now is the time for a break from catching up on giving the people who read my beloved Kruger free things. It seems summer is the time give things away. The sun makes us more generous souls, I believe. But yes. Not only this but it is also time for a post-Glastonbury analysis. A dissection of the good, the bad and the "do you know who I am?" brigade. My heart and mind remember the weekend just past as one of utmost excellence, although my feet and knees would tell you a rather different story, could they form words and that.

For the most part of the weekend, I wore a bright orange high-vis tabard. This was not a fashion statement, more an obligation should I wish to remain on site. I would like to tell you that Michael and Emily Eavis have introduced a Glastonbury law which says all festival goers must dress in such a way but alas, it was because I was working. Simultaneously raising money for charity, dancing like a psychiatric patient to new and old bands and making sure none of you blaggers and chancers got entry to the festival. Thank you Oxfam for letting me do so, although I would like to take back some of that thanks for making me work through both Maccabees sets. The cheek of it.

But. On to the more important matter of who I did see. The highlights of this seemingly endless list were as follows:

Two Door Cinema Club. So good I watched them twice. Northern Irish synth-pop. Maybe signed to Kitsune. Maybe not. If they are, I want to be them. Perhaps I shall marry them instead. Watch out for maybe some exciting future announcements about Two Door, some other Norn Iron bands and RaG in the coming months. We may have something up our sleeves.

Kap Bambino. French electro. Is my life. Or a vast majority of it anyway. Yeahhhh.

Metronomy. First time without Le Stebbing. Ohhhh Stebbing. Twas good though, apart from the fact their lights are no longer push lights. And that the PA people cut the power before they could play Radio Ladio. Bastards. On a Stebbing related note. I spent most of my second shift making eyes at Michael Your Twenties, who was wristbanding for Festival Republic. I don't think he noticed my eye-making, or at least I do hope else that'd be well embarrassing, innit?

Golden Silvers - Another Universe made me bawl my eyes out whilst outside relentlessly heavy rain killed my tent.

General Fiasco. More Norn Iron-ness. Included in the watch out announcement 2door statement above.

Rumble Strips. Why can't I love you in London? A new song to add to the this-is-how-I-feel-about-Goldsmiths catalogue. Its getting quite expansive.

The Big Pink. Whom I also saw twice, and both occasions without meaning to. First on the way to see Animal Collective, I was diverted by the reverberations of their synthy noise which never fails to make my body shake with excitement. Second, whilst queuing to get a copy of the Guardian the next morning, the acoustic strains of Velvet made me squeal rather loudly OHMYGODITSTHEBIGPINK. And thus, I stayed and watched them and marvelled at how I could actually hear Robbie's voice for once, what with it being acoustic and synth-less and all.

Bombay Bicycle Club. Whom I am now interviewing tomorrow eve. But sadly only, it transpires, over the phone. With Jamie. Who. Is Kirsty MacColl's nephew. INSANE. This is probably good that I'm not interviewing Jack as he does make me literally weak at the knees a bit. Anyway. Park set. Good times. I was loving life whilst burning my face. Yayyy.

Hockey. Good dance routine to Work, is all I'll say.

Passion Pit. Beatzzz. Jarvis Cocker dedications. Sleepyhead.

Klaxons. In fancy dress. I LOVE YOU.

GoodBooks. Last ever show. I got strangely emotional and actually cried in the first four bars. In full view of Max. Low point.

The Soft Pack. Kept giving me strange looks. Ohhhh dear. Blistering garage-rock watched by pretty much no one as everyone else was being stupid and watching Karen O. Soft Pack > YYYs.

Nick Cave. SEXXXY.

Blur. Obviously... the best thing I have ever seen. Somehow two rows away from the front. Odd. But also sweaty and wet and ewww but also, in the words of Oasis, mad fer it. Badhead and Jubilee and Oily Water and Trimm Trabb and NO ESSEX DOGS. Sad times. Damon crying made me cry (even more). Graham did a VERY sexy dance to the slowed down drum intro of Song 2 which they have apparently failed to broadcast to the world via the BBC. I would complain if I were you. It was hot. Ending on The Universal obviously had the predicted effect of making me weep my tearducts dry. I love you Blur. A million times more than anyone could ever understand.

