Latitude 2022
Latitude is set in a beautiful park tastefully enhanced with all manner of frills (and purple sheep). There is music, and lots of it, with main stages of mainstream acts complemented by the quirky and intriguing if you dig deep enough, while the manageable layout tempts you to poke about more than your aching feet appreciate. In short, despite the sometimes suffocating branding and sponsorship liveries, it’s a nice place to be.
Tony Moore (full picture Gallery to follow)
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Is there anything more wearisome than a festival veteran moaning that a festival isn’t as good as it used to be? But it’s something that can be said of Latitude with some objectivity. Latitude grew steadily in scale and ambition until around 2016, but since then has been scaled back, with the Lake Stage, Solas, Cabaret, The Little House, Poetry, Literary, Film and the Welcome Trust all missing from those halcyon days. In fairness, we now have the Listening Post, the Outpost and the Trailer Park, but I don’t think anyone would claim it’s a fair exchange. So if all that is true, why did I have such a good time last weekend?
I think the answer is in the strengths that organiser Melvin Benn plugged in right from the start, and it’s worth mentioning the things Latitude does well - perhaps better than anyone else. These are things too easily taken for granted. Security is firm but fair, the toilets are spot on, and spotless, and most significantly, it is set in a beautiful park tastefully enhanced with all manner of frills (and purple sheep). There is music, and lots of it, with main stages of mainstream acts complemented by acts you’ve never heard of in the smaller venues – the kind that will either be propelled toward international fame or disappear without trace. The non-music side of things may have contracted, but there was still room for the quirky and intriguing if you dig deep enough. Something that will never go away is the manageable layout, tempting you to poke about more than your aching feet appreciate, so that by the end of the day, you find you’ve seen and done far more than at comparable sized festivals. In short, and despite the sometimes suffocating branding and sponsorship liveries, it’s a nice place to be.
Something else I miss is the superb opening ceremonies of days gone by – they were a sure fire highlight of the weekend and really made you feel you were part of a like-minded community – but in fairness the offerings for weekenders on the Thursday were a modest step up from previous years with the Hay Shantymen kicking things off at the Lavish Lounge, a sofa rich clearing in a blessedly cool wooded area. Sarah Nichols mesmerising keyboard skills followed, after which I popped my head into the Theatre and sat, slacked jawed, as the shambolic Symone:Utopian lazily wasted an hour of its audience’s time. I should have stayed at Lavish Lounge – scurrying back there I managed to catch the tail end of a rescoring of Kubrick’s 2001 by the massed ranks of Instant Scorechestra. It was, however, Cooks But We’re Chefs in the trailer park that offered the first really impressive performance of the night, with a crowd pleasing mix of their own material combined with a judicious selection of covers that ranged from ABBA to Pigbag. All of which skirted around something I didn’t do, but needs a mention.
The aforementioned film venue was the oldest venue on site and its dark, cavernous space was never very welcoming. An attempt to rebrand it as The Ballroom last year only served to prove that a pig wearing lipstick is still a pig. However, I should have been careful what I wished for, as now the whole thing has gone. Over the years, it hosted some fabulous things, and those things now have no home to go to, and that is a great loss. Sitting on its footprint, there was instead a celebrity chef tent, where for around fifty quid you got a three course meal (worth about twenty, in the opinion of a well healed attendee I chatted to) and a brief chat and selfie with that evening’s celeb. Thursday night the chef was Gary Lineker. I can’t say what he served – something with crisps presumably. When I stuck my nose in, he looked to be having a jolly time with those blessed with the deep pockets required to attend, and in fairness it did sell out, but to me it seemed the very antithesis of a communal festival experience.
