CITY OF PRETTY The Big Chill / Kanye gets booed

Whether it is sleep lost from robbing yobs, a serial comedown from three days at the Big Chill, or fatigue caused by a lack of oxygen to the brain in the big smoke, the last two weeks are, in my memory, null-in-void. Could this be a case of post-riot post-festival stress syndrome? I have a gap in my timeline as sincere as but less charming than Lara Stone’s dental structure and mine won’t make me famous.

Denial is no consolidation for this European summer imminently drawing to a close. I hear it’s been great. London obviously had no summer to speak of, while Cape Town’s winter never came. My figurative speaking days in the sun read 1-2-3, spent in a raincoat at the Big Chill Festival. The sales pitch en masse is Kanye West. Mine, a press pass and the Chemical Brothers, Robert Plant, Femi Kuti, James Blake, Spoek Mathambo, a funfair, and a camping escape.

It’s thickety-boo tomfoolery as three smug faces leave the London stress behind, with beers in hand wedged between unassuming business commuters on a fast track to fun. When setting up base camp, we are phonetically introduced to our neighbour, vomiting inside his tent. On the other side, a league of teenage drunks is recruiting with high pressure drinking games. Not exactly the kind of release I was envisioning. We make our way down to the silent disco to evade the juvenile encroachment. Here high quality beats are broadcast through headphones as I take a moment to allow my stomach to settle in.

As my first UK festival, the Big Chill is like Rocking the Daisies on Acid, add bigger acts and worse weather. There are teenagers everywhere. It’s a trend I can’t escape, or rather, my age I can’t deny. Kids are tearing up other kids’ tents for giggles, kids popping cherries next to one’s tent while one’s trying to get away from kids vomiting on other kids.

It’s not all bad – in fact, most of it is pretty spectacular. Like claiming our two by two meter spot front row at 2Many DJs and getting lost in the trippy visuals of the Chemical Brothers. Seeing the world’s best girlband Warpaint followed by the one and only Robert Plant and the Band of Joy almost rivals seeing the Red Hot Chilli Peppers live on the coast in Italy. Almost. Kanye West is so shit that 20.000 people boo him. More on that gay fish next week.

At the station back to London I pick up the paper eluding me to a more detrimental type of juvenile delinquency. Two weeks later, I’m still trying to make sense of it all even though London feels like no brick was ever hauled, apart from some newly vacated council flats. Punishment has been poignant and the problem perpetuated with families involved in the riots having their housing and welfare withdrawn. How this solves any issue past the short-term I am keen to discover. 

To censor myself from spitting another riot rant, I’ll conclude that the Big Chill was, bar some spastic kids, a mind-blowing experience and, consequently, not chillaxing at all…