13 June 2010

LOTF Year 1 or Chip Part 1

Lounge On The Farm, Canterbury?

Well, after the first Lounge on The Farm festival, what, 5 years ago, where tVC supplied a rig and DJ’s for the dance tent, the fallout is still settling. Sean and Rob still aren’t speaking to me and have been ignoring all my texts. We were never asked to participate in the Festival ever again; apart from last year where we were invited to play a set in the beer tent.

Why, you might ask, were they exhibiting such extreme reactions? What could you or the crew possibly have done to warrant such behaviour? Well, it all happened like this….

“I want that fucking dog off my site!” Sean, the main promoter from the Lounge Originals, announces sometime Friday night. We’re there a day early setting the kit up and doing a sound check. Admittedly the rig is, as usual, an amalgam of various peoples stuff. Stoney brought a few amps and lights, Ramsden is sorting some sub bass bins out, whilst I supply tops and amp and MDM does decks, mixer and cartridges. The usual. Stoney has brought his crew along; PD, supplying his “Jubbles” as we call them (JBL speakers) for the monitors, Jenny, his girlfriend and, last but not least, Chip the dog. A massive lurcher type thing; very lumbering; very gentle and permanently hungry or sleepy. One or the other. Always.

We entered the site in convoy and Rob Lounge was on the gate. “Oh, the dog is all right”, he said and waved us through. The dog was far from all right. We set up, sound check, everything is cool. Sean appears; “I want that fucking dog off my site now!” he snarls not in his usual approachable and friendly manner.

Chip is laying in the shade chilling out. Dog like. Not wanting to antagonise an already harassed promoter I advise J to take her dog backstage to the crew area and tie him up. She completely ignores me; and does so all weekend. And Sean. And Rob. In fact she is blatantly and wantonly recalcitrant all weekend. The naughty girl. I say naughty but she is actually completely and utterly shit faced most of the weekend and doesn't give a flying fuck who she offends. Especially me or Sean Lounge. In fact we both come to represent the standard 'authority figures' that she can kick back against with her rather drugged up adolescent approach to life.

Speaking of drugged up adolescent shit faced approaches to life Jenny actually has a deep connection with a fellow soul brother at the festival; Sean Lounge himself. Over the weekend we all watch him getting more and more drugged up on whatever or pissed up on whatever and scarlet faced on whatever else he is on; I can only guess. The geezer is in a right fucking two and eight by the time we spot him as he storms across the field toward the dance tent, 10 or so security guards in tow; red faced and wild with charged up anger. He comes straight for me.

Now, we are just lazing in the sun chilling out; chatting, listening to some lovely music and enjoying a wonderful festival. I'm doing my job; making sure the DJ's come on at their allotted time and that the tent closes down when the license says. "I want that fucking dog AND that fucking woman off my site now!!" he bellows in my face. His breath stinks and I have really and finally lost all respect for him due to his rather errant and erratic misbehaviour over the weekend.

"That dog is down the food area jumping up on tables and eating food off peoples' plates. That Jenny is staggering around pissed and is not controlling that animal at all. She is part of the tVC crew. You control her. You are responsible for her. The security are now going to throw ‘them’ out", he wildly gestures with his hand towards the dance tent, "that lot!" Some, what we would call 'free spirits' or 'traveller types' or 'trance heads' are lounging on the farm grass doing nothing to no-one. The security move in, vainly trying to corral the hippy scum for expulsion. They, of course, obviously, fail and embarrass themselves and awaken a sense of injustice in the torporic sunned up revellers. "Leave them alone" the people who begin to gather around say. "They're not doing any harm".

Quite why Sean has decided to take this course of action is anyone’s guess. The head of security whispers in my ear that he has been a fucking nightmare all day. Later Sean is, er, ushered into an ambulance and whisked off to the first aid tent. He had collapsed. "Exhausted".

By this time, in the dance tent, one of the so-called "DJ's" had blown up a few of the bass bins, well, all of them actually, by overdriving the sound (duh!). I was over in the food area grabbing some lunch when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said in my ear; "I think one of the speakers is on fire in the dance tent". This prompted yet another unstoppable series of Laurel and Hardy-esque farces involving Ramsden leaving site in his van to pick up some more bass bins and sneaking in a few of his chums only to be caught by the Lounge Gestapo; obviously it involved another blasting for my ears from the increasingly deranged Sean. Wearing me down. Making me responsible for the behaviour of everyone who walks near the dance tent. Not nice. Not good.