Music > Live Reviews

Secret Garden Party 2017

25/07/17

FRIDAY 21ST JULY

So let’s start at the beginning: SGP has been going for 13 years and this year it is waving us goodbye, so it is promising to go out with a splash. This in mind, me and my festival buddy hoik a hundred own-brand Aldi premium lagers and a bottle of rum (literally just called ‘Spice Rum’) down to the train station, through the beautiful and plentiful platforms of Peterborough, to make our way to the shuttlebus awaiting us and many other Secret Gardeners in sunny Huntingdon. The bus is an exhibition of every type of festival person you can think of (apart from the ones who get taxis), and having been the first people on it, we get to watch each of them on their own festival-bus runway, from underwear-and-neon-net-vest girl to the moody 14 year old who has had to go with her parents (both in sparkling tops). There are whispers of rain and I feel distinctly unprepared.

I have only just passed the threshold of the entrance, having got my wristbands (press? Press?!), and let the dogs have a sniff of my bags (nowt in there but falafels mate), before I see my first Norwich face,  only topless and covered in glitter. The festival continues in this trend - both the familiarity, and the rhinestone nips. We set up tent, no hitches, in the sun, in an already pretty full field, neighboured by a group of 17 year old drum and bass kids talking about ketamine. I feel old. They leave their tent on the Monday and it is scouted out, taken down and packed up by a couple of hippy girls an hour or so later (“let’s get you a new tent babe!”).

Wandering around on the sunny Friday afternoon I am struck by the friendliness of the festival, and the artsyness - there is plenty to look at, and look we do. A giant papier-mache looking statue of a wolf in a suit greats you as you enter, and the grounds are littered by artworks and signs along the theme of fame. A house encapsulating this theme sits in the middle of the lake, complete with dollar signs and Lamborghini, which is set aflame during the Saturday Spectacle, alongside a literally amazing firework display,  and burns through to Sunday, leaving a heart-shaped ring of fire until the end of the festival.  A 20 foot poem starts ‘Modernism is a psychic love wave’ and ends ‘scythe the hair of the troglodyte Trump’. A sign which earlier in the day would have read EAT YOUR EGO reads EAT YOUR (L)EGO POO. There are a lot of shops and food stalls. We swing by the Coyote Moon tent to say hello to Norwich’s own Dr Clyde (down by one member, doing some very chilled out arty shit, drum guitar and vocal), and then make our way up to the main stage. Wild Beasts were a favourite of mine perhaps seven years ago and they bring in a good crowd. Everyone, as they should be, is very bouncy. It’s beginning to get dark and these guys suit the twilight. I have never seen them live before and I am happy to report Haydon Thorpe’s vocals are every bit as ethereal and powerful in the flesh. The stage looks big and the band fills it easily. I am dancing, wailing along to All the King’s Men. The band leaves the audience happy. We spend the interval talking to a couple in their fifties who tell us they used to run an S&M workshop at SGP and now their children don’t go to festivals. They give my buddy their home made laminated card with their contact, a couple picture, and a message (“Secret Garden Party was possibly enhanced by meeting with us, for us it was a sheer delight to spend time chatting with you”). Crystal Fighters begin. We are watching from the edge, the crowd is huge, it is high energy, the summer is here, despite the fact it is beginning to rain. This is the first festival that the band ever played and they are giving it all that. We bop about and then take ourselves off to bop some more to Honeyfeet at Lost Woods’ Chai Wallah. By half one we are sitting under a table to shelter from the rain. We take ourselves back to the tent and I fall asleep literally using a can of lager for a pillow.

SATURDAY 22ND JULY

Waking up in the tent is like waking up in a lightbulb. My shoulders ache. What time is it? Where are my cigarettes? I have been dreaming about drinking water. The toilets are still in a fairly respectable state, loo roll and everything. It’s sunny. We are told off by DNB Teens for giggling too loudly (work out it’s maybe 9AM?). Have a smoke. Giggle some more, give up on make up, decide to head in to locate a fried egg roll.

This takes a long time (everything takes a long time), mainly due to my futile outrage at festival prices: six quid for an egg roll?! SIX quid for an egg roll??! After standing in and abandoning many queues we find an iced coffee for £2.50, and an absolutely delicious egg and bacon wrap for a fiver from a wrap stall (this is literally one of my highlights). My shoulders are already beginning to burn. We wander down to the press tent for a cold beer and catch Anteros doing an early afternoon set on the main stage. Last year they played a smaller stage at the festival, and vocalist Laura Haydon divulges to us this is their first time on a main stage. They sound good, though look a little uncomfortable filling the space. People are playing Frisbee. It’s raining. One old man is busting out the moves.