Larkin Poe
Friday got off to a pleasingly quirky start, with Jim Parkyn taking his audience through the astonishing mechanics of making an Aardman animation film, before the main stage opened with a slick performance from blues outfit Larkin Poe. Brilliant musicians, yet oddly anodyne, they couldn’t have come from anywhere else than the US. In stark contrast, over in the BBC Sounds tent, Mickey Callisto was brilliantly odd, and couldn’t come from anywhere but the UK. Channelling Freddie Mercury with his dance moves, his infectious enthusiasm and excellent voice delighted a small, but well served audience with a mix of ballad and lung busters. KEG at the Sunrise Stage offered up a performance reminiscent of Squid, while m(h)oal made a pleasing racket in the Alcove, but it was back on the main stage that we got the first really outstanding set of the day - Mdou Moctar, playing with a full band. Mocdar’s driving sound was unique – the closest I can get is Tinariwen having a bash at playing heavy metal – and utterly compelling.
Mickey Callisto
Hats off to whoever had the bravery to program CYBERTEASE in the Listening Post. Three woman, whose day job is sex work, spoke with a clarity and passion defending their chosen trade, asking for little more than a modicum of respect and the most basic of worker's rights. Whether or not you consider stripping, webcams and escorting (as they coyly described it) to be anti-feminist, theirs was a carefully considered treatise that demanded your attention. In marked contrast, Trinity Laban's spirited presentation of Vivaldi's four seasons had a youthful sweetness that more than made up for the eccentric staging and dance elements. Is there anything more energising that seeing talented folk at the start of their careers, particularly when they were clearly delighted to be performing to a sun drenched crowd on the Waterfront stage?
Just as delighted were Circus Abyssinia, an Ethiopian acrobatic troupe that wowed a Theatre packed with families looking for family fun. As the weekend went on to confirm, this marked a distinct shift in tone in the Theatre, largely filled this year with circus, dance and music. Absent were the admittedly hard hitting plays drawn from the roster of the Pleasance, an association I presume must have ended. While plays about mortality, dementia and terrorism never sat entirely comfortably within the context of a festival, I thought them the grit in the oyster that made Latitude so unique, but I have to admit the shift in policy brought in the punters. Perhaps in search of that uniqueness, I kept away from the generic charms of Friday's headliner, instead opting for the excellent A Certain Ratio, perfectly placed in the woodland setting of the Sunrise stage. Offering up a sultry fusion of jazz and funk, it was a perfect, off-grid way to bring Friday to a close.
Circus Abyssinia
Saturday got off to a cerebral start on the Outpost stage, with Kate Mosse gamely battling with the megaphones of Strijos and Van Rijswijk while conducting a writing workshop. I'd fallen across the ethereal singing of this group before and found their haunting vocals quite beautiful. Unfortunately, it was also quite frequent, to the detriment of quieter pursuits, which was a great pity. Sound bleed is inevitable at any festival, but Latitude's compact footprint does require more attention given to the issue. With neither Shed Seven or Sea Power truly delivering, it was left to Los Bitchos to finally ignite the main stage with a blistering, and largely instrumental, set of psychedelic surf music. They couldn't haven't been more different from the avant garde weirdness of Caroline, shoe horned into the Theatre. They describe themselves as folk rock, but this was much more challenging stuff, clearing a large proportion of the audience out with electronic growls, incessant repetition and eccentric vocals. I thought them marvellous, gratefully embracing something grown up, but I fear I was in the minority. Staying put in the theatre, Carnesky: Showwomen presented one of the few genuinely theatrical experiences of the weekend. Focusing on the long forgotten carnival show women of yesteryear, it was inventive, thrilling and immersive. What a pity there wasn't more of this kind of thing.
Los Bitchos
It was a shame that headliners Foals struggled to build up to little more than a canter, while Groove Armarda attracted a crowd so huge their tent was impenetrable. However, this did encourage me to go in search of hidden treasures, which surprisingly I found at the Outpost, where Kate Mosse had been talking about unreliable narrators earlier in the day. Now transformed into a bijou music venue, it offered up what felt at the time like the highlight of the day, as PVA delivered a superb, albeit criminally short cocktail of retro synth-pop and techo, shot through with a post-punk sensibility. However, half an hour later, and with no disrespect to PVA, they had to hand over that epithet, having been eclipsed by an astonishing force of nature. Nuha Ruby Ra sung, squealed and declaimed to a backing track, with only two microphones for company. By judiciously switching between them she brought mesmerising layers to her vocals, while the emphatic beat of her music created an irresistible momentum. Hugely charismatic, the stage quickly proved too small for her, as mid set she slipped around the barrier and went roaming, like a feral woodland nymph, finally settling under a tree, while her tiny audience looked on agog. If this extraordinary performer doesn't go on to achieve great things then there really is no justice in this world. Undoubtedly the best act I'd seen so far, it proved that while Latitude may have less on offer, it can still deliver if you happen to be in the right place at the right time.
