What a wonderful time was had at this year’s Lounge On The farm 2010 by the tVC crew. Peeling from the sofa at home on Friday afternoon I endeavoured to make it to the festival in time for our slot. Sweat bucketing from every pore 10 seconds after I’d had my cold shower, all windows down on the car, chill box filled with food (but no alcohol), records beginning to melt, all engagements to meet chums arranged.
Slick, quick entry procedures meant I was slurping on the first of that afternoon’s ice cold pints of Orangeboom by 3pm. ‘The Field Bar’ or ‘the beer tent’ as everyone else called it, where we were playing, had no DJ’s on when we arrived. A CD reminiscent of Stoney’s commercial trance compilation from Margate the other week was tinnily polluting the room. A bunch of tech-blokes were earnestly discussing something behind the decks. I approached and put my record bag down nearby. I overheard one say; “the 3pm DJ hasn’t arrived” and took this as a cue to volunteer my services as a fill in. “Ooh,” said the boss one “what about insurance? Health and safety? Wait here,” and he was off on his walkie talkie arranging the necessary paperwork and permissions from higher powers. 10 minutes later we get the OK in the form of a smile and a thumbs up.
What a result; a nice hot and lazy 3 hour slot of deep house music delights till 6pm. Another Orangeboom arrives. Ice. Nice. I put it on the sub bass bin which is right next to the decks. The guy who got us on early looks at the pint then goes off. He returns with some silver gaffa tape and a felt pen. He tears off a length and sticks it at the front on the bass bin and writes on it ‘NO DRINKS HERE’; he then catches my eye, looks down at the freshly written notice, then back at me, then at my pint, then back at the sign. I move the drink to the floor. “Not there,” he says, “over there,” and points, like, 3 metres away right at the end on the stage. I smile then do as I’m told. When he leaves I bring my pint back and hide it by my records so I do not have to live through another Marcel Marceau-esque humiliation ever again.
The lovely bit about playing there was that the rest of the afternoon passed by in a blur of handshake and, hugs, chats and chuckles, beer and sweat and before we knew it and, just as we were really, really getting into it, it was over. Once I’d got over the fact that Si kept trying to get another sneaky tune on every time my back was turned even after we agreed to go ‘two’s up’, I’d settled into the well worn routine of cracking through the £80’s worth of new tunes I’d recently bought as smoothly as is humanly possible on a system where the decks are sideways and the monitor nonexistent. It’s all in the daily life of a pro ;-) Speaking of Sideways; none of the Sideways boys got an invite to play this year which is a shame as last year they rocked the beer tent to tiny little pieces.
Work done. Clare suggests we have a picnic as it was around 6pm by now so off to The Further Field to catch local, national and world harmonica playing legend Brendan Power. He’d finished. As everyone clung to the shady edges like shady edged barnacles we put our sun umbrella up one of the dead tree sculptures and it cast a lovely pool of dark and cool picnic shade right in the middle of the sun scorched field. We hung around here most of the day, only catching Jah Wobble before heading off to hear some can-ar-bis stories from that hoary old Welsh drug smuggler Howard Marks. He’s a funny bumbling fucker and had us all in the palm of his lion shit stained hand. “And that’s how you smuggle drugs through Heathrow Airport....”
Time began to run fast. Before I knew it I was back home in bed, awake, showered, massive fry up down the gish, a change of fresh clothes, a watch of the World Cup 3rd and 4th place playoff and was back on site by 9.30pm. I was mixing up the days; what I thought happened on Saturday happened on Friday and what I thought happened on Sunday didn’t because I didn’t even get back the site on Sunday as the World Cup Final overran into extra time and by the time it was concluded, and I’d wiped the crusts of sleep from my eye, it was 10.30 and I couldn’t get back on site anyway. What a calamity.
Saw Si and Lin again on Monday night for a nice seafood pasta meal and a post match analysis of the weekend. Conclusion? Cracking.