As we head back into the festival we walk past a tent called Spiritual Playground, inhabited by Sheesus  (a woman in a white robe and a fake beard) and her sisters (also dressed in white). Someone is dressed as a giant cock and balls and it throwing seeds into a kneeling woman’s mouth. Everyone is shouting ‘all hail the kale’. We stop, stunned and starstruck. Is it performance art? Is it a show? We stop to watch what we find out to be the ‘Sacred Feminine and Masculine Ceremony’, and stick around for ‘Confession Session with Sheesus and the Sistas’. The performances run all day and it is literally some of the funniest shit I have ever seen. She is great; I laugh nonstop for at least half an hour.

After a quick stop at the tent for a falafel wrap (with guac and hummus, we’re leaving out no luxuries here), we catch Jorja Smith back at the main stage. The rain looks real good in the blue lights/strobe lights/fairy lights. Kinda disappointed to have missed Kate Nash - what’s she up to nowadays? Smith delivers a powerful set and there’s an impressive turnout for early evening. We rush off to catch Norwich’s fine Let’s Eat Grandma at the Where the Wild Things Are stage, who deliver a fun but somehow sobering set, complete with hand clapping and, as usual, a hundred instrument changes (makes you proud, dunnit?).  When they finish we return to the main stage and are greeted by Deap Vally. This, for me, is the unexpected highlight of the festival. They are, frankly, fucking excellent. Lindsey Troy’s vocals are metal as hell, she’s literally rockin’ her guitar, the chemistry between her and drummer Julie Edwards is palpable and powerful. They hammer their way through their set, we push our way to the front; you can’t believe there are only two of them on stage.

The night closes with Metronomy and tbh by now I am pretty knackered; it’s been raining all day and there’s a hole in my shoe. The band is known for their posh light live shows and if any band was going to keep people going this was the one. I attempt to dance without falling over in the mud. They look very impressive. There is fire. We wander off for a boogie at The Drop (Bushwaka! Followed by B Traits) and I take myself to bed.

SUNDAY 23RD JULY

I wake up on Sunday with one thing in mind: I Want To Go On The Ferris Wheel. We are down to the Nature Valley cereal bars: I munch one down for sustenance and attempt at cleaning the mud off my legs. I plunge my foot into the bog of my docs (they didn’t hold up), open a beer, and we’re ready for the road.

Sunday is a good day: there are spells of heavy rain, but there are spells of sunshine. People are happy. As we leave the tent the rain has let up and we are met with the Free Love Bus: a festival pop up with a brass band and rainbows, everyone’s dancing and holding ‘love’ signs. By this point in the festival one in every four girls has got their boobs out and their nipples covered in glitter (feature tits).  We stop by the bus to watch as they shout ‘Viva love! Viva revolution! Viva freedom!’. It’s good; I’m up for it. We continue towards my one and only plan for the day, but are pulled in to The Last Resort bar by a bluegrass band with a washboard and a double bass, called something like Handsy Mandsy (I can’t find them in the programme). I dance a little in the mud. We float on to The Kitsch Inn for Reggae Roast where we sit feeling very Sunday for half an hour (and it’s an exciting warm up for Toots later!!). The jungalists are out. It gets a bit much and we finally live my dream of making our way to the Ferris Wheel. It’s fast, and three sequin-clad men stagger out of the seat before we get in - the attendant checks it for puke (it’s fine).  Everyone in the world has wellyboots apart from me. After I’ve lived my dream (it was great, thanks), we check out the Colosillyum: it’s actual living hell. Hard house is playing and two men are being tied into harness and hoisted into the air to beat each other with inflatable Oscars. There are four or five men and women in gold clothing bouncing around at the bottom to get everyone into the party mood, shouting things. It’s pissing it down. This one poor guy is on so many drugs, clutching his Oscar, red in the face, dangling mid-air by his knackers. The other guy’s got no excuse. We watch until the fight's over (one of them wins by wrapping his legs around the other one’s head and biting the top off the Oscar). We run to escape and are welcomed in by the Spiritual Playground who are whacking out Cher and Madonna (more like it). It’s a battle against the rain but after a hot dog stop we fight our way through to see Toots and the Maytals. I saw these guys in Norwich last year and I’m beyond my luck to see them again; they are amazing live and the perfect band to end a Sunday with. Today, today, today is a happy day… Toots himself is a pleasure, everyone loves it, covered in mud, the band are raw and vibrant. When we get back to the tent I have actual trench foot. Thank you SGP, you’ve been a blast.