First thing on Sunday, I was sitting by the Waterfront stage, idly wondering if Nuha Ruby Ra was going to prove the highlight of the weekend, when the Jess Gillam Ensemble appeared and demonstrated the folly of trying to compare apples and pears. Melvin Benn made a rare appearance to declare it the act he was most looking forward to, and I can understand why. Gillam and her brilliantly talented ensemble offered up music both ancient and modern, played everything with an enthusiasm that matched their talent, serving to demonstrate the kaleidoscopic variety on tap at the festival, if you had the sense to venture further afield than the main stages. Ironically, Joe Armon-Jones would have been better served further afield - this talented but niche performer attracted a tiny audience in the BBC Sounds tent. It quickly filled out for the Crows that followed, but much as I admired their visceral, driving intensity, the pull of Mark Owen proved irresistible. What, after all, are festivals for if not to see someone you wouldn't under any other circumstances? Wearing a baggy suit and sporting an ill-advised moustache, he looked alarmingly like Bobby Ball, but was as charming and avuncular as you'd expect. He lobbed in a couple of Take That songs, shot off a confetti cannon, got the crowd to sing happy birthday to his daughter, and wowed the handful of mature ladies hanging off the rail in an effort not to swoon. What more do you want?
Snow Patrol
Over at the Listening Post, John Hegley phoned in a lacklustre 20 minutes, but it was worth turning up for what followed - a beautifully constructed and touching monologue from John Osbourne, provided just the mental sorbet needed before the closing double bill of the festival. The Manic Street Preachers barely scratched the surface of their considerable back catalogue in the brief hour they were allocated - judging from the murmurs around me, I wasn't the only one to think they should have been handed the headline slot. Nicky Wire didn't seem happy about it either, bizarrely smashing his guitar a la Pete Townsend, before handing it over to someone in the crowd. The pleasure of closing the festival instead went to Snow Patrol, who in fairness did rise up (see what I did there) to the occasion. Martha Wainwright made a guest appearance on screen and local lad Ed Sheeran popped up in person towards the end. Benn probably has a sentimental attachment to a band that headlined the very first Latitude, so even if he did get the two acts the wrong way round, it’s his train set so fair play to him.
Apart from a late night jig about with Dave Seaman and his pals up at the Sunrise area, that was it for another year at a festival which was hugely entertaining, and yet frustratingly cheese pared. We were we deprived of theatre, film, poetry and cabaret, while those non-musical attractions still available were consequently impenetrably packed. The comedy tent had a stellar line up on Saturday, but fans of stand-up effectively created an all-day lock in. Anyone wanting a brief rest from music had no chance of elbowing their way in to see Marcus Brigstock, Rachel Parris, Frankie Boyle or Aisling Bea - if you wanted to see one, you had to see them all, and to me that's a comedy festival, not a festival with comedy.
That said, this year alone, three East Anglian festivals cancelled, so who can blame Benn for having to remodel to survive. I just wonder, however, if a tipping point has been reached. The festival didn't sell out, traders I spoke to reported barely breaking even, and I failed to meet anyone genuinely impressed with the overall line-up. I'm fairly sanguine about branding if that helps balance the books, but it contributes to the feeling that the festival is a product, to be liked rather than loved. If so, it has to deliver, however it dresses up that notion. I really enjoyed the weekend, but I suspect I'm not alone in doing so with my head more than my heart, and that's a fragile basis to rest the long term future of the event if you are continually hacking away at what is on offer. I imagine Benn has a lot of thinking to do.
