From quizzing gardaí about Iggy Pop to avoiding ATM queues, Electric Picnic veteran Tom Mathews has been there, done that and drawn the cartoon when it comes to the Stradbally experience
BETWEEN THE race for the presidency and the fall of capitalism, one cast about for some much-needed diversion. And what better than Electric Picnic? Soon the 240- hectare Stradbally estate will play host, once again, to thousands. I, for one, am never marked absent.
Before a note is played, the enormous banners, beribboned trees, giant wicker goddesses, improbable boat, huge striped tents, Ferris wheel, cinema, bars and concessions, above all the goths, punks, bikers and plain punters will make you believe in Woodstock all over again. Here you can see Ray Ban mirrored shades, leather, lace and leopard skin, top hats and stick-on butterfly wings, anachronistic Bay City Rollers munching candyfloss and a dancing Jesus raising his crown of thorns to bless the passers-by.
Some years back I was dancing on the grass to Iggy and the Stooges in bright sunshine. (I’ve been a fan since 1972 when Raw Power playing repeatedly at full volume did little to enhance my standing with the neighbours.) I was bopping with no little abandon as the Igster explained that he was “a street-walkin’ cheetah with a heart full of napalm” when a young lady gyrating opposite shouted conversationally, “You’re really getting off on this, aren’t you?” “Yes,” I replied, determining to employ argot such as “I dig him the most.” She digested this. “Know who’d really like you?” she demanded. The thought that some young friend of hers might have expressed an understandable interest in a sophisticated older man gripped me strangely. “Who?” I shouted suavely. “My granny.”
Shortly afterwards I joined four guards glumly regarding the bare- chested Mr Pop, now joined by a group of stage invaders with an almost uncanny inability to dance, as he simulated intercourse with the speakers. “How are you enjoying the show, officer?” I enquired of the least bemused. “Not really my cup of tea, sir.” “And what would that be?” I persisted. “That’d be a nice cup of tea sir.”
Which reminds me, refreshments of all kinds are available on site – everything from Tex-Mex to Japanese, and all kinds of burgers, including veggie. You will queue a long time for Pieminister, but it will repay the wait. Writhe with embarrassment as they ask if you want groovy (read “gravy”). Revenge yourself by saying “Yes, Pieminister.”
It will rain sooner or later. Take wellingtons and an umbrella. Take enough money too. Last time I spent more than an hour waiting to use the one ATM. Ideally there should be a big electric sign, like ones in railway stations, to tell you who is appearing where and when. In the absence of this, ask someone. Nobody will know. There’ll usually be two great acts playing simultaneously, as with Roxy Music and PiL last year. You will choose the wrong one. All your friends will be at the other one, which turns out to be the greatest gig in the history of the entire world. Never mind. Have a drink. You’ll never see it all anyway.
You forget how cold it gets at night. Take a jumper or a fleece. Then wander around Cabaret Corner. Someone will be eating fire or juggling chainsaws. Once I wandered into a tent at midnight to find Shirley Temple Bar (who has probably just stopped rehearsing Happy Birthday, Mr President) calling bingo after midnight. Flames from large braziers will leap into the dark.
Strange things will happen. Bands will thump away until the small hours.
And then, about four bells, as you shiver and yawn on the way to your tent, you encounter the army of cleaners patrolling the site with their refuse sacks so that when the bleary few assemble at an early coffee stall, everything looks news and shiny again – except you.
Should caffeine fail, push off to the Body Soul area for a bit of zen and the art of hangover elimination. Here it is always 1967. Mantras get chanted, Chinese horoscopes cast and scented candles ignited. You will encounter dreamcatchers, wind chimes, crystals, henna, patchouli, sand-sculpted flower-garlanded gods and animals, face- painted children, laughing Buddhas and Sheela-na-giggling galore.
There are poems and love letters hanging in trees and you will forget this wicked old world for a while. And you can catch up on all the latest about UFOs, crop circles and why brown rice is better for you than breakfast rolls.
Or, to hear talk of other matters, try Mindfield, where you’ll encounter poets, actors, novelists, playwrights and, of course, musicians.
There are live interviews with same in the Hot Press tent and with writers at the spoken arts and Arts Council ones. Philip King interviewed Paul Muldoon last year. (Without his band Rackett, alas, but who knows? Maybe this time.) If you want to read, check out Alice’s Eclectic Bookshop on its annual holiday from its weekend gig in Dún Laoghaire Park.
Three days fly, and you are in festival shock. Symptons include a desire for the thing to go on forever, tinnitus and phantom wristband syndrome. The last two will pass. And the first? Well, there is always next year.
st Tom Mathews reads from his poetry in the Word Tent of Leviathan on Saturday