I return to the old London tomorrow afternoon, phone Jamie BBC, go to Asda to stock up on strawberry cider because I don't think I can handle going cold turkey, maybe go see Deerhoof or maybe instead go see Jamie T. Who knows. You will. After it has happened. YEAH.

So long Astoria; farewell PUSH Saturdays

Before entering the sticky-floored and dodgy smelling Astoria2 last night, I was trying to think of fitting obituaries for Push and already starting the mourning process for messy Saturday nights on the cheap. Sure, there's probably other club nights with free for students deals but are they as good as Push? Almost certainly not. Thus, the thought of no longer having this weekly indie disco haven to run to struck the fear of God into me and resolutions were quickly made to have one final epic banger of a night out at The Final Push Ever. Luckily, posters inside informed me a new venue that isn't being knocked down to build a fuck off massive train station has been found and Push shall continue forevermore (well, for the forseeable future, at least).
My first Push experience was way back in September 07, when myself and three of the RaG circle attempted and failed to blag our way into The Holloways show next door. Resigned to our fate we set ourselves down on the doorstep of Ghetto (still don't know what lies beyond that door, y'know) and proceeded to do what all underage kids do on a Saturday night in the city, and drank cheap vodka and filled our lungs with smoke. Somehow, from somewhere, Metronomy appeared in a car. The details are hazy. Anyway, after a little chat, those three kind souls offered to put us on the list for their show at Push and so we thought our night was set. Unfortunately, the door staff at Astoria2 are quite vigiliant with their ID checks and so we failed to get in there too. But the glow of the lights reflecting on the mirrored walls and the names on the flyers were enough to make me vow to come back one day.
And come back I did, time and again, taking full advantage of the godsend that was free entry for students before midnight and £2 whiskey and coke deals. I danced to disco hits and 80s indie til my feet were numb and developed a deep love for a number of bands - Bombay Bicycle Club, Video Nasties, Hatcham Social, to name but three - along the way. Push is not just a club night to me, but a part of my musical education.
Recently, I spent my 19th birthday at Push, enraptured by Titus Andronicus and perpetually squealing at every electro-pop future classic banger dropped. That night ended messily - Push nights always end up that way - with me dancing barefoot on the beer soaked floor, swinging invisible gladioli to This Charming Man. At the Dirty Pretty Things aftershow last month, I spent the first hour jumping on one of my RaG co-founders, practically crying with joy every time a new, fabulous song started.
Last night was no different to all those other times. We danced, we drank, we stumbled from room to room talking to boys that make us weak at the knees and bumping into other Push regulars we somewhat awkwardly recognise from huddling together whilst queuing in the cold. There was the usual line up of exciting bands with Loverman, Cajun Dance Party and Good Shoes, the latter of whom had the tiny room 2 absolutely rammed. We danced right next to the speakers and found the cage around the sound desk in the middle of room 1 far too fascinating than could be considered normal. Time flew by and at some early hour of the morning, a dreadlocked reveller decided to climb the rigging and swing his way halfway across the room like a five year old on the monkey bars in the playground. Security grabbed him before he could get past midway and everyone carried on dancing, but with a renewed sense of youthful mischief and a spark in their step. Things carried on until 4am (or just after, who knows. I was too busy cutting some rug to be clock-watching) and then, the final song that shall ever reverberate around Astoria2's dimly lit walls was played. "Do you remember the first time/I can't remember the last time..." seems a fitting way to end it, don't you think?
But wait, it's not the end entirely. No more Astoria2 means no more Push Saturdays. But! Salvation has been found in the form of Fridays at Bar Rumba on Shaftesbury Avenue. First one's on Jan 30th. See you there for more of the